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Three Poems by Moumita Bhattacharjee

Three Poems by Moumita Bhattacharjee

The Ailing Poem

Everyone who has read my poems

Has at least once or many times asked me

If something is wrong with me, my mind, life, body,

And it's saddening how my poems have made my mother

Feel bad about herself because she thinks

It's her fault, her incompetence,

That has made my life miserable.

But none of them remember what I answered

When they asked what is wrong,

I said - nothing, it's just that I love my poems

As much as I love graveyards,

Something must have died in here.

My poetry stands just how a haunted house does,

Something must be screaming in here.

My poems are so torn, scattered but alive,

Just how my mind is .

And you must believe , you must ,

Nothing is wrong with me .

It's just that I believe in my poems

As much as I believe love ,

Something must be painful here .

A Tired Therapist Friend

Do not mistake me for a home

You can come back to and rest,

Neither think of my smile as a comfort zone

Or my lap as a happy space.

I am all about crowded roads, pending assignments

And murderous headaches.

I'm a strained puddle in a jammed bus on deadly summers

And a cranky customer bargaining for high price of onions.

I am the shocking electricity bills

And spelling mistakes of a literature student.

I am the never-enough second girl

And an embarrassing mess in front of the professors.

I am the never-ending line of rail ticket counters

I'm the dark circles and a lover of Insomnia.

I'm no meditative piano but all shouts to catch a taxi,

I'm no kind angel but a psychotic massacre

Wanting to kill the world.

I'm not your mother's lap, I'm all the tears my mother has shed,

I'm not your old lover's shoulders, I'm a loveless desert.

I am not your unpaid therapist, I'm all unsaid trauma,

Swallowed up pain that my family considers a made up drama.

Do not expect me to make your day better with wise words ,

I'm all a blank state of nothingness

Moving on and on , only wishing to stop

Like a dead baby unborn

But free

From a world where the first thing it had to do

Was cry and bawl .

A Love Poem to Poetry

The morning after I cried all night felt like a rebirth,

Like a deep dunk in an ocean of reality

And the crashing waves of the bitter truths

Hurt me no more,

I let it wash me away to anywhere but here.

Here is a place so gray, so dead

Where friendships must come with benefits

And love must come with conditions,

Where love letters are called obscene

And poetry is a luxury for people with too much time.

Here is a place where we name people with their flaws

It's always

The "lame" man, the "fat" woman, the" dumb" child

And never

The "kind" man, the "friendly" woman, the "funny" child.

Here is the graveyard of art,

A place where we burn beauty to talk about the ugliness.

Acceptance is one thing, meanness is another

So when we call the world ugly

It's probably us with the ugly minds,

And this death of art rips me apart.

I cried mourning the loss and this morning

Took my quill, dug the grave

And took poetry into my arms.

I embraced it.

This morning I wrote a poem

For poetry

For art.


Moumita Bhattacharjee is a student of English Literature and an explorer of poetry. She aspires to express her voice through poetry someday and make it her identity.

Three Poems by Moumita Bhattacharjee

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