Wednesday, September 1, 2021





Winter Warmth

Now that you have left me behind,

I hate sleeping under the winter sky

listening to the cooing of the doves,

calling his mates to warm his nest.

Eavesdropping the sounds of the television

couples cuddled to watch the late night movies,

silhouettes visible from the glass windows.


I would love to sense

Your warm tight hands from behind

under our cosy blankets of memories,

Your hot breath, falling on my neckline,

our fingers intertwined,


As you fall asleep, your slight snoring

sensations of your presence.

Grasping palms loosen unconsciously

with the slight movement of my fingers.

you tightly grip them, a mark of possession.


I want to feel the winter warmth,

along with you in my emotions,

sipping coffee cups, stained by your lips.


Keats Nightingale

Can you please tell them?

I don’t want to be a fairy.

Fairies are too white, too bright.

They seldom tell lies.

I love the grey shades of my life.

Not too white, nor too black.

Just a tinge of both.

That makes me feel like a cloud.

That can explore.

I can be a bird instead

Maybe Keats’s Nightingale.

An uncaged city Life.

Spreading my wings.

To taste freedom galore.




I can just sit down leisurely

like a stone carved idol

looking like a stoic.

Imagining, reasoning, recollecting moments

but doing nothing at all.

The heartbeat of the clock

keeps pacing time.

When suddenly, I realize

that I have heaps of work

that remains incomplete.

But still......

I remain inactive.

Cursing, my existence




And then my pillow tells me.

I am good for nothing.


Caged Bird of Angelou

My diary pages are filled

with half-written verses

Of unidentified concealed thoughts.

My ebony ash tray is filled.

with half-burnt cigars

of sorrow and pensive clots.


The terrace is lined

with half soaked garments

of previous days forced passion blots.

My windows are filled

with half rays of sunshine.

expecting hope of future lots

I, like a pensive caged bird of Angelou.

saw the shadows of the street lamps as

human’s exhaust. ..

Kept contemplating

What lies in the future?

What is to be gained?

And what is to be lost?

Love The Stranger. 

One day, we will meet again. But as strangers,

That day. I will wear a crimson red sari

My bun will be adorned with palash flowers.

You will look at me from a distance.

As you once glanced, oblivious of the crowd,

That day will be my day.

A day remembered forever.

(Inspired From The Poem, ‘Hothath Dekha’ 

By Rabindranath Thakur)



GOPA BHATTACHARJEE: An entrepreneur, a romantic poet, actor of the poetry film Kolkata Cocktail, a free-lance journalist who still loves the first showers of monsoon, eighty’s Hindi songs and maccher jhol bhaat cooked by her mother. Her debut poetry book ‘Unturned Verses’ was published in the Kolkata International Book Fair.


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