The Face
At night, surreptitiously, it emerges
out of the TV screen, or when the light
bulb’s put to rest, its wave of horror surges
from darkened corners, weakening my sight.
It foams up in the bathing tub, assails
my morning mind that’s fairly free of thoughts.
It smirks when all my patience nearly fails
and finds me in the dreariest of spots.
I’ve known this face too well; I’ve known it long—
a thing I can’t unsee; a nemesis,
invincible, who loves to walk along
with me on every path that leads to bliss.
Tonight, I want to sleep, but through the quilt,
it crawls again—this ghastly face of Guilt!
The Housewife
—a villanelle
When daylight gifts the earth its early hours,
the only sound I hear is of her broom.
The yawning sky salutes her steadfast powers.
Once done with bathing all her child-like flowers,
her piety pervades our worship room
when daylight gifts the earth its early hours.
And when her knuckles play with oil and flour,
white patches soil her kitchen-time costume.
The youthful sky salutes her steadfast powers.
Although refreshened by a hasty shower,
lunch spices steal her sandalwood perfume
while daylight slowly ends its early hours.
Piled in the sink, the dishes that she scours
gaze at her strength now ceded and consumed.
The ageing day salutes her dwindling powers.
At dusk she finds brief freedom in the bowers
of sleep before her nightly chores resume.
The daylight halts till its next early hours.
The dimming sky salutes her resting powers.
Everyday World
And well again, my roommate left the door
ajar today, presuming I would shut it.
The plaintiff, Anand, had to face once more
a countercharge; his lawyer couldn’t rebut it.
Old Jai took umbrage at the least remark
from school-bound lads about his curving back.
with hands upstretched, a group laughed in a park;
a flummoxed drifter watched them from his shack.
Inspectors thronged at Sector 42;
a corpse, disrobed; no witnesses or clues.
Reporters, bloggers, and YouTubers too,
envisaged, through this scene, ten million views.
Right when the victim’s father reached the place,
a heap of mics came huddling to his face.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India, where he resides with his parents. His poems have been published by Sparks of Calliope, The Hypertexts, Snakeskin, Ink Sweat & Tears, Autumn Sky Daily, Ekstasis, among others. He received second place in the Southern Shakespeare Company Sonnet Contest, 2024.
Shamik, three great poems you wrote and shared that are shaped with wonderful sensitivity. I was eager to quickly read the first one to discover what “emerged surreptitiously.” What a depth of feeling you embedded in “The Housewife.” I felt lachrymose after reading that poem. Your last poem apparently was intended to disturb, and it did just that for me. Your writing is superb and one can easily understand your continued ascension to great poet status in India and the entire world.
“The Face” provides great imagery for guilt: the “ghastly” face that’s always leering. Your villanelle is interesting: you choose the form of a love-poem to describe domestic scene. You show love not in grand romantic gestures but in the quiet steadfastness of domestic life. “Everyday World” gives us quite another scene of the everyday: annoyances, lawsuits, cruelty, murder — an apt contrast to the domestic bliss of your villanelle.
These are three serious poems, crafted with precision and with an adult sensibility. There’s no naive, vanilla sentimentalism here.
I am especially taken with “Everyday World,” which uses the traditional sonnet form to give the reader a catalogue of seemingly unrelated images and mini-narrations. They are presented in an almost staccato series of brief news flashes, each somewhat disturbing. But taken together in the formal sonnet linkage, they are the revelation of a day in the speaker’s life. One minor thing: I believe the word “with” that starts line 7 needs to be capitalized, since it begins a new sentence.
“The Face” keeps the reader in suspense until the final line. My own practice would be to avoid capitalization of the noun “Guilt” (an eighteenth-century or German habit), and drop the exclamation point that ends the line. Shelley’s overdependence on the exclamation point is one the flaws in his otherwise good work.
The villanelle “Housewife” is very effective — one can hardly escape becoming as exhausted as the housewife when reading it. Her work seems endless and soul-draining, and the woman’s powers move from “steadfast” to “dwindling” to “resting.” About line 13: in a strict grammatical reading, it should be understood as connected with “lunch spices,” but I am sure the poet means it to refer to the housewife. Nevertheless this intended meaning is clear to the reader, and we can accept the line as poetic license. The housewife (not the lunch spices) has had the “hasty shower.”
These all show force, seriousness, and unflinching perception. There is no Hallmark-card “niceness” here.
Shamik, I enjoyed reading all 3 of your poems. I enjoyed the first one the best with its twist in the final line. I can relate with that face always being present. Thanks for sharing.
Three excellent poems, Shamik, and quite the graphic, Evan.
Shamik, thank you for these beautifully crafted poems that paint filmic and sensory scenes. I can feel the heartbeat of each piece.
The wording changes in the villanelle refrains , Shamik, vary time and space to excellent effect, such that the housewife’s moments, and your poem, surge beyond routine.