Lopamudra Banerjee

The Lover and His Muse

The somnambulist lover paints in patches of burnt sienna, fiery yellow, 
the blood red, the fuchsia pink melts in his palette, singing a truant autumnal sonata. 
Those hands, once robust and juvenile, had crafted poetry,
romanced with words with the steady insistence of an awestruck paramour. 

Juices of poesy spilled over, never a day went by when a flower 
of his musings wasn’t born, the petals of its tender blossom didn’t dance. 
Never did he know the dance, the fury of another wind, in yet another lifetime
The flow of time in a continuum that would lead to nemesis. 

The somnambulist lover had touched those flowers in his canvas,
His brushstrokes painted the surreptitious chords of a veiled autumn. 
She burst open in myriad hues, textures, and in sounds of tender anklets, 
A rhythmic cacophony, a melody that was nature’s inevitable ploy. 

Clasping her hands tight, his hands reached a crescendo of autumnal mirth.
Burning in incessant flames, absorbing the lexicon of absolute longing.
The colours he sought made him a wayward sojourner.
And then, he lost those very patches of colour with whom he conversed, 
he lost his night musing. 

The petals of the flowers had burst open in sweet surrender in his quivering hands,
His thirsty lips bade them a farewell kiss, as if he had sworn 
to lose himself in that moment of eternal burning. 

The somnambulist lover had spent himself entirely—the beggarly man.  
In the dark room where he wilts now, winter engulfs him in its monstrous arms. 
The burst of colors in his last autumn had their roots in his lovelorn soul, 
With his unbridled love, he had given them wings to fly. 

[Author’s note: This poem was inspired by a painting titled Autumn Unfolding by Dallas, Texas-based artist Linda Katz and was showcased in Art Meets Poetry, 2024, a performative art and poetry collaboration hosted by Mockingbird Poetry Society, Texas.]

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Poornima: The Full Moon Night

The round patch of the full moon, a dense rhapsody of poornima
in my haywire heart. 
This Holi, my fluttering wings seek the galaxy of cantankerous love. 

This Holi, my nomad being remains moored 
To dark mazes, breathes 
in crushed remembrances, protean verses. 

The poornima of my umpteen stories remains nestled in my crevices
Seeking impossible closures beneath dismantled bubbles of the sky
In a sleepless corner of a wrinkled city. 

This Holi, the poornima of washed-up colors drenches the earth’s crust 
Settles in my wet, clumsy earth 
And I find my elemental rhythm in its dishevelled contours. 

The poornima embraces my night with fissures in its moon skin,
In its furrows, I become her kindred soul, our prayers converge. 

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