Category: Poetry

a bougainvillea tree in spring

My Tree

Pritam MondalLeave a comment

I see this tree out of my window,
It’s so beautiful with flowers in spring,
Pink petals mixed with white,
Such vibrant colours in bright sunlight.

Full of life and quiet fertility,
Its shade shelters the frequent felines,
The tree looks perfectly divine,
I wonder why though.

Why does it look so beautiful,
So magnificent, who is its admirer?
As far as I can see, I find no other of its kind,
It looks so beautiful yet carries a solitary tone.
If there were many trees such as this,
Would it look as gorgeous as now?
Or would it become ordinary?

Would it be happy among more of its kind,
becoming ordinary,
Or would it rather remain this gorgeous living
art in my garden,
With all the fauna living their hearts out
beneath it?

I don’t know if it understands us, this beautiful
motionless existence.
Does it matter to it whether we earth crawlers
praise it at all?

Is its exuding beauty a silent cry, longing to find
more of its kind?
Is it telling the birds to spread the word?
The word of its existence,
The word of its beauty.
Times have changed how things are done here,
and birds have changed too,
Their ways, even their verbs.

I took a picture of the tree and showed it to my
friends, posted it publicly,
And people from all over the world saw it,
All praised its beauty.
I wonder if some of them have seen a similar tree,
Will they tell their tree about my tree? Will they
become tree friends?

I wonder if the tree out of my window knows
this happened,
I wonder if it would have consented, or been
happy about it.
What if it did not like being captured?
What if I did not do a good enough job showing
its beauty to other trees?
I could never know.

I would like to believe it’s happy,
But even if it isn’t, I wouldn’t really know, would I?

Sometimes I think, why would such a
magnificent tree be born outside my window?
It should have graced the garden of some
inspiring persona,
Maybe a great poet, a great mind, someone
truly important,
The ones for whom songs are written.
In those songs they could have used this tree,
like Newton’s apple tree,
And people would never hear the end of it.

But it didn’t.
Such a magnificent tree was placed in our backyard.
Not naturally, no. It was brought as a sapling
and planted here.
We did not know it would become the
extraordinary, gorgeous existence it is today,
But we truly hoped so.

Now it lives among us ordinary folks,
my beautiful tree,
Oh gracious you are,
I will tell everyone how great you are.
Don’t you worry.

For I know one day it won’t be spring anymore.
I will keep you in memory and cherish you the same,
Long after the birds forget your scent.
For I have seen you shine, rivalling the Sun,
For I have seen you in winter when the leaves turned brown,
And you still looked beautiful in a careless fashion.
I will look after you, oh my beautiful tree.
And ages from now, long after we are gone,
People will still say,

Such a beautiful tree.

Falling Leaves Requiem

Pritam MondalLeave a comment

Listen to the skies, the falling leaves are telling a story,
One that I have forgotten now.
I can never quite make out what they’re saying,
But I know it’s the story I’ve wanted to remember for so long.

For so long, I have been searching alone,
Trying to give meaning to words that feel unknown.
I’ve been watching in silence, living by myself.
I’m too weak to be great, too strong to give up hope.
Drowned to the depths of mediocrity,
Wishing the story could end differently.

The world is filled with lazy fools,
Dedication, determination strong willed live in delusions.
Empathy, sympathy, and unspoken bonds, all in vain.
It’s a dark, gloomy world, but we might just make it work.
Take action with every breath, inaction rots away the brain.
Molecules composing life, chemistry influencing mind,
And faint little music, like whispering leaves, unheard but there.

Falling leaves, it comes down to this,
Stories are told before we perish.
And what do we do if they fail to captivate?
We pass the beacon to the next in line
Carrying our sorrows, our struggles,
dreams, and wounds, 
burdening them with generational pain.

A minor plays in a steady rhythm,
Melancholic tones fill the air.
Look at the dark skies and fallen leaves,
You can never feel every drop that touches your face.
Tears in the rain seem meaningless
But not to butterflies.
The droplets weigh too heavy for their fragile wings;
They must find shelter in time.

If all else fails, they fold their wings and remain still
Letting time pass.
With time, the rain will stop,
The tears will dry,
And the falling leaves will sing no more.

The Fear and Dilemma

Pritam MondalLeave a comment 
The fear of messing up, that engulfs my psyche 
Being aggressive is not so much, a counter to it.
Every move I play, every word I say,
I know, will be judged, 
based on my roleplay.
If we are but a character in our own novels,
how capable are we to become the lead?
preferred by our choice.
Do we bend the story, kill the king?
set the Damsel in distress,
Only to have her rescued and marry her in a palace?

What do we do that makes it ours?
what should we do to keep it fair?
If Venus had come to earth, and we bowed before her,
would’ve been simple, not much unfair.
For I wouldn’t have to play always by the book,
For I wouldn’t have to seek new ways to look cool.
Things are changing and I’m ageing as well,
I know not much mistakes, I can afford before farewell. 
Judgement will be passed and nothing can be done,
I may be conscientious but am I really beloved.
How do I actualize, in Maslow’s pyramid?
Do I follow the Buddha and skip the in-between?
There’s been a hollow in my heart, for far too long now,
in the Quest to fill the void, I need to go on an adventure.
It is this that I have trouble with,
why do I have to be alone, in my own story?
This is a war that must be fought
For every inch of her precious soul, a pacifist will die alone.
A nice one will give up, a bad one will hurt,
How do I be one, who wins in the end,
How do I write it so it ends up being fair?

The damsel, I had made her in a poetic regret,
For she didn’t wish it to be rescued by me,
For she didn’t have to be in danger to begin.
How do I rescue her when she’s not in danger?
How do I make her fall in love?
When there’s little I can offer.
Leave it to fate or should I build it bit slow,
Or should I give up on my own novel,
As I’m not heroic enough of a character? 
Decisions that make us Kings, lead to the bloody boulevard
How can I be so heartless to soak her in blood?