O Tempora! & Other Poems: Amit Chakravarty

Inside The Eyes of a Fortune-teller

Inside the eyes of a fortune-teller lied a rural road. Then the evening was softly descending on the village. Vincent left painted cornfields on both sides of a road; Perhaps to have his supper. Here in this part of the world spring has come––so tells the behaviour of the birds. Someone on his bicycle went past me somewhere far away —towards the lights of a farmhouse. From the tinkling sound of his bike it seemed as if everything happened before. For I know that Vincent and I would watch the stars together through the night after he had finished his painting.


Insomnia has got smeared with the pillow-cotton.
The housewife’s knife prepares for a stab.  Amit's book

It rains outside the window .

Rainfall! Rainfall!
Sounds of our souls!

Eliot’s hollow men
crammed into the city square.
They are without raincoats and umbrellas.
Their black hats are getting soaked.

Few blurred crows
on the wall of the ladies hostel. 


On the wall I am taking sketch of the sea. A number of raucous seagulls that hover over, came from the other hemisphere. Self-absorbed I go on painting the sunny beach, colorful tour and the enthusiasm in the faces of the children in swimsuits. While painting a neat and tidy blue sky I think of the mushroom-colored girls, probability of their coming over to bask in the sun. 

O Tempora!

Inside an hourglass
stillness rolls down smooth.

Sand means the memory of a beach and sunbath.

A path leads through the olive trees;
For ages people moved into a solitude like this.
Despite that the archaic sound of their feet
resonates and lingers on…

Time revolves.
Men keep getting lost into the paradoxes of Zeno;

It is Cronus that emerges out of the clock

Death in F Major

Prolonged night of April. The naked moon is on fire. Mute clouds, that grow bigger, are adrift around the moon. Ballade F major, melody of Chopin, is blossoming in somebody’s headphone. Darkness. The ballad ripples through the night. Somnolence filled his eyes. With the delicate whiteness of magnolia, dawn will never come. The prolonged night –more and more prolonged it gets. Death, cold, somnolent. The antelope came across in dreams


About author

Amit Chakravarty
Amit Chakravarty 1 posts

Born 29th November, Sylhet, Bangladesh. Currently residing in USA. Poetry-writer. Engaged with webzine of Bengali art and literature “Nocturne”.


No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply