Sreelekha Chatterjee is a poet from New Delhi, India. Her poems have appeared in Madras Courier, Raw Lit, The Mini Magazine of Assam, Verse-Virtual, The Wise Owl, Ghudsavar Literary Magazine, Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal, Poetry Catalog, Suburban Witchcraft Magazine, Medusa’s Kitchen, The Literary Times, and Ukiyo Literary Magazine, and in the anthologies — The Harvest & the Reaping, Winter Glimmerings, and Whose Spirits Touch (Orenaug Mountain Publishing, USA) and Christmas-Winter Anthology Volume 4 (Black Bough Poetry, Wales, UK).
Facebook: facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1/, X (formerly Twitter): @sreelekha001, Instagram: @sreelekha2023
An hour that goes by forms memories, even when life is busy collecting tomorrow’s worms, splendidly popping up like bubbles in still water. Some are tall, illuminated buildings like a bonfire sticking out its golden tongue, lapping the dark firmament— shifting like the ebb and flow. Others are perilously impartial— like fireworks they sparkle and vanish— a few remembered tears, unlearned delights, and passionate, warm fuzzies strewn here and there. A limited number being imperishable like the glow of the uninterrupted flame. I reminisce about the silvery moonlight of childhood, the zany crepuscular face of adolescence, the awakening dawn of early adulthood like I check out books from a bookshelf. What is a mind full of memories? A shady harbor of luminous vessels carrying mope, cheer, and sigh, illuminating thoughts that pass away, tickling the state of consciousness to multiple emotions.
Bohag (Part 2) The performance came to an end in a while. Then followed a series of welcome speeches one after another, by the Chief Guest, the Guest…
Pancham: The Urban Timbre (Part 5) As Rajesh Khanna started enjoying the superstardom, he discovered that lip-syncing songs on screen was one of his forte. In a way, he was repeating…
The morning is today: a sestina The postman brought all messages these days with a clot. I waited long at my window thinking: really, but really? Wasn’t it always some sort…
From the Diary of an Old Man with Dementia The paucity of words doesn’t hurt me anymore. I have spent a lot of time in my grammar classes and With some half-muted friends in…
Dolphin We listen to the crow cawing. I and Jhunu. There are no other birds, only a crow on the branch of the berry tree. We…
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