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By Shamik Banerjee
(Instagram: @where_tales_end)
The Aim is Not Like a Bulk Cedar Tree
The aim is not like a bulk Cedar tree,
to have wide branches of whole-fledged empire;
which look leafy and bright from where'er we see,
that tempt the shorter bushes to admire.
It is not who contests between the leaves,
of other copses and proves the better of two; but,
to a stroller, shade who gives
'gainst heavy sun with fruits and its shelter.
It's not in bearing the sweetest of seed,
that germinates in one season only;
but, in sprouting throughout, so one can feed,
e'en when draught takes away his grains fully.
As wealth defined is what it does to meet,
so not just one but hundred more can eat.
Ode to Despondence
Angels, in their placement with God, took pride,
wherein few aimed higher supremity;
like blessed voices that melody provide,
yet examine which the most marvellous be.
All qualities live side by side with growth;
and tied with this are hope and strength of mind.
Heart's expectancies and contentments, both
when fulfilled, are food served for humankind.
Therefore, the blankly staring eyes despair
seeing the half-marred rungs 'twixt his ladder's rails;
which still can find resurgence through repair
and through a mind where firm patience prevails.
But what be of the eyes with no rungs to glance
but blankness 'tween the siderails' resting slope;
or, two rungs fixed above the mid— his void chance
to step e'en on the first rung- a lost scope?
Counsel for a Young Future Poet
Young vates, when thou shalt, my lines be reading,
and learn I was amongst the yestertime;
then take my prayers for thou'lt be leading,
Poetry's syndicate to aftertime.
The path thou art on, now, is wider made-
it accepts every will and heart's purport;
but when I walked, 'twas a covered arcade-
it occupied no rails for one's support.
Hoping, I think, with guidance, thou art blest,
talent's fur is robed by thee as progression.
For me, 'twas then, a hardly won conquest--
I wore it secretly for transgression.
I saw the many smarting bards to doom.
Their curtsey- shamed by men of little care;
the door that led their skills to a shrunken room;
as rearing it, was held a vain affair.
O' bard, O' young, I send my grace to thee:
'tis futile not to be self-possessive
as false norm lures thee to its cavity;
be stoutly for thy passion- decisive!
Counsel for a Young Future Poet
Young vates, when thou shalt, my lines be reading,
and learn I was amongst the yestertime;
then take my prayers for thou'lt be leading,
Poetry's syndicate to aftertime.
The path thou art on, now, is wider made-
it accepts every will and heart's purport;
but when I walked, 'twas a covered arcade-
it occupied no rails for one's support.
Hoping, I think, with guidance, thou art blest,
talent's fur is robed by thee as progression.
For me, 'twas then, a hardly won conquest--
I wore it secretly for transgression.
I saw the many smarting bards to doom.
Their curtsey- shamed by men of little care;
the door that led their skills to a shrunken room;
as rearing it, was held a vain affair.
O' bard, O' young, I send my grace to thee:
'tis futile not to be self-possessive
as false norm lures thee to its cavity;
be stoutly for thy passion- decisive!
So now, I tell thee, forn my eyes do shut:
people will shend thy pen, thine adroit art,
yet, thou shalt firmly, to thy verse abut
which'll promise thee eternity when thou'lt depart.
Elegy for a Daughter
For the daughter in heaven's grace,
who left this earth at childhood's face;
to ports afar from mother's eyes,
in treasured form of infancy,
is freed from holds of woes and cries—
I sit to write her elegy.
Six years lived she and taken thence
by the Lord to his orchard, dense:
with flowers and shade- lapping trees
and huge, rundle- like stars of gold,
where brushes the light, tidal breeze
in kingdom of her newcome bold.
In womb's care, her spirit was sent,
so together, her joy be spent-
through years of beauty, smiles and growth,
in concerned heart of mother's boon;
but welkin's choice, did make the oath
to take her presence very soon.
The Lord did think, "Such holy birth,
is made not for this mortal girth
but for the state that lies here,
on land eternal, free of age
with beatific fays poising near,
from transitory days and stage."
She made was not for nature's laws,
nor brevity of bliss and loss;
but regally, to make her tread
in true bearing and elation,
with deference from genteel stead
send blessings to whole creation.
An angel so, when she was born-
as lightsome as a dawning morn,
now sits beside a guggling brook,
with radiance of love does stare,
which chunters to her lovely look—
"You art within my love and care".
Now she is near a verdured dene
and friended by a lough serene;
now she is merry by a rill,
where ireful combers do not wave;
now she is peaceful on a hill,
where fearsome tremors do not stave.
Her grandparents, despair and feel
the trenches of her death's ordeal;
her kindreds too now sorrow make,
yet, one warm cause their ruth console:
from this forken world, she did brake
than being on its soreness to condole.
And though her mother's iris weeps
to weet how far her daughter sleeps;
does finds her in Lilies of peace,
and ken in other maiden's smile;
and with these thoughts, light succour ease;
and with these thoughts, to breathe awhile.
Whose posterity could not bring,
the dewdrops of a newer spring;
sweet maiden at inceptive years,
could eldern days, not touch or goam,
but with her cheeks of fledgling tears,
in palace of clouds, made her home.
Now when through window, comes a draft,
inkles the mother to her craft;
she sets to her verses indite-
among odes, dirges and proses,
against the day or falling night
and to adorn her with roses.
To Christ, when anthem, she does pray,
she wishes coming of the day,
to hie where dwells her daughter's soul
and embrace her in bosom then,
their tie, where will, rewake as whole
and joy in them, rehome again.
Author's Note:This is an elegiac account on the daughter of a friend of mine. She was six years old when she passed away. This poem is an attempt to provide consolation to her mother's soul and to pay a tribute to the daughter. May she rest in peace.
On Reading an Old Master's Poem
A wonder, great! it is, for me to read
the lines written in yearhundreds ago;
by a Poet, novel then, and young indeed!
whose works, yet fresh, in modern times we know.
For then, his folio was binded white:
the new-lain ink on pages took the birth;
the same vellums– although now yellow bright,
to me but seem a treasure found in Earth.
The relicts of his craft, more wond'rous be,
whose rich wordings now fade as men advance;
yet, by a touch, they rewaken in me;
come forthwith to the heart with just a glance!
This wealth of parlance, nowhere one can gain!
Such pre-eminent lect; such work of mind,
like abbots who enlightenment attain;
whom, only in seclusion you will find.
When profoundly, it legends me the rhymes:
the lineal form of metrical bliss,
alike perfection that God alone primes;
then I state: naught is God but only this!
When each word is earnestly considered,
I realize that they, to me convey:
the very emotion, in me, is heard
whose melody, I've always willed to play!
More wond'rous: he, an erudite appears
consigns the book as keepsake for my shelf
as if he's alive; passed not age, nor years;
as if, of his craft, tutors me himself!
And it seems, his feeling which o'erflow'd then,
with each reading, does project from the verse.
They resurrect and freshly form again
through me, in my spirit; when I rehearse!
There is no greater sensation of sight;
than auditory of Poetry's age,
when I, these lyrical numbers recite
and touch to leaf the verses of each page.
But, most stupendous is: this work, dates old;
and though new theories man did conceive;
yet, this work, more outstanding thoughts unfold
as if writ by a future mind at yester-eve!
About the Author:
Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India.
He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family.
His deep affection with Solitude and Poetry provides him happiness.
He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute to the future of poetry.
Connect with him on Instagram: @where_tales_end
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