Three dwarfs

[ Tanka ]

bumble bees
on a whirlwind tour
churchyard path
dusted with pollen
light and shadows drift

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i loiter
till the fog gifts me
red lilies
a butterfly’s nest
beside a milestone

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i search for
rose petals
within a book
timeworn pages show
dinosaur footprints

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(c)Arunansu Banerjee 2010

With Keats, a few moments

He looked much the same as he did
in his death-bed

the slender arms, the frail lips, the dreamy look
observed me,

while we sat silent on an archaic garden bench

Busy bees near fox-glove bells
and a nightingale-song kept us occupied

Finally, he breathed deep, heaved a sigh,
handed me a note and left :

O Humans, spend an afternoon under the bower
of a lusty Spring

Stroll down the verdant meadows, feel the fresh earth
beneath your stone-trodden feet

O Learned Ones, burn my poems if you must,
yet spare a thought for the grasshopper, feeding on forbs

Poetry hasn’t died, dear friends, only you have become
too hungry to perceive the thirst in a beggar’s eye

Let me belong to my little cottage amidst the stars
-Adieu!



(c) Arunansu Banerjee 2009

Of roving thoughts, and a bit of Keats

[ Tanka Sequence ]


calendar pages
unsettled by breeze
a new year
sparrows engaged
in what-if analysis

Endymion
looks out for Cynthia
between clouds
i open my window
a sparrow escapes

(c) Arunansu Banerjee 2009

year-end Tanka

I.

sunkissed
Croton Petra leaves
this cold morning --
she stitches memories
with a golden thread

II.

scripts a story
on eucalypt trunk
a moth larvae --
in late afternoon
she sketches a landscape

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(C) Arunansu Banerjee 2009

Sixteen words for a poet

In the gloaming, near the shores of a night
parting waters whisper

Let my sleep draw closer, like a little child,
tighten its arms around me

Let her turn up in the guise of a young maiden,
adorned with a deceptive smile

Let the closing chapter be read out slow,
in a gentle baritone

Let the echoes of the endmost syllable
blend with fresh silence of woods

O Angel, spend just sixteen words for me,
as you did with Keats, the morn following his last



[Sixteen words, published in The Times on March 23, 1820, marked the end of an extraordinary life. It said :

“At Rome, on the 23rd of Feb, of a decline, John Keats, the poet, aged 25.” ]



(c)Arunansu Banerjee 2009