Poems of Shamik
Banerjee
by Shamik
Banerjee
To Mr.
Biswas
(first
published by The Hooghly Review)
Well, fine! Your throat's a factory of melodies
Whose saccharin can give me long-term diabetes;
You earned the sobriquet 'The Warbling Champion',
And countless Grammy titles and awards you've won.
Now, please come down to earth! Do not forget
that
You are my neighbour; plus, I hope you get that
My study room's a foot away from your latrine
(It's fetor and your hum: the causes for my
spleen),
So please abstain from thinking you're a Cardinal
Or any songbird when you're in the urinal
Lest me and other occupants go harum-scarum
And make this law against you in a seated forum:
If Mr. Biswas dares to quaver any song
Again, he will be hog-tied, gagged, and hurled
among
The wild, where he can team up with the
Chickadees
And entertain a troop of hooting Chimpanzees.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The Devil's Best Plan
(first
published by Lighten Up Online)
If there's one plot the devil's been successful
at,
It's storing half his vileness in an insect that
Carries a fine-point needle which can burrow in
Through any layer of furry pelts or human skin,
With one objective only: to adeptly draw
Life's sanguine drops like juice sucked through a
paper straw,
To turn our pleasant sleeptime (by its covert
mission)
Into a long and apoplectic clapping session.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The Fly
(first
published by The Hooghly Review)
The puny, blackish, wingéd bull
Kept daring me with overfull
Aplomb within its turgid eyes
While sitting on my bowl of rice,
Then rubbed its hands as if the boss
Of hooligans and planned to toss
My peaceful supper time away,
And fill me with intense dismay.
So, then I thought to swat it flat,
But did not have the knowledge that
Its feelers were more active than
The mere five senses of a man—
I missed. It flew. Hid in my hair,
And God knows what amused it there;
Annoyed my scalp for quite a while,
Then flew off with a mocking smile.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The Sleeptime Torture
(first
published by The Hooghly Review)
Please slow down, wife; there is no hurry.
You must digest each grub you eat;
Remember, this is chicken curry,
And I don't want you to repeat
That act which nearly ripped my brain
By turning our quilt's flowery scent
Into that of a sewer drain
With your sound-muted bombardment.
*~*~*~*~*~*
A Photographer at Royal Indian Wedding
(first
published by The Hooghly Review)
He stuck the camera's lens into
The dishes—chicken, raita, rice.
The guests, ingesting leisurely,
Were taken by his great surprise.
He got hold of the bride to click
Some pictures of her dress in red,
Gold chain, and shoes. He didn't spare
Even the hairclip on her head.
The day grows older. I'm afraid
His passion may invoke a plight
If he decides to photograph
The wedded couple's long first night.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The Great Nighttime Problem
(first
published by Lighten Up Online)
It's 2 a.m., and damn! The WiFi's dead—
No YouTube, Instagram or Spotify;
This is the only moment that I dread
Since I can't sleep with silence in my head,
I need some voice to play on as I lie—
It's 2 a.m., and damn! The WiFi's dead,
And now some loony thought will weave its thread
Within my brain and leave me all awry—
This is the only moment that I dread;
As patients go to pharmacies for med-
icines, the Internet's my drug supply—
It's 2 a.m., and damn! The WiFi's dead;
I planned to watch a movie, but instead,
I'm staring at a wall as time goes by—
This is the only moment that I dread:
I've had enough! I'm teaming up with Fred
To teach a lesson to the IP guy—
It's 2 a.m., and damn! The WiFi's dead,
This is the only moment that I dread.
*~*~*~*~*~*
My Cat Spies on a Hen
My cat spies on a hen
While crouching in his den,
The shoebox by the door.
What charm is in a chick
That's not found in those thick
Rugs we bought in galore
For him to scratch and shred
Or use them as his bed?
Perhaps my cat is bored
Of things now used and old,
Just like me when I sold
The French harp—full-ignored—
When Pa purchased a new
One from the shop. So who
Am I to underscore
This change in my feline
When I myself am fine
With craving new hens more?
*~*~*~*~*~*
A Card for Mr. Whitten
(first
published by The Hooghly Review)
Now that you have been mercilessly bitten
By two unruly mongrels, Mister Whitten,
I hope you've got the feel of actual pain
That you'd imposed on Oliver McClain,
The high school chap you browbeat for six years.
But now your sepsis has paid for his tears.
Herewith, I send a bunch of shrivelled flowers—
A likely gift to match your tragic hours.
A theurgist told me, "For a swifter cure,
He must consume a one-eyed bat's ordure."
So, here's a pack. That's all I had to tell
You, and I hope for your recovery
you soon end up in hell.
*~*~*~*~*~*
A Few Lines on My Brain
About a recent blunder,
Followed by mother's thunder
That tore my ears asunder,
It's thinking, thinking, thinking!
But when there is a phase
As puzzling as a maze,
It slogs for exit ways.
It's xylophone stops clinking.
The proper way to tell
The next-door mademoiselle
That she's indeed a belle
Is what it keeps on planning.
Or when it learns that packs
Of crispy, salty snacks
Are somewhere on the racks,
It's always keen on scanning!
Although I say, "I'm done!"
With the fall of the sun,
My brain's hell-bent on working
And never thinks of shirking!
*~*~*~*~*~*
The Strategy
'Your own kin are the moochers of your wealth.'
I am a strong believer of this quote.
So when my cousin asked me for some bucks,
A gob of 'cautiousness' slid down my throat.
My brain cells were alerted when she came.
They screamed, "She'll hoodwink you and run
away!
Her shadow will not fall upon this city.
You must crush down a leech that comes your way!".
But since I could not straightaway decline
Her asking (as this manner was unfit),
I had to fabricate a solid plan
To make my answer clear and subtly hit
Her with a "screw off!" So, I made use
of
This old belief 'A morning dream comes true'
By telling her this dramatical tale:
"Oh! sis, I dreamt about a girl like you
Who took some cash from me, but on her way,
Two muggers who had trailed her down the lane
Cudgelled her from behind, then snatched the
purse,
And left her there all bruised-up and in pain.
It might sound whacky, but do we not know
That dawn dreams are always indicative
Of something real—in this case, something
BAD!?
So, if you get hurt, I will not forgive
Myself in this life! I should better let
You travel with an empty purse instead
Of one that's note-stuffed. Your life's more to
me.
I'd rather see you penniless than dead."
*~*~*~*~*~*
Toyshop Mister
Toyshop mister, show some toys
Fit for my seven-year-old boys.
I guess a whip top or a ball
Would be the perfect choice for all.
Toyshop mister, show a few
Dollhouses for my girl of two.
But if you have a bongo set,
She would be much amused, I bet!
Toyshop mister, please be fast!
My children bawl like thunder's blast.
If I don't make it home by four,
My wifey's ears will be no more.
*~*~*~*~*~*
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