By Jayanta Bhaumik

 

It’s again the time to remember how I was born
Taking a birth is like when you speak, you know the
silence surpassing all this crowd, listening only to you,
but then your words turning the solid opaque stars,
some inactive globules,
suddenly emitting only flinches to the world

It’s a time to know why silence too looks like
an old withered tree, dying, still responding to its last autumn
The dews appear so certain for their vast is so small
As you taste them through care and ethos,
they deceive you, like a clock, either limping or going,
its unending frowns and dots are pulled to
the crooked clicks of life

When I tell this to none, I hear a voice
pebbling inside a distance, moseying in the dark, as if creating
all so pure, but ensuring only with a distant habitat

It’s when I say I am dislodged, free, I see my body as
a living tunnel, its surface worshipped with hundreds of
holograms and fear and spiels of dares and sweats
stuck on my wall
Inside, I am sheening like I’m ready to love
Inside, a quale is chronicled, doping, creeping up on
my laughs, jingling as I recognize wounds

It’s a moment to recall why a wound is
born with a birth
The reason will tell you how
to forget its secret forever

 

Jayanta Bhaumik is from Kolkata, India, basically from the field of Metaphysics (a Research Member of American Federation of Astrologers Inc.). He spends a period every year in Singapore and other south-east Asian countries for his professional assignments. His works can be found in the recent or upcoming issues of Poetry Superhighway, Zombie Logic Review, Merak Magazine, Pangolin Review, Pif Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Poppy Road Review, PPP Ezine, Mad Swirl, Vita Brevis Poetry Journal, Cajun Mutt Press, Scarlet Leaf Review.

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