Biography of Subroto Chatterjee
Born a happy poet..Still am!
I firmly believe in the Latin saying 'Omnia bona bonis' (all things are good to the good) , and 'Omnia vincit amor' (love conquers all things) .
Poets are sensitive souls, and any opportunity to oppugn amongst themselves is fraught with emotional turmoil. In fact, many attempt to escape the daily humdrum of their jobs by expressing their angst (or joy as the case may be) through the lines of their poetry.
To me, (and I suspect with many of you as well) writing poems is more than an orra job. In fact, its a way and a medium where you would want the world to 'see' you...
Such is poetry - indefinable in many ways - and yet unifying people from different faiths, varying temperaments and cultures.
Arta longa vita brevis...
Subroto Chatterjee Poems
Haiku # 2 ‘raining Passion’
Rains can be risky What with this pouring passion Can turn one frisky!
[I wrote this poem in response to Robert Frost's 'A Question'] Who decides o’er life and death? And who will tend to our woes?
And All That's Nice
[I wrote this poem in response to Robert Frost's 'Fire and Ice'] I was told that the cause for our end (In an inevitable cosmic amend)
I wake up with a blushing Dawn; Apollo’s lover in the morn; The morning sky is painted red; As she lies recoiled in bed.
Death is curt, death is cold, Death is new, death is old. Death is no summer, death is no fall; It is for one, it is for all.
Haiku # 1 ‘kaiku Haiku’
All haiku writers Please take note and don’t do this: Circumlocution
Lost And Found
[This poem is dedicated to all those who have lost in love but found something (more) wortwhile in time....]
Should I write? I’m afraid I will, I twirl my pen in a complex ride As I sit on my window-sill, to forget how my dreams have died.
'Twas Not A Rose
'Twas not a rose, Though it had thorns. Was it a pose? Was it a con?
To Poets (And About Them)
On passing by a crowded lane, I greet people and their dreams; Lest some call us poets vain, Suspend all blasphemes.
House Of God
Gnarled fingers feeling and Kneading the clay, Sieving the sand, And baking to pray.
The scorching sand is set to die beneath the tree-shaded sky; Experience life’s dark and light, and don’t give up without a fight.
In The Glade
And I found each tree brooding; Huddled together in the wood. Then ‘neath the trees as I stood, They loomed tall and foreboding.
Gone To Seed
“If you plant honesty, you’ll reap trust” Aye, the seeds of doubt have been planted, But such doubts are a must, If wisdom’s to be granted…..
[I wrote this poem in response to Robert Frost's 'A Question']
Who decides o’er life and death?
And who will tend to our woes?
It is flesh and blood and gasping breath.
Do I believe in God? God knows.
Copyright © SC
04th April 2009