Amphan Trilogy
I. The Avenue of the Fallen
Taking a walk
through our neighbourhood
was always pleasant —
even in the summer heat
because there were always trees
to shield one from the sun.
Trees, everywhere.
They made our neighbourhood
pleasant;
pleasant and green.
The trees.
Our neighbourhood.
The trees in our neighbourhood.
Pleasant.
All so pleasant.
And then
A M P H A N…
The day after,
tree after tree after beloved tree,
strewn on the ground
in big heaps
and small,
limbs broken,
jagged edges
sticking out
at dangerous angles,
birds mourning,
people mourning,
the neighbourhood — mourning.
Street after avenue after by-lane,
bursting at the corners
with the bodies of the fallen,
the broken,
the dead.
A few days later,
a pleasant breeze blows
through the now tree-less lanes.
People sigh
and lurch through their day,
melancholy sitting
on their shoulders.
‘Pleasant’
ceases to hold any meaning now.
II. The Mourning
The morning after
the cyclone,
there was mourning.
You could not hear it
but the skies were heavy.
The trees that stood
after the bang,
the crash,
the smash,
the boom,
bowed like children
with overstuffed school bags,
silently bidding
their fallen kinsmen
a heavy goodbye.
Could funerals
be so quiet?
The chainsaws at night
made up for the silent grieving.
III. The Tree Outside My Window, an ode
You stand sentinel outside our window
guarding the park
like a Beefeater at Buckingham —
your flaming red flowers
a strong reminder
of their uniforms.
This nonchalant world
passes you by,
heads wrapped in plastic,
old muri packets
and the latest worry.
Locked up,
we are forced to look at you.
And marvel at your freedom.
You danced like a wild sister
the night the winds came,
taking dips and bows,
a punch-drunk ballerina,
the cyclone bellowing you
into absolute supplication,
but
you did not shrug like Atlas.
On bended knee,
you smirked,
but you did not break.
I will dangle my hopes on you
like earrings now.
I am at the mercy of your strength,
your beauty.
MOTHER LOVE
Firmly rooted,
branches shooting up,
singing with the borrowed voices
of the birds,
a tree is
the earth hugging the sky.
A steadfast mother,
gifting us lungfuls
of hope
and courage
to face each new dawn,
a tree
is
love.
Wisteria
And so tenderly my
you grew to love me,
expanding in ways
to embrace
every hair of me,
every breath of me,
every flaw,
failing,
fluke of me.
Your wisteria arms
tell me I’m beautiful —
and I believe you.
Baisali Chatterjee Dutt is a domesticated nomad who writes, edits, dabbles in theatre and teaches. Her poetry has been published in various anthologies and magazines, print as well as online.Her latest novella in verse, “Three is a Lonely Number”, is available on Amazon Kindle.
She eats chocolate by the bucketful. She has two teenage boys. Ergo the chocolate. By the bucketful.
Yugen Quest Review 