Ritwika Bandyopadhyay's Poems

 


Ritwika Bandyopadhyay is currently pursuing engineering. Having won in poetry slam, open mic and creative writing events around Kolkata, she also maintains her own Facebook blog Mini Musings. Her works were also published in IPPL Kolkata magazine. 



Starless

The sky is starless. The bright city lights has robbed off my stars. I have no companions, no patron to look after me tonight. This paradoxical, fleeting breath goes in and out of my lungs. I inhale. I exhale. I am sad. Like every other night. Depressed. Deeply distraught. But there is nothing poetic about it tonight. Nothing to fascinate about. Nor I have energy to look for salvation of my soul. A temporary remedy or something to keep me sane. I am flicking the lighter, looking deep in flame in search of something I don’t know. I guess, I am looking for the end of bridge I am walking upon but it’s foggy enough to not let me have a sight of other side. I am afraid to take my next step. Ambivalent. Conflicted in my own head. The fear is back. Like old times. Anxiety gradually cripples inside me. I have no strength to face another mishap. Another day. I light first coffin nail of night. My phone rings. 

“How are you?”
“I am dead. BYE!”

I exhale. Sigh the sadness out. Somewhere far a sparrow twitters, and a man digs a grave with black shovel. The are no voices in my head, but silence. A silence that is deafening. Like a sharp cracking sound of an axe of someone’s neck. A half scream. An unnoticed cry of help. Sound of plane in windmill. Of hammer on someone’s thumb. Of a nail being pulled out of someone’s toe. Of a finger cracking in door. I marvel upon listening the sounds. Voices that are frail enough to not make it to someone’s ear. I feel sorry for them. What if they are persons? I ask myself out of wonder, and not out of sorrow. I believe, they are. These voices are perpetual memories of people I cared not to look upon, and simply walk past them. And now when I have come too far, and then they are distant and lost, I wish to start this walk from threshold once again. So that I might find myself in one of those voices, that I am not able to identify now. Because, it’s been difficult, you know. To live without knowing who I really am. That’s too much of uncertainty of life. I can’t bear it anymore. I might would have been able to bear it if I had seven hearts. But that’s not the case. I can’t risk it. So I fear the night I will quit. Jump of the bridge at any point or fist fight the whole world. Because, you know, 

I feel a pain somewhere I don’t know. And I got to do something about it.
Maybe someday I’ll do something about it…maybe someday… 

Still the Addressee

I haven’t told anyone yet
But my poems are only
A re-arrangement
Of the letters meant
To be sent to you.

An alteration of words
Lodged deep in my throat
That I deliberately
Placed on paper notes
As revised sentences
Hoping they’d mean
Something else
In newer sequences.

I tried writing
About mountain ridges
But it ended up
Describing the valley
Between your ribcages.

I wrote about oceans
And changing tides
But it sounded like
Waves of missing you
That couldn’t quite subside.

I filled the space
You left with concepts
From astronomy
But still found a way to
Correlate you with gravity.

The universe is a witness
In my attempt to re-invent
And reconstruct our story;
But even through my poetry,
You end up being the subject
You’re still the addressee.













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