WE ARE THRILLED TO INTRODUCE AUTHOR AND POET, MITALI CHAKRAVARTY, WHO IS SHARING SEVERAL POEMS FROM HER BOOK, 'CITIES, NOMADS AND ROCKS' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- 7 hours ago
- 8 min read
Cities, Nomads and Rocks is a collection of poems drawn from life in various cities… some ancient, some new and some exhibited in museums. A few are even war torn. Then, there are poems on the inhabitants of the city, experiences within a city —happiness, grief, sorrow and humour. And a bit about crises in cities, especially climate change that we are all weathering together on this planet, irrespective of where we are located. Strung with it are thoughts of survival –how would we, cities and dwellers, survive despite wars and climate change? Move to another planet as per dreams of billionaires… Can we really afford that? What will be our future even as we laugh, cry, grieve and live in what we call cities, towns and countries?
Cities that Grow
Cities are about smells.
Hothouse roses, steel,
the scent of malls, of
people, buskers, life
that stalls the flow of
rivers, trees and birds.
Cities are about food.
Fries, meat, cakes* that
you can eat -- Marie said--
when you do not have
bread. But could they, as
the prisoners of Bastille fled?
In a last protest,
the Nomads settled —
— lived among walls
before they were sent
to Siberia. Erasure is
common too — by war.
Some cities live. Some die.
But city builders and dwellers
still survive, hoping to
flow towards the stars,
mingle with the soil of Mars.
Cities are peripheral to human life.
Were city builders nomads in their past lives?
*“Let them eat cake" is the traditional translation of the French phrase, "qu'ils mangent de la brioche", said by ‘a great princess’ according to Rosseau. It has been attributed to Marie Antoinette. Brioche is not cake but an enriched bread made with eggs, flour, butter and sugar. (ref: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Let_them_eat_cake)
Cities that flow
Cities do not last. They
flow as civilisations come
and go. They span
lifetimes of generations.
When there are shifts of
rivers or climes, they move.
Gobelki Tepe gave way to
Catalhoyuk. The river changed
course. Jakarta will move to
Nusantara as drained of water,
the land sinks — overused,
abandoned by hands
that grew roots and stayed.
Nomads walked through lands
long ago. From Turkey to Indus,
they surged and spilled beyond…
till roving, some settled for walls
that divide, marginalise. Tides are
slow but Trojan horses destroy
cities. The sunflowers still grow.
Will new cities sprout
where the old collapsed?
Nomads do not need walls,
they glide like rivers, shift,
but do they ever cease?
Plants are domicile, rooted but
humans are always on the go.
Nomads build cities that flow.
Imprints
A city leaves its imprint
inside your head. There
are some cities that are
effervescent— buoyant.
Some wrench your soul.
Some stretch arms to
befriend. Some make
you weep with erasure.
You mayn’t have been
there but the warring
sunflowers bring tears
as do rubbles of towns.
They make your soul
cry and ask why? Oh
why? Repression and
fear grows like grass.
Some cities make sad
stories — where they
whisper veiled burqa
caution, restrictions.
Some lie under seas or
dust as they murmur
wisdom from eons. Or,
are these warnings?
A Nomad’s Song
Fragments from diverse lands
embed themselves in my
bones as homes change like
clouds that travel the sky.
A wanderer has a bit of
dust from every place
stuck between his toes.
Belonging breathes life.
Many eons ago, long before
you and me, life started
with the magic of stardust
imported from outer space.
Us, amoebae, or even trees,
broccolis or eggs — all
started out of that
ancient, primeval sludge.
And yet many millennia
later, we stand separated
by boundaries that sprout
from nature to nurture…
Skyscrapers
As cities crowd in,
people become
part of skyscrapers.
You would think —
buildings that soar
to the sky would give
a sense of freedom.
But do they?
Built into the walls
are the toils, the tears
that weep exclusion.
Perhaps, these teardrops
cement the bricks, hold in
place glory, fame, name.
But do these teardrops — even
for a minute — pause the revelry
enjoyed within these walls?
Are skyscrapers heartless too —
like heedless cities ignoring the
cries of displaced fauna — now,
nurtured in reserves, slums, parks, zoos?
Do skyscrapers liberate
those living within, even if their
structures dam the urge to flow free?
The Cricket and Meng Jiangnu
Walking the Great Wall,
the long-life cricket paused.
He saw a strange apparition,
dressed in flowing robes,
flying in the air, as if a
fair maiden of yore…
Meng Jiangnu* in quest
of her beloved’s bones?
That story is centuries old —
a story that roars defiance
of the great Shi Huang Di
— and all for the sake of her
true love?
Ramparts can be old or new.
So, can love which springs
anew.
The cricket knew —
In his long life, he had seen
much and known more.
That is why he chirruped
and stayed quiet. That way,
he could live longest.
(Never mind if in human terms
cricket lifespan is only ninety days.
Maybe, they have tribal memories
that cover centuries.
You and I are not crickets.
We will never know. Maybe
the ghost of Meng Jiangnu can tell…)
*Meng Jiangnu was a legendary figure who stood up to the Qin emperor to give a proper burial to her husband. He had been unceremoniously buried under the Great Wall.
Immigrant Stories (Singapore)
I
Long ago, they sprinkled
magic into carpets while
Omar sang of Sultan’s
turrets with Saki of a
Paradise on Earth. Now,
he sells carpets— this man
from Iran — weaving fears
and sorrows into his words
by the turrets of Sultan’s
Mosque. A little shop
selling covers and mats,
a flavour of Persia in
the by-lanes of cosmopolitan
Singapore. The carpets from
cold climes mingle with the
warmth of tropics to find
a new life, a new weave—
II
From Gandhi’s state he
wound his way to a
small store selling
yards of his culture
in distant Arab Street.
Now, his grandchild speaks
American, far from the home
he knew as a child. What grows
his roots into this tropical clime
are the cloth he sells — block
prints, colours from the past,
dyes from plants alien to this
land but traditional in the home
he left behind. Did he immigrate
for a better life? His Chinese
colleague handles his merchandise
as he plays with his light-haired sprite —
his magical grandchild.
III
A little restaurant of good
Russian food — we thought.
We were told the dumplings
were Russian-Ukrainian—
the food mingles as of old.
The invasion highlights his
heritage as part Ukrainian
with money trickling to
people of the invaded land.
Borders were not a part of his
plan — Russian-Ukrainian — all
of related lands. Now, forced to
take a stand, the flavours of his
land mingle with tropical palates.
What will bring peace, harmony, an
end to war? He continues to feed,
ladling tolerance, waiting for the war to end.
IV
From kampong* born dreams,
he tends the coiffures of rich
tai-tais. From lush Malaysia’s
greens, he migrated to an
air-conditioned shop of a
Singaporean mall. Now
prinked in imitation of a
superstar, he lives with
the reality of dollars and
cents. There are no cheap
homes or free breeze where
date palms wave like
punk hairdos sported by
rich kids. He stays in a tiny
rented room, looking
forward to his holidays
What does the migrant dream?
*Malay village
V
He paints walls of homes
and malls. From distant
villages beyond the seas,
he comes dreaming
of hunger quenched
and thirst. Selling his
ancestral home, he pays
a debt to cross the seven
seas and earn to build
a home of his own. He
shares a room with
half-a-dozen who like
him have come from
far-flung lands to find
a new life. He dreams
in Bangla as he waits
to find acceptance and love on foreign shores.
Migrants to Delhi
1
She picks bits of beads
and glass to stitch
intricate patterns on
broadcloth — a vision
of a bright bird with its
plumage spread, or,
an elephant of rainbow
colours wandering in a
wonderland. Her eyes
wrinkle to concentrate
on her craft. Her armlets
are as unique as the
tattoos that tell her story
woven with selling ethnic
embroidery on the streets
of Delhi. Pedestrians
pause to see her wares.
Some buy. Some merely
go on with their daily lives.
2
Each morning, she
comes — her shadow
unclean for some —
to clean bathrooms
in the posh homes
with many doors.
She enters from
the outside door
and leaves after her
broom thrashes the
bathroom clean.
After her, the women
of the house will clean
the bathroom once more
to make sure it’s done.
3
They iron out creases
from clothes collected
from different homes.
And yet their own
remain poverty-worn.
4
They sit on pavements
and wait for work.
Every time the traffic
lights pause, it is time
to weave through cars.
Few sell wares no one
needs. Few with babies
beg for money to eat.
The car windows mainly
remain shut. Beggary
is a crime. And street
urchins — can they be
trusted?
God created
humans based on their
Karma. It is all fate!
5
They build tall
buildings, sleep
on pavements.
Coloured in dust,
where do they go
in the heat? Or,
when it rains on
the streets?
Their children,
unwashed, unfed,
unschooled are
not fit to play
with offsprings
of those who
live in tall
skyscrapers
that scrape
wealth into
resident’s
wombs. What
happens when
these home
makers die?
Do they go
to the same
heaven where
the home dwellers
post-life will reside?
The Sailing Postman
Snail mail travels across the slimy floor.
But nothing can beat the postman
rowing across the oceans connecting
lands. For he waves at whales and
stops on magical islands during gales.
One island was the back of a creature
called the snarefellowgus. The postman
slept on the ground. As he snored, the
snarefellowgus woke up. No one knew,
who was more surprised for the creature
in fright took a dive. The postman woke
amidst the waves. Dolphins rescued
him and his mail from a watery grave.
He rode, like Neptune, on their backs
till they neared land after many months.
From then, we know the snail mail
is faster than the postman on a canoe
waving at whales, riding dolphins and
upsetting the rare snarefellowgus!
I ask you is it fair to get mail this late?
**********
(Available on all Amazons, Kindle and free on Kindle Unlimited)
BIO:
Mitali Chakravarty started writing for fun from the age of eight and never stopped. She meandered into publishing by happenstance. Figments of thoughts and friends encouraged her to waft on a cloud where rests Borderless Journal, an online forum that gathers thoughts across all borders to move towards a future that will hopefully have happier humans, whether among stars or under water or on solid land on Earth.
Other than a few hundred publications online, and in hardcopy newspapers and anthologies, she has three poetry collections, Flight of the Angsana Oriole (2023), Cities, Nomads and Rocks (2024) and From Calcutta to Kolkata: City of Dreams (2025). She has an earlier book of humorous essays on China, In the Land of Dragons (2014), and has edited two anthologies Monalisa No Longer Smiles: An Anthology of Writings from Across the World (2022) and Our Stories, Our Struggles: Violence and the Lives of Women (2024).
Book Details
Title: Cities, Nomads and Rocks
Poet: Mitali Chakravarty
Publisher: Gibbon Moon Books (Forwarded & Published by Rhys Hughes)
ISBN-13 : 979-8346952336
COMING SOON: On Monday, 23rd February, our team member, author and poet, Rikke Rose Rasmussen, is sharing her poem, 'Perfect Rarity'.
