Poetry

Riccardo Romano photo

By

Chaitali Bose Bhattacharjee

Now the scandal, the web, the deception, the rage

Last Friday the obsidian cloud clamoured again.

Last fall it rumbled too, corked.

The rain acrid

Washing slur

For the want of speckless linen

Noblesse breathed heavy sigh.

Reputation is like silk, Cashmere

Lauding you with warmth, glory, comfort

But the moths love Cashmere

You can kill the moth

But they do the wrecking before the kill.

As we stood there

Like archives of persistent hounding

You took every bite, every chance,

We each grope, each needle

Blood running in denial.

But how long?

Now the scandal, the web, the deception, the rage

It’s going to bite you at your behest.

Like Karma.

The legacy of gift to virtue in waiting.

Next summer, next fall.

Until we learn not to freeze, not to reel or to suffer

But to thaw, to howl and to crawl.

Art is virtue, not the artist

Art is nonephemeral, not the artist

Artist is frail

Artist is matter –

Cells, H2O, Lust.

Writing poetry is like taking that leap of faith merged with actualisation for me, where I have unerringly ripped, exposed, immersed and at the same time alienated myself in my own being. Moving in and out of my sensibility is demanding, but the fruit of labour is of every grind worth when the poem is once done. The harder, the merrier. My stimulants to name few like race, equality, gender, empathy, relationship, connections, life in itself; they all flock together in my poems hoping to find a voice not always conclusive, but sometimes inquisitive too.

On one Friday late afternoon, my husband called during his coffee break and notified about the Nobel prize in literature fiasco. I immediately googled and The Guardian blurbed, “Nobel prize in literature 2018 cancelled after sexual assault scandal.” The words evoked in hindsight the entire day until I sat down at night and wrote. Of late when we see a ripple effect around us with an episode, and mostly men are spooked. Take for an instance #MeToo. It’s been there for a while – the glob or the magma getting that thrust to erupt.

Chaitali Bose Bhattacharjee

Apart from writing poems, I am a content editor and columnist. I did a literature major and communication management. I occasionally conduct creative writing workshops and do poetry reading for my community kids, something which gives comfort to my fidgety, sensitive heart. My poems are published in publications like IndianExpress, SoulSpot, Oddity, Indiblogger and is part of an international multilingual anthology of poems.