Category Archives: Poetry

When I Move Again

— From Under The Rubble

Oh yes, I recall,
Little sparkling beads
Spread atop the skies
And a little frame underneath, lightly hopping
Rhythmically on the tiles that lay,
To the beats that set the days of infancy forever anew.

Oh yes, I recall,
That shifted frame, towering over
Those tiles that lay, no hopping just passing,
No beats, just signs, signaling and signaling and signaling

The hopper soon crawled across the lane.
For the skies didn’t change,
But still the beads got lost,
Heavier and heavier, that silly towering frame
Just forgot to look up again.
There had set mist, and then blinding fog

Just when turmoil set, the slouching frame
Caught sight of worlds yonder
As a swift flew by, swiftly alright!
‘So light, so pure, so swift’, the frame thought.
Following which, over himself, a heap he felt.
That foggy world felt distinct,
The sparkle was felt again, somewhere it was,
though still out of sight.
Laying and laying I had waited long,
It was time,
When I move again

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Untitled

– Baleful Basilisk

 

I saw a pothole

Right there! In the middle of a lonely street

Surrounded by the most beautiful scene

My heart would dare to see.

Or my nightmares allow.

It was a little dirty at the edges,

Rough, with such bravery

As decided martyrs to no purpose preach.

 

I laughed at the irony,

The pinnacle of uniformity

Was the piece of difference

And my heart broke as it felt

This might not be tolerated.

If you quite get what I mean?

 

What if that was the whole point, the pothole?

And the water splashing in the rain,

With the promise of a whole new biome

In a crack we don’t understand

So, then we were the drones,

Not able to see.

Sometimes ‘repair’ is destruction

And loss of faith belief.

 

Then, of course I had to do

Something terrible, you know?

The way I always do.

Run and jump! Like a fool.

Mother said, ‘Be careful’

But I was always crazy

Everyone said so.

 

I had a back thought,

That I would slip at its edge

Not as if it could happen

But with the quietest acceptance

That it must…

Though I could be quite the athlete

And this was hardly athletics

And I waited with the half-anticipation of a child

Who loves the first few seconds

Of a disapproving scolding,

Before the aftermath strikes

 

I was a mad fool

A chipped, unstable pawn

In a game of perfect pieces.

Allowed to survive as a variation

Just in case.

For the first time, I rationally felt

My part was still gently played.

 

And usually I fall with such control?

But this time it was on my face.

Then I was the pothole,

And for a few seconds

That would never pass

The weight of humanity

Would pass over me.

I tried to contract my lungs

And suck in water like some would gasp for air.

 

And then mother came

I just was lifted up

Through no volition of mine

And the pothole, a kindred spirit

Soon to be destroyed.

Left behind, as I went away

A walking mechanism.

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Happiness, conquered! – Sweet Summer Sweat

– Nature’s Natural

Passed three hours of the merry rain,
Scaled four miles of the woods’ embrace;
I neither winced nor shrugged at the helm,
Victor, I, rose in the hills’ praise.

The green leaves hummed in the land’s tune,
The moonlight shimmered in its bliss;
But the banal chirp in the wind,
Returned me to the old abyss.

From heavens above it ushered,
For someone’s prayers had been heard;
Twinkling speckles veiled the Magi,
Before me was glee, in the mud.

Long ago, I had made a choice,
The pursuit of it, to pursue
Love and joy in my mundane life;
For paths to happiness it knew.

Scraped the brown off the glistening box,
Cleansed with my dripping merriment;
An angelic lever turned left,
My gaping mouth, over I bent.

No rains, no woods; No waves, No hills
Shadowed the poet on his way;
Returned he to his new heaven,
Down in the dust his prized gift lay.

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Half-chub poems

– Anonymous

Je te veux

(my times with)
you remind me
of listening to Satie
and watching the sun go down;
clear, alluring, expressive notes
separated by long, achingly ponderous lulls,
silhouetted against the dying of the heavens.
and, if you will permit me
the indelicacies of one
so boisterously drunk on you
and the violent, naive joy
in being serendipitously alive
that the notes will induce,
I will confess that
I, disliking vulgar crescendos
and bombastic codas,
sometimes wonder if you too will
slowly and gently fade away from my life;
one soft note shyly vanishing into
the deepening hues of the sky
before the next, softer note can take its place,
half-remembered, half-forgotten,
until the last note lingers on in the stillness that follows,
shimmering, translucent, ephemeral,
it arrives far too early and
leaves behind far too much yearning.
and yet, it does far more justice to you,
i should hope,
than these hollow adjectives
and unnecessary nouns of mine
ever can.

Harassment (this constitutes it)

I once met this girl
who smelled like stale cigarettes
and fresh coffee
and every third person in the bus
she had, no doubt, ridden that morning,
all rolled into one.
I was new to the city
and had gotten caught in the rains,
and stood before her in the
metro station,
melting into puddles,
and she asks me, in broken Bengali-Hindi,
(Bhindi if you will)
if it really was raining that hard outside,
adding a wink.
I, not understanding the
subtleties of that
cunning linguistic gesture,
said no, it really was,
which seemed to fuddle her somewhat,
but she soon began a merry, loitering chat,
the kind only total strangers seem to have,
about her college, and her guitar-playing on
lonely moonlit nights, and her shady side-business in
gold that kept her in alcohol through the year,
you know, saccharine slop like that, and
though I was listening,
half-listening,
a half-dozing bull in the shade of a hot summer’s day,
and my eyes wandered like the flies bothered by its tail;
flitting from
head to shoulders to
extra-thick slippers to
her jeans, and peeping out,
peeping, winking, giggling,
from under her jeans,
were panties pink.

Not a sleazy black or red;
not the lacy, light pink of air-headed Disney princesses;
not the flustered hot pink of an extended adolescence;
just cotton pink;
practical, pragmatic pink;
the pink of bougainvilleas, inexpensive and easy to maintain;
the pink of two girls in class, mutually uncomfortable in English;
the pink of blushing village brides, applied with unsure, loving deliberation;
the pink of a winter sunset on a crowded beach; sweaty, breathing pink;
the pink that seems to consume all of time, and all of my thoughts;
that sort of pink.
Fun yet reasonable; impishly rebellious; wistful, sighing pink.
And though I would like to say I kept my eyes
where they were supposed to be,
that would be a little unfair to the hoary, lecherous mongrel that
snarls and dreams as it frolics on its back in the grass of the mind, quivering in pleasure, and…
but you get that, right?
Of course you do.

So then I resume talking, dripping, slurring,
using the word ‘pink’ a little too often and emphatically,
when her train arrives and she asks me
if I was heading to the memorial,
and I realize
I’ve been waiting on the wrong side all this time,
quite to my surprise and dawning sorrow,
and must bid those panties,
those petulant, passionate, pink panties,
a tear-brimming farewell, and she doesn’t
notice or mind too much,
and we part-
familiar stranger and strange familiar.
Fare thee well, pink cottons,
may you flutter ever-free.

And everything nice

She told me
that it was absurd that
she lived in a world where
she could basically subsist on sugar,
and have just mango shakes and ice cream
for dinner,
lunch,
and whenever else she liked,
and thick, syrupy candy,
before and after every class,
and misri every night, at her desk where
she sat and tried not to get distracted too often,
and bitter, dark chocolate
on special (but not rare) occasions,
just sugar, thickening her blood
and turning her hair brown.
It was absurd, she said,
that all that sugar was
placed like that
in brightly lit fridges,
and marketed and packaged to
look so good in those brightly lit fridges,
if we weren’t supposed to have any of it.
It was absurd, she said,
to be expected to resist
the steady advance of sugar,
rising over the
centuries and
untrustworthy economies.
(“and pirates’ rum is made from the same stuff too! See?”)
It was absurd, she said,
to ever deny all that sugar
to a middle generation like us
stuck in meaningless jobs,
living enchained by our own wills;
just semi-solid sugary blobs
of squandered possibilities,
destined to have no impact
whatsoever.
And it was absurd, she said,
of me not to have assumed
she’d been doing so already,
in an exercise of free will,
and for a while now, too.
(“You said I was a sweet little girl, didn’t you?”)

That night,
I saw a painted dragonfly,
white and yellow,
being carried away by
crimson ants
in oozing chunks
on the stained bathroom tiles.
I stood, mind numbed,
(by the sugar?)
and watched them all through
their drawing and quartering,
until there was
nothing left
of the silver-winged albino
apex predator
but another suspicious dark
stain on the floor.

She had been
standing on the lawn
in front of my room
when it happened,
grinding her teeth
in silent, righteous fury
because I, quite obviously, hadn’t
been listening to her.
As she ground them and
debated kicking me in the toes,
they suddenly splintered
into paper-thin shards
of sugar,
white dust clogging
her throat,
and as I watched,
her lips and eyes and hair and legs and fingernails
crystallised into sandpapery-white
sugar, and the more delicate parts
crumbled like old glassware.
We smelled her,
all of us around,
and tasted her, when she came
apart; her face frozen in inward terror,
eyes bulging;
she cracked up the middle,
and collapsed into
windblown white piles of powder
and large, sticky, yellow-white lumps.

I haven’t been able to have
anything sweet ever since.
maybe it was the dragonfly,
maybe it was the way
the mess and canteen owners
exchanged meaningful glances
on seeing it happen,
(did you have it with your coffee this morning?)
but I just couldn’t stomach the
thought anymore,
and had to quit the stuff, cold turkey,
and that’s the most absurd thing of them all!

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A Thirsty Cloud – Sweet Summer Sweat

– Nature’s Natural

Lurking behind the veil of wisdom,
Thinning himself into the damp air,
Floats high above the hills’ teeth,
A thirsty cloud.

The piercing gaze of the land
And the unsaid solemn prayers,
Rises with the heat of the below,
Relinquishing his tears.

The sun’s scythe shears at his back,
Droops down he in fatigue;
Riding alone on the cool breeze,
He smiles his way through.

It’s the shade not what they care,
His sight meets with sneers.
Thus, lurks behind the veil of wisdom,
A thirsty cloud.

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Sophisticated Cruelty

– Jyotsha Kumar

Sophisticated cruelty
Brandished vanity
Nightmares now my true reality.
Preposterous, this proposition
Oh! What a bleak view this is, a tarnished utopia
Another soul devoured, what blasphemy!
Such blighted existence, a withering travesty
Nightmares now my true reality.
Hands joined, prayers of contrition
Kneeling for forgiveness, freedom from this dystopia
Hiding behind miles of scarred skin, still an inch from insanity
An inconsequential disposition, just a broken hearts rhapsody
Nightmares are now my true reality.

 

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Winds of Winter ’17 – Results

– Coordinators, ELS

Hello there! Here are the results of the Winds of Winter – Palindrome Poetry Creative Writing. Insert usual apology for delay, which you’ve seen numerous times this year here, and which we’re too lazy to even type out anymore, but we do mean it, that apology. Congratulations to the winners!

Three winners in order.

 Anushka Jha

Strange reality this is.

Fallacy and facts mixed up,

Fed manufactured lies and handcrafted truth,

Falsely projected self,

All aberrations,

All self projected falsely,

Truth handcrafted and lies manufactured,

Fed up.

Mixed facts and fallacy.

Is this reality? Strange.

 

Monsters on Your Bed – Pratik Mishra

14 only, was I,

but, you were 19.

 

Realize,do you,

Infinite memories,our,

of (daily) horror movies, vulgar inside jokes (unfunny),

 

that night turned into

(unfunny) jokes inside vulgar movies.

 

HORROR(daily) OF OUR MEMORIES : INFINITE.

 

You do realize ?

19 were you

but I was only 14.

 

 Anushka Jha

Flowers withered slowly

Days passing but nothing,  

Had she forgotten he was gone?

Waiting in eternity.

An eternity in waiting

Gone was he. Forgotten.

She had nothing but passing days

Slowly withered flowers.

 

Runners-Up

Siddhant Thakur

Winter

Pale, blue moon

shattering glasses

freezing hopes

shivering masses

deadlocked masses

shivering hopes

freezing glasses

shattering moon

blue, pale winter.

 

Ravi

Winter O winter!

Sweet honey iced,

Beautiful melody on guitar.

Shivering jaws with sip_of_tea

nose and eyelid dew dropped,

freezes heart,

Still fierce bumpy fuel of light

heart pumping by exploding fuel

nature speaking by chirping songbirds.

winter o winter.

Songbirds chirping by speaking nature.

fuel exploding by pumping heart,

light of fuel bumpy fierce

Still heart freezes,

Drew dropped eyelid and nose.

Sip_of_tea with jaws shivering

Guitar on beautiful melody

Iced honey sweet

winter O winter!

 

 

 

 

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