.
The Magic Trick
Another dove spawns from the wizard’s hat.
A youngster, goggle-eyed, forgets to clap,
enchanted by the spell. With every flap
this spongy creature makes, he wonders at
the skill required to master such a craft.
Last stunt, and then the curtains will unfurl.
Dissected in two halves, a bony girl
inside a box still shakes her toes. A draught
of loud ovation flows within the tent.
Discussing every act and filled with joy,
the viewers leave the venue. But the boy
desires to stay. Observing through a rent,
he sees his newfound idol pack all stuff
and psych up for another town and show.
A brief talk; then the young lad comes to know:
back at the wizard’s home, a clogging cough
impedes the breathing of his five-year-old;
his neighbours say it is a deadly flu;
the doctor’s mounting fees and prior dues
demand this helpless father’s house be sold;
inventions of this era have replaced
the charm of stage illusions; in a year,
the income from his gigs can’t even clear
an auto loan. The child’s contented face
tells what he’s learnt: although his icon’s slick
with cards, he cannot cheat the eyes of fate;
to carve a life that easily bears the weight
of any hardship is the real trick.
.
.
Factory Wounds
Adorned with ersatz gold, she shambles on
the pavement, waiting for one final car
to slide its door and wave the “get in” sign.
The town is hushed; no porch light flickers now,
just lampposts and their winged, nocturnal friends.
As promised to her son, she must be home
by ten and cook his favourite—mutton broth.
It’s nine; her feet now scuffle faster. Then,
a sable hatchback blows its eager horn.
She throws herself into the lion’s den.
It’s twelve; she keeps a bright smile as her son
answers her knock. The promise died again,
leaving that usual reason—overtime.
She notices him noticing the cigarette burns
and blurts out, “Oh! They’re factory wounds, you know,
from welding work. They’ll heal.” Her faux smiles bring
real ones to him. Before her cramps begin,
she feeds him broth, relieved as long as he’s
oblivious to the business she is in.
.
.
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.
Thanks for writing these two poems, Shamik. They express the plight of individuals feeling the dark side of society very well and are well crafted, with a continual flow of sense across lines and stanzas.
Dear Shamik,
These two poems both give me chills. Adults in each carry a load they wish to protect their children from, burdens that are nearly too much for themselves. Both poems also show that appearances are not always as they seem.
I wish I more quickly considered the sufferings behind the smiles of strangers. You have given me a glimpse behind the scenes today in these two stories told in well written verse.
Thank you.
Gigi
The magic in your poem, “The Magic Trick,” is your amazing ability to use enjambment and assiduously still maintain a beautiful rhyme and rhythm. That requires your mind to be sharp mentally and creative. The message comes through as well about children.
A melancholy ending to ‘The Magic Trick’ as the boy sees the reality behind the illusions. I especially liked the beginning, reminding me of a trip to The Magic Circle in London, back in the day.
What a sad, affecting poem ‘Factory Wounds’ is. Excellent work, Shamik. May I humble say you work is going from strength to strength.
These are two heart-wrenching poems of personal pain and tragedy. The desperate magician, trying hard to earn enough money to keep his dying son alive, is a portrait of hopeless labor — his love drives him on, but he will never make enough to pay the medical bills, since the world of entertainment has left his obsolete occupation so far behind in the dust that there is no chance to do so. And the youngster from the audience, who finds out the truth by listening to conversation at a hole in the tent, is there as a device to let us as readers find out the truth as well. This is also a kind of magical “trick” here — the speaker of the poem could have been an omniscient narrator telling us everything, but instead we get another character who serves as a learner of a lesson about fate and inescapable hardship. Thus we get a sub-narrative of two boys: one who is dying, and another who is perceiving the truth.
The second poem is just as stark. The mother is clearly a low-level streetwalker who is picked up by johns who cruise around in cars. (This is the most danger-laden kind of prostitution.) She tells her son that she works late in a factory, and her “cigarette burns” are suggestive of some kind of sexual abuse at the hands of her customers. The son is too young to figure out the truth, but the terrible thing hanging in the air is that eventually he will be mature enough to learn what’s up, and will stop smiling at his mom. In addition, the mother’s cramps suggest that she is suffering from some long-term ailment associated with her sex work.
These are upsetting poems, but they also show superior skill and perceptive ability. And Shamik does the first poem in difficult ABBA quatrains! Wow! The diction, the syntax, and the grammar are of the highest quality. What absolutely great English!
I agree with everyone’s sentiments above, and add only that I so admire the sensitivity with which these difficult and unusual poems were written. Outstanding!
Shamik, I love both of these beautifully conceived poems, but especially “The Magic Trick” where you draw a line between illusion and painful reality perfectly. I left your page with a tear in my eye – the measure of fine poetry. Thank you!
Heart-wrenching and beautifully, compassionately written, Shamik!