Deeya Bhattacharya

An Ekphrasis

She sleeps in Autumnal beauty

oh look! Her hairs a toast to the plumage

her skin a chiseled golden honey

she sleeps in a valley

of morbidness

her slip, trance a mystery

against a backdrop of neutral tones

she harbours innocence

a glance in a once, she stole


She sleeps in what hidden passion

one not knows

beneath her chin, a little bit

the colour ashen grows


She sleeps intense

her ochre hairs

encircle the womb of earth

cherubian beauty engraved

upon her livid pallors

constitute the Fall in dearth


Baby birds nestle against

her lucid skin

the tawny moon, a pale orb

illuminates the backdrop

and a cluster of stars decked

in a string of pearls

in refulgence crop


Unmindfully, the Diana


halo encircled ………………

while the hunter stalks his prey

the stag, hyena, cheetah

in array, she knows not

‘ coz her sleep easeful as the

strokes petite……… of a painter

prowess testifies.



An Intriguing Face

For how many hundreds of centuries

have I not seen

the image of your face

nor searched for it


The search for the face

by the dust-settled window panes

in the gold rimmed orb

of the scorching sun, went on

the flittering gaze

of a blue-bottle fly like

from here to there


The aroma in those

lost tragedies, over-arched

in rainbow-hued glass panes

surprisingly, short lived

raw mangoes in oil like

sharp and salty with a twang


Those memories never rested

from toil-sauntering in

the brisk sun-adding to the

plight of an incessant thirst.



Hunger in the Night

The night in our garden

is intense but fragile

the misty moon atop the dew

ceaselessly flows into each other


The night in our garden

is full of longing

sucking up the vortex of thoughts

flowing like river


The river in our garden

is full of silky fragrance

severed like cubes of ice

perch on our hunger


The hunger of the wind

on moss, ferns and potted plants

the hunger

in tales of lost love


On hungry nights like these

in our lit-up porches

we cook consciousness

which bind our thoughts

to skin and sylvan pitfalls.



Midnight Blues

The circles

under  your eyes

burn like midnight blues

under water currents

check the flow of dunes

shifting in your eyes


long black lashes

so poignant, at times

brush strokes of a maddening hand

guileless now

but discreet; like

the midnight strokes

of a prolific act.


Shaping a Poem

Words inky spelt all over

the diaphanous page

of a crumbled notebook


signs in blue , black, red

cryptic gestures like

creeping, crawling

wilted like a withered shrub


the shrubs of  ignorance

which I try to bury

under my pillows of

many insomniac nights


they haunt on me still

till I rearrange them

into an essay of quietude.



Deeya Bhattacharya ,hails from the Industrial town of Durgapur(West



Bengal).She is published in many National and International mag. E-zines, websites in prints and in Anthologies., literary, Contemporary Literary Review, Langlit, Criterion,  in’ Poetry World’, Journal of Literatures in English, Gulbarga University, All-Round Monthly (Faridkot) and the for children, Dimdima in print, Contemporary Vibes ( Chandigarh) , TAJMAHAL REVIEW, HARVESTS OF THE NEW MILLENIUM. , New Academia, Subaltern Speak : A Journal Of Postcolonial Studies, The Sunday Hans. And International Mag like Tuck , oddball, Dissident Voice and Visited several poetry fest. She teaches English and Poetry in a Govt . Sponsored High school.