Biswajit Basu Poems

I can still remember when I was about ten years of age,
I began to think of the world outside my childhood cage.
Science, art, beauty and people were taking on a new hue,
That was so distinctly different from a little boy's view.
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Teenagers love an adrenaline rush and experiences that are even stranger,
But, for us oldies', boarding a full bus in Kolkata is the ultimate in danger.
Office over, I was at the bus stop, but buses were coming in full,
I had promised to pick up my son after a football match in school.
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Why do many poets today revel in adversity?
Painting pictures so dark, gloomy and blue,
Why do they forget that many want to be happy,
And yearn for poetry of a more colourful hue?
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Every moment of each and every day,
Fraught with the possibility of a million chances,
Unthinkingly and involuntarily we ride a single way
And implicitly hope that our future it enhances.
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In Chile, the ice-age carved out a chequered coast,
Its southern tip touching Antarctica-almost,
A wondrous land, right down to the Cape,
Bleak seas and the hills, in fact the entire landscape.
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It was dark and the light was low,
As the smudgely sun rose from the west,
All was quiet in the lands beneath,
As soundly snored Cossipore.
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Thinning are the clouds streaked black and grey,
Tears shall well out of thine eyes no more,
Sorrow I will dismember with smite of my sword,
As the misty dawn ushers in a bright new day.
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Why is it that the plaintive wail of a lovelorn soul,
Spewing heartbursts of love, unheeded by his lady,
Or the welling tears of an orphaned foal,
Staring blankly at her mother’s bullet-ridden body.
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Thinning are the clouds streaked black and grey,
Tears shall well out of thine eyes no more,
Sorrow I will dismember with smite of my sword,
As the misty dawn ushers in a bright new day.
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Floating in the spacetime of our cosmos,
Endlessly orbiting round and round,
Riding upon a silvery sunbeam,
Mysterious and profound,
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