Pro-Bio: *Cynthia Rothrock*  Multi-Award-Winning *Martial Arts*  Actress. 

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Magic

The dried parchment of fallen roses

Basking too brightly like a simmering darkness

I come upon the edges

The words take too long  time dear friend

A cavernous niche budding at the plants

The roses were for autumn

A spring glance of glamour magic

A rundown air ways of steel blue cloth

Hanging around with a prosperous face

The dimming sunlight at the corners

Nature’s own mystical gallery

Pouring forth in autumnal haze, a hoax of paradox

Till I learned the failure of the gravity

Too nuisances at folded guttering.

AND JUST WHEN I THOUGHT THE EARTH WAS TURNING COLD

–all the ancient fields of my youth, the sweet meadow  

–just when my old shepherd’s head was a-going sheeplike itself

–snowy, poor-sighted, far too slow

–then and just then

–that new lamb came into the fold

And the earth turned over again, and no more old.

                      NOCTURNE (a duet)

This blank naked staff you fill with your love notes.

        from these separate chords of our sexes

          these grand symphonies of our organs

                scoring the music of the sheets,

                   let’s rhythm up a generation

                       with echoes of ourselves.

                            songs of the future

                                   harmonized

                                        in fast

                                          time

                                              !

BRIDGES WALLS AND DOORS

liars(lovers)(artists)

execute an honest

condemned activity

misshaping reality

art is a seed a hedge

love is a need a bridge

that connects a leisure

to unextinguished torture

greenest seeds weed their way

from criminalities

too covert to commit

and too active to stay hid

the right to scream is held

only by us tortured

the will is a wall made

to support or separate

the corpse is tradition’s

usual exhaustion

of palettes and menus

and an unfreedom to choose

love and art are the words

used to mimic or urge

the word is a closed door

but an urge opens the door

COUNTING THE COCKS IN THE HEN HOUSE

How many celebrants have danced in your penetralium?

Your hangar has sheltered how many planes?

COME THE REVOLUTION

Which among you shall being sandwiches?

And who’ll organize the selfies?

Which manifesto would you execute?

“The sky must be purged if the earth is to prevail!”

“The earth must be buried for Heaven to reveal!”

Which Utopia would you provoke?

Which of the pasts should be banned?

But don’t be the freak hot on the runway

or the gangster in church.,

don’t be the priest caught in the whore house,

or banker man in the line-up.

[The democracy entered upon the struggle with dictatorship heavily armed with sandwiches and candles. — Trotsky]

GIRLS AT THE GATES

It was a sunny day like in a fairy tale

on the street 

parades of brass bands were passing by

they played the Blue Danube

girls were standing at the gates

watching the young musicians

and each girl held someone dear in their thoughts

the wind blew gently fluttering their evening gowns

players were looking somewhere in front of them

as if they were carefully choosing every note

my sweetheart was sitting on the balcony full of flowers

she had a beautiful colourful bird on her shoulder

two beautiful doves were kissing on the balcony

Siamese cats watched them curiously

while musicians in uniforms 

headed in another direction to some cross street

music was slowly fading away

girls were glancing at musicians

they were invisible traces that remained in girls’ hearts

then all gates closed at the same time

and behind them remained all the girls in fluttering gowns

only my sweetheart ran into my arms

Job’s Children

It collapsed on them, and they are dead.
—Job 1:19

God let Satan kill Job’s children.
Seven sons and three daughters.

But it’s all okay because God later gave Job back
seven sons and three daughters.

Different ones. 
But the same number.

Sometimes Job would take his new ten children
to the graves of the old ten children.

The boys would stand on the graves of the boys.
The girls on the graves of the girls. 

Job would make them stand in age order.
Each had their place by a particular grave.

Sometimes when Job wasn’t looking 
the children would switch places

because they were bored
because they were disobedient

because they wanted to remind each other 
because they wanted to remind themselves

that they were not the same children
as the dead children.

These in the graves were dead.
Those on the graves were alive.

When Job caught them at it, he murdered them all.
Then he went out and bought new children.

Praise
God.

Goddess Durga Demolished Demon 

In crimson dawn, the conch did cry,
A lion roared beneath the sky.
Trident gleamed in morning’s breath,
Durga rose to conquer death.

Mahishasura, proud and vile,
Mocked the gods with wicked guile.
He wore the skins of beast and man,
And laughed at fate’s divine plan.

But Durga stood, her eyes aflame,
Each hand a weapon, each name a name.
She danced with wrath, a cosmic tide,
The stars bowed low, the winds replied.

Her sword sang hymns of sacred rage,
She struck him down, page by page.
Ten arms moved like thunder’s grace,
She carved justice on his face.

Blood turned to dust, pride to plea,
The demon fell, unbound, unfree.
Peace returned to heaven’s dome—
Durga smiled, the world found home.

International Tagore Awardee Poet Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee is a former Affiliate Faculty member at Virginia Commonwealth University USA, and ex-associate professor and head of the post-graduate department of English at Dumdum Motijheel College, the President Kolkata Indian American Society, Associate Editor for Ayomoy and multilingual international Poet/Columnist for national dailies.