Anupama Bhattacharya



The pimples on my face
seem to have an identity
of their own.
As if, those are my sins
penalized to be worn.
However, they make me look
a graceful lesser mortal.
Thankfully unattractive
like Sycorax.

A rose infested by fungi.
Oddly, they seek a lot of attention:
Hormonal imbalance? A digestive disorder?
A passion pimple! A dispassionate cycle?
Innumerable diagnosis followed by
tirade of more such questions
missiled at me all day long.

Indeed each of them becomes
cynosure of all eyes
at cocktails, banquets and kitty parties.
By empathetic friends
and concerned aunties.
They prescribe
home grown remedies
and pricey la-la brands.

By chance
if I am caught in a parlor
or by those ladies in plaster
at some youth potion shop;
I’m lured and bullied
and frightened and pitied.
Convincing me; I have lost my lot.

Then rescue squads are summoned
with masks and serums,
several other weapons
and military diet charts.
Thus, my well-wishers struggle
to save me from my curse.

As if my epidermis is my universe
and I’m no more than my surface.


Tiger meditating in the rain.
Drenching in wisdom from the skies;
sinking in the earth
as it sprouts to new life.
A spectacle divine!
“Alive! Alive! We are still alive!”

As the maiden in her blue petticoat,
swings to the plumes of a peacock dance
while the squirrels and rabbits prance;
and amuse themselves to the tunes
of the peacock-throned lad
who meditates on the notes of rain
awaiting his cattle to come back!
“Lo! Lo! We are still alive!”

Alive by the blessings of
our grandfather mountains,
who roar to the rains
and bring home monsoon.
And for the farmers who farm
and hide in darkness of the caves;
they too meditate and pray
and know the mysteries of the rain.
Alas! Do we know them?
“Alive! Alive! We are still alive!”

My lass has set a paper boat on sail;
from the balcony of our apartment.
with fishes sailing from the ponds,
crabs and tortoise from the shores,
of her last vacation.
Will they reach a new found land?
That’s still not there on the Google map?
Her dreams amidst the raindrops say:
“Alive! Alive! We are still alive!”

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Although poetry is her passion, at present Anupama Bhattacharya is working as an Assistant Professor in the dept. of English at a city based Engineering College. She is also a trained classical dancer who is fascinated by anything that has rhythm to it.


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