Dr Prasenjit Maiti (1971-) email@example.com is a political scientist by occupation and a writer by compulsion! His print credits include 2River View, Blue Collar Review, Brittle Star, Brobdingnagian Times, Carillon, Circle, Concrete Wolf, Diner, Famous Reporter, Green Queen, GW Review, Harlequin, Hermes, Homestead Review, Konfluence, Micropress Oz, Monkey Kettle, Nightingale, Nomad, Paper Wasp, Parting Gifts, Peeks & Valleys, Phoenix, Poetic Licence, Poetry Church, Poetry Depth Quarterly, Poetry Greece, Poetry Scotland, Promise, Pulsar, Quercus Review, Rattle, Red Lamp, Reflections, Skald, Skyline, South, Spinnings, The Journal, WinterSPIN and Xtant. Dr Maiti has been widely published in electronic journals as well in the UK, USA, Canada and Australia. His CD-ROM credit till date is Heist. He of late tends to specialize in monologic prose poetry.
Residence P-8 Beleghata
Main Road, Calcutta 700 085, INDIA
Let us go away
from all our women tonight
women are like wastelands
let us caress the fields
where the haystacks groan
and the memories of our
lovemaking are rife with agony
In the Season of Winter
You rushed down the frozen
stairs of yester-years while I tried to hold you back in vain, taking stock
of my mineral water bottles and deciding to go down to the northern springs
for fresh tear wells of sorrows. You had gone round the block to the store
for provisions, condiments and pickles, fish and pizza, insanity and defeats.
I just cannot take it anymore, said I, while you sedately polished your
glasses against my designer stubble and blue Indian skies.
Sound of Silence
You are there and you are not as the doors would neither open nor close and I may see you now while the very next moment my sorrows blind me, my sorrows that are quite so gay and straight and black that I may not see you dressed in white in a darker room and smiling for a moment as you are angry like evermore . . . I may even touch you in the nude and may or may not feel jovially embarassed, my new found delights that pain me like nobody's business as you are always there and never once haunting my rich city of memories, the Chinese downtown and the WASP countryside, my poor city of oblivion and joyous hatred . . . You are there and you are not as the doors would neither open nor close like a clash of cymbals that I may or may not enjoy like Coca-Cola as you are there and you are not dressed in white and naked stark . . .
You and me in Paradise
whie my salad days fornicate in Calcutta, my days and ways being served
as funky platters of crab casserole, ecstatic white steam sizzling and
blue skies burning in agony . . . We know ice tea to induce quickies so
we squeeze green lemons like cruelty, discard white and yellow pips like
disdain, Do not Disturb signs hanging frayed and loose across our Anniversary
Suite, the AC hums like sex as wine glasses crash against wine glasses
and the blue smoke of ciagarettes . . . You and me in Paradise while our
gay salad days make hay in Calcutta, your rightful place in the sun hanging
loose like my destiny and precarious like dollops of ice cream, you scream,
I scream, we all scream for ice cream!
Your white chiffon burns
as the sky burns in Calcutta and I dig inside molten sundae and ketchup
like religion like recluse like fantasy, your white chiffon burns as I
admire the riverfront and the bridge girdled like chastity, the breeze
and its fragrance like a woman in season and panting, your white diamonds
burn like your eyes, black like Bengalís sorrows and ranting, your white
diamonds burn like ashes like Coventry like merry sex like royalty
Calcutta Oh Calcutta!
My City never sleeps
and can never live down her boisterous indifference whenever there are
those dark rain clouds hovering across the skies of Bengal. I know her
vanity and inanity and sick desires and yet cannot do anything to redeem
her glory that is rightfully hers. Calcutta my beloved is a cat crossing
the thoroughfares of sorrow and desperation like myself, Calcutta my desire
is myself driving my auto in confusion into the night. My City nowadays
never even dreams her colonial dreams of grandeur and divide and rule.
My City never ever sleeps the sleep of the dead or divine.
"The ideas, views, opinions, attitudes, conceptions or insinuations, both explicit and implicit, contained herein may or may not be those of the International Post-Dogmatist Group at a whole or any of its constituent members, associates, affiliates, subsidiaries or institutions."
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