Biography of Pradip Chattopadhyay
Creative Copywriter who also loves to express his thoughts in rhymes.
Pradip Chattopadhyay's Works:
Poems published in various magazines and newspapers.
Pradip Chattopadhyay Poems
1924: A Love Story
The day you walked in Stood on my door You were nineteen I was twenty four.
On her course merrily flows the svelte rivulet She meanders not alone carries the sky on her breast. In him grows a longing, love flowers in his heart She doesn’t know it, on the sea is set her heart.
Ten kittens in my home now Ten little brats Their mothers never knew how To catch the cupboard rats!
Love Is Our Weapon
A long road ahead, that's no scare We can surely make it, the will is there. The way is tough, terrain treacherous But cover we shall, we can all of us.
He lies wide eyed. The opaque stream reflects no sky betrays no emotions
Boys Will Be Boys
I know I invite reproach When I speak aloud in wonder Why boys are the first to approach And girls are mere responders!
There are three horses pulling your life Attitude, want, and of course your wife The first pulls you through life's high and low The second pulls you to where monies flow
Love Is Made That Way
I carry you in my heart But you are far away Sometimes though love lasts It’s so you don’t stay.
Time Management (10w)
On This Day
My sweetest times were spent with them They brought me here gave me a name The only ones to be called my own Now shadowy reflections in my moments alone!
This is my graduation class and I have bunked quite a few of them. terrifyingly I realize it has to be a long time
Now That I'M Growing Young
Now that I’m growing young / into my second childhood I’ve decided to forsake / brooding brows and swinging mood All things that I tell now / and all stuff that I read All thoughts I jot on paper / must be understood by a kid.
A Kitten's Story
Hurrying to my work in the untimely shower Caught my ears the mews but it was rush hour Must be another kitten born with no luck Abandoned in the shrub growing on sidewalk!
5.00 am mr. run-o-mill from a mundane slumber
Every morning he goes to the church
though not religious, not really much
tidily dressed, looking so neat
the routine is a way, for him a habit
he prays for nothing, nothing he wants
it's all ritual, the prayers he chants
Years roll by, he grows frail and old
till he is laid in a coffin, dark and cold
the hearse carries him to the church he went