Poetry 2025 Shortlist, Srijani Roy

 The Felling of a Sycamore Tree 

Long ago there was a President

who ruled the country with iron fist.


There also lived a young man.

He was a student at the university.

There was nothing special about this human

other than his love for a Sycamore tree.


The tree was his life as legends say.

He read under its shade

and scribbled poetry.

There was a silent bond of kindred

between the young man and the sycamore tree.


One day, they were told,

The president of the country

was to visit the university.

Over the days trees were felled

to make road for his grand entry.

The last one to fall was the Sycamore tree.


The young man was there.

He didn’t cry nor swear.

But onlookers say

His eyes glistened with a drop of tear.


He vanished for days.

No one knew what he did or where he stayed.

But his poems appeared on their screen

calling for an end to the autocratic regime.

Few laughed but more were moved,

As the poems enraged and the poems soothed.


The young man appeared on the D-Day

when the President was on stage.

He hurled the poems in the air

and the crowds raged

But before he could disappear

The President’s guards tied him down

They dragged him to no one knows where

and he was never found.


But the rebellion spread, a revolution was born

and the President was finally overthrown.


Many years have passed since then

Presidents came and went.

But we still remember

People like you and me.

How a mighty empire crumbled

at the felling of a Sycamore tree.

Srijani Roy, Poetry 2021 Shortlist

THE TALE OF THE TREE GOD


The holy river in it’s rise and fall, treads through a small village unknown to all.

Amidst the fertile plains It humbly stands , beyond all hustle and time constraints.

An Old post office forgotten, unkempt; is the only relic the world has left.

At the heart of this forsaken place, stands a Banyan tree since ancient days.

Tales and legends often said, there lived a Holy man under its shade.

The stories of his Healing Hands, forayed to the farthest of lands.

His fame traversed to every vent , as the curer of all ailment.

Under this very tree he breathed his last, amidst the fading light and shadows cast.

Since then, the embodiment of his soul divine

Is the Banyan tree; The holy shrine.



Good days passed in full accord, as the villagers worshiped their TREE GOD.

One day , in their peaceful lives, Peril came like monsoon tides.

In an auction somewhere held

A company bought the land where the poor tree dwelt.

On a fine day, these men arrived, amidst the astonishment of bewildered eyes.

These dubious men set their eyes forth, on the gifted land they had wisely bought.

The best of lands in fairest of price, only a worthless tree to set aside.

A factory instead will be laid, of whatever it was the company made.

Their Men came with axe in hand, to cut the tree and spare the land.

Women cried and men swore, as the sentence passed from door to door.

Hundreds of them thronged that night, around the fated tree in faint moonlight.

With open eyes they refused to see

What was in front, was no God, just a tree.


The company men, now in a fix, resorted to their maverick tricks.

A factory they said would bring them work; end to poverty, their days of dark.

The village men, unbent, unbowed;

all night they stood on toes, aloof to reason and repose.

As the scene further tensed, the news spread of this resistance.

News men gathered under its shade; quoting the greatness of this holy crusade.

Now the company, at their wit’s end; coveted to means with ghastly intent.

But nothing could undo that was done, neither hefty goons nor police baton.



Unable to bend these resilient men in spite of all means they could comprehend.

At last the company lost all reasons, to indulge in strife with “barbaric” peasants.

Somewhere with a smaller sum, they bought another field, more welcome.

Finally the brilliant sun was shone, a marvelous battle had been won.

That night the dubious men had to flee to where ever that might be.

The farmers gave out a joyous yell but how much was won, Only time will TELL.



In one of the following nights, a violent storm did the last strike.

Next day, as the villagers thronged around

They saw the fated tree fallen to ground.

Uprooted beyond reform; hit by the thunderstorm.

The village men, in loss of word, for the sudden demise of their TREE GOD.



For once at last, did they see

What was in front was no God, just a Fallen Tree.