New Year Reflection - Robin Bhattacharya

Robin Bhattacharya - poet

New Year Reflection - Robin Bhattacharya

At my age, expectations feel less like promises and more like burdens. I have learned to enter a new year lightly.

What I carry forward is intention.

I still begin most mornings reading before I write. It reminds me that language deserves patience. I hope to continue writing with honesty, offering criticism when it helps and encouragement when it is needed — especially to younger writers finding their voice.

Creativity no longer means producing more. It means noticing more. Choosing silence when words are unnecessary. Respecting craft over speed.

I do not make resolutions. Life rarely listens to them. If the coming year allows me to remain curious, disciplined, and fair — on the page and with people — that will be enough.

The world grows louder each year. Writing still asks us to slow down.

My hope for the new year is simple: that writers remember time is not the enemy, and the pen, thankfully, does not ask our age.

The Office Christmas Do, As Observed from the Biscuit Table

The Christmas do began at six,

Though nobody arrived at six.

They came in waves of obligation,

Wearing smiles that hadn’t met their faces yet.

Colin from Accounts hugged everyone too long,

As if warmth were a subscription service.

He’d had two sherries and a thought

He was brave enough to share with the photocopier.

The tree leaned slightly left,

Like it had opinions but no platform.

Someone’s child hung a bauble shaped like hope.

It fell. Nobody bent down.

At seven, the CEO cleared his throat

And produced a joke he’d borrowed in 1998.

It landed with the soft dignity of damp tinsel.

People laughed like trained seals

Who feared redundancy.

The vegan sausage rolls were gone first,

Purely out of spite.

The meat ones remained, sweating quietly,

Like men waiting to be chosen for a team.

Janet from HR drank prosecco

As though it might apologise eventually.

She told three people she was “fine, actually,”

Which in British translates to

“Please don’t make me explain my life.”

The Secret Santa gifts emerged.

A mug that said World’s Best Colleague

Was received like a threat.

A novelty tie blinked aggressively,

Its batteries already tired of the joke.

Someone suggested karaoke.

This is how civilisation ends.

A man sang Fairytale of New York

Without irony, irony, or key.

The room aged ten years.

By nine, politics appeared,

Uninvited but inevitable.

Everyone disagreed politely,

Which is to say violently,

But with smiles you could grate cheese on.

At ten, people announced departures loudly

Then stayed another hour.

Goodbyes multiplied like emails CC’d to everyone.

Coats were fetched, lost, re-fetched.

Someone cried in the loo

And emerged reborn as a brisk professional.

Outside, snow fell for aesthetic reasons only.

Inside, the last mince pie was halved

By two people who didn’t like each other

But disliked waste more.

Near midnight, silence happened by accident.

In it, everyone briefly wondered

If this was happiness

Or merely December doing crowd control.

Then taxis arrived.

Promises were made.

Nothing changed.

~ Robin Bhattacharya

HAPPY NEW YEAR