Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Poetry: Divyangana Rakesh


The gray flows into the blue,
The water rises to meet the sky,
The orchestra of sounds crashing into me,
The ship in pieces.

The waterlogged wood splitting,
The rain, washing everything away.

There’s a lady crying,
Holding her dead son’s body.
A hungry puppy looking for it’s mother.

A bullet has been shot somewhere,
we just heard it.

There’s no light left.
And yet, I stand on the mast,
looking for a tomorrow
in yesterday’s shadow.


As I lay near the window,
A sphere of helium sucking life out,
A small portal in bright colours,
getting wider.

Someone screaming next to me,
I think I can hear it.
Someone sobbing on my clothes,
I think I can feel the hot tears.

I see him, he’s running across the tracks,
he’s raising his hand in class,
leaning on the pillar, torchlight on his forhead.
I should’ve known school romances never last.

“Gone with the Wind” lying on my bed,
My mattress turned over
She’s yelling…
Why’s she yelling?

The bloomed lotus outside our classroom;
Fading away.
The red flowers, losing their red,
And me looking out of the door.

I got my graph wrong that day.
Red ink splashed across the grid.
I see the portal now, dashed in blue.
I think it knows.

At the dinner table,
My parents sitting across from me.
All of us laughing over a bowl of custard.
The death toll in Iraq rising, and me so jocund.

The papers from my file are flying,
I’m strugging to gather them.
When did it all fall apart?
I realised too late I think.

I’m running on a circular track.
Seemingly endless.
Maybe it will end.

The last sounds being the slight murmuring
of my mother in my ear.
Then the even more slight siren of
The Ambulance.


Divyangana Rakesh is a 17-year-old passout of Rishi Valley School (KFI), Andhra Pradesh. Despite being deeply into science and in particular, Biochemistry, she has been writing poetry ever since she’s been 11.


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Poetry: Sayak Roy Chowdhury

Sounds of Silence

When you stop talking
The crickets fill up the silence.
The ticking clock,
Water, dripping in an empty bucket
The barking dogs in some faraway lane
A shouting child,
A quarreling couple
Gossiping televisions
Suddenly throng my nerves.
They just don’t shut up like you.
They simply don’t give up.
And that ceaseless noise from inside…


They talk about people
They talk about home.
They argue on their fate,
Sports, politics and the drainage system.
Moreover, the monsoon is delayed
By 13 days this year.
Their children are weak at vernacular
Their parents are weak at sensibility
And they have been weak at calculations
All the time.
So they are being deceived,
Or are they dodging deceptions?
They have seen the worse days.
They have trudged the harder way.
Indeed. And their stories are all told
Long before they could finish them.

But now…
Now they are keeping secrets.


Sayak Roy Chowdhury is about to be graduated this year as an electrical engineer from Jadavpur University, Kolkata. He fantasies he can write poetry and bullies others to read them; he finds his friends scampering all around when he approaches with his red diary.

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Poetry: Omair Anwar

I am, I feel

Hypnotize me.
Too much pain, too little respite
Cage me.
Too much vice, too little of virtue
Bind me.
Too many mistakes, just too many
I recede.
In cold dungeons of pain
I run.
Through forests of falsehood
Ere all that ends, ere all that begins
Like an endless circle
I am, I feel

And Death sang me a lullaby

Come to me or I shall come to you,
Careless whisper, who are you?
I am my Lord’s servant; I seek your soul,
Careless whisper, why cannot I see you?
Seek death and you shall see me,
Careless whisper, who would seek death?
Men who are waiting to meet their Lord,
Careless whisper, why me?
Your time has come, you must go,
Careless whisper, is it painful?
Death is not felt, death is another life,
Come to me or I shall come to you,
Careless whisper, sing me a lullaby.


Omair Anwar is a 21-year-old writer studying engineering at University of Engineering and Technology, Lahore.

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Poetry: Tania Dey

Before rainclouds

I have seen you once..
Just before the rainclouds came..
and then I have walked through several oceans..
and to see you again would mean death to a lot of things..
fluorescent frills of water around my waist engulf me now..
as I have often dreamt..
of losing out to you..
and I can see your boat from afar..
pale white sails that you pull down…
as the rainclouds come..
you look up at the sky..
and you look down at the water..
there are clouds on your face..
and the luminescence of the water is there on your eyes..
as you stand on your boat..
and see me turn into the sea..

Raintime wishes and prayers for aeroplanes

the Weather Bureau says..
the rainclouds will show up around 5th of June..
and there might be a Rainblast around the 11th..
I on my part didn’t smell anything till yesterday..
It drips .. It drizzles.. and we go around inside round after round..
Usually I get what I want.. Only I’m not sure if I really want it all..
On some nights I ask for more rain..
On some I just pray for the tiny blinking lights of the Aeroplanes in the sky.. Fuzzy, hidden sometimes behind the grey.. lit sometimes by a flash of blue..
On some days I just ask for all the dug up ground around me to turn into mosquito laden ponds..
On some I get hit by a bucketload of icy rain four or five times a night..
I still haven’t learned to close my windows..
The room smells of wet cat fur and paper and gum..
Sometimes while doing the breezy rounds..
We get soaked by splashed out puddles that the other cars so carelessly traverse..
Yes our windows were down..
I guess we’ll never learn..


Tania Dey is 21 and still stuck at Department of Mass Media at Sophia College, Mumbai, thanks to her rather wandering nature and an (supposed) ability to evade education till now. Other than playing granny at the College, she also makes short films, rescues kittens, writes poetry and dances a mean Argentine tango.

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Poetry: Ali Ghafoor


Blank minds and blank pages
hibernate together as thoughts
dreams and ideas collect outside
in a snowstorm flurry falling
and burying them
inside their own malignancy

as the elements are too harsh to face
and snow angels are not at all angels

and they lie inside where all is
and they are

Obvious, Oblivious
Tattered rags that were once pendants
flap about upon the thinnest of reeds
forced to bend and warp
in warm and humid winds
as transparent seas float about

in waves
rotting them from within

once colors bold and bright
pigments and meaning


as ever changing winds flay them

unbreathing, conceding

and they shout out their hymns
in voices as grizzled as their faces

‘for our love we shall die’
‘for our love you shall die’

know they not that to love is to live?

yet for them to fully live
others must die
For what is a woman that cannot beget a life?
and what is a man that cannot take a life?

their love and them

irreverent, irrelevent
ethnocentrically benevolent

crystals liquidized
display your sight and engage your mind
with something other than what you believe

for who can know the treachery
or the darkest of intentions
in this glaring light?
for it shines

only to make


beneath your hands that type
beneath your eyes that see
permeating the beauty
they work together to create

entwined, refined
forward. back. behind
What is immortality,
but a collection

of lives?


Ali Ghafoor is a 23-year-old MBA student in Lahore. He values his friends above all else and loves good food and good company.

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Poetry: Deya Bhattacharya

Her Chaotic Laughter.

It was a different kind of laughter. Hers.
And She, often, wished the world would drown in her sudden wave of madness.
It was a different kind of laughter.
That made her forget words, people, lovers, passion.
The laughter resounded in the corridors…
And filled her mind with an insane joy.

Her laughter echoed.
She trembled.
Yet, they said, her laughter was different.
Some called it lunacy. Others said it was clumsy innocence.
But She laughed her different laughter.
And the world, they laughed at her.

They said She saw phantoms.
And that She lived in twisted dreams.
In illusions.
But they said only half-truths.
She met her long-lost lover in nightmarish delusions.
And then, the laughter echoed.
The corridors, the rooms aped her laughter.

Her lover was only a phantasm.
A glimpse of significant nothing.
That, but faded into nothing.
Yet, She roared her maddening laughter.
Laughing about her ability to store memories.
Store memories in moonbeams.
And hide moments in her palms.

Then, abruptly, She couldn’t remember.
How She had lost him…
How he had been like a dead tune in her head.
How time had changed hands,
And how he had transformed into a blur only…
She shivered.
My lousy poetry had hindered. Her lousy train of thoughts.
Yet, She continued her laughter.
Her laughter of a different kind.


Deya Bhattacharya is out of school (St. Thomas Girls’ School, Kidderpore, Calcutta) but not yet in college and loving-hating this in-between jobless phase. She loves reading, writing, random photography and dancing in the rain.

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Poetry: Anum Asi

God in the World
Simple words
On a white page
In truncated
Are mine to write.
To give, to hand out,
As I do (you tell me)
With smug smiles.
The sun is outside
My window.
I want to own him because
He is beautiful;
And I want to write him down
And let that out into
The world, and say:
Look what I’ve made!
Isn’t it pretty?
The moon is rising,
Pale lady, calmness
Seeping into the sky;
An unashamed dreamer of dreams,
Dealer in wishes and
Broken hearts.
I’d like her, too.
Pretty lady, c’mere!
Come here, into my
Arms and, out of my heart,
In silver-glow ink,
Slide onto my page.
Ah, dear, I’ve wrote the moon!
God, my Lord, You’re already in my heart.
Who dared to write You?


Anum Asi 20 years old, and currently studying literature and anthropology at Lahore University of Management Sciences. She spends her time angsting about her life-choices and switching between majors.

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