Soumalya Chatterjee

March 27, 2003, WB, INDIA.. An amateur writer. Emotional. Depressed. Write poems doing the pen in my own blood.
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I have understood my mother in the present weather.
Her colourless, toothless, though contended a smile
Naif, fair, with dappled on face,
Age and height middled
Beautiful, my ‘maa’ she was.

In winter, she caught the ability to forget,
Forget her past, her present.... future-
Everything, but not everything, not me.
I was the nectar if bee she was,
I was the light if shadow was she.

My grey haired mother forgot her grey,
Grey haired days.
I have seen her cry, when the hell freezes over,
Weep, wrinkle or beam.
I saw her mewl once, in asylum.

Her cry aired her yen, for a
Monosyllabic moniker ‘maa’
I.... I couldn’t verbalize my core-
I couldn’t address her ‘maa'.

My gratification and vanity eclipsed
My inner voice.
My lips couldn’t move
I never called her, never needed to....
Perpetrator, her overflowing a chalice of love-
Always knew what I needed.

That day, my heart pricked,
My maw itched,
But.... my lips stoned.

There she lies wrinkled now ,
Fairer than she was
Brighter than she ever could be
Most beautiful I ever saw.

Her obnoxious soapy miasma pacified me now,
Her perturbing din of needle sticks lulls me,
The absence of her ceaseless mag haunts me now.

I never understood her presence in her presence;
But now absence absence.

Hour remembers her no more
Nor she me in the last days....

I have understood her now....
Have I understood her yet?
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