Tuesday, August 1, 2017




With that every fading glacier like day,
While approaching to my eternal end,
Stepping up stairs towards death that ascend,
Don't wail if I've to lie beneath the clay.
If my bed turns casket to your dismay,
And my soul with my still flesh fails to blend,
Finish the unfinished verse that I've penned,
When it runs out flaying, in hope of ray.
Rhyme our love poems along with the sea,
As I lie under shroud of spumes, so white,
The zephyr on the shore would be my sighs.
Don't let your timid heart to follow me,
O' my love you stay there to be my sight,
Let me see the world through your soulful eyes.


My heart still holds the unused beats,
My shallow lungs long the stolen breaths,
And the bones, cloaked and masked, run empty of flesh.
The eyes that dreamt the dreams,
Are now separated from the sockets,
Like sharply detached staccato strains,
Sinking into lonely depths,
Weaving evaporated future and moments with vacant gaze.
I still stand still like the way they had hung me,
Wearing the same wreath of barbed thorns,
The skull and skeleton fastened in the trellis,
And buried in the sod that holds the blood
The blood of my chest,
That somewhere still runs raw in rivulets.
"Come lay your head on my stretched shoulders.
Listen to my melancholic memories"
I am calling to you, can you perceive?
I'm not the scarecrow you see,
It lassoes my soul. The farmer's soul.
Here I stand still echoing out my torments in mummed shrieks,
The secrets and confessions,
The complots and conspiracies of my spurious sons,
Who killed me softly to meet the hunger of affluence,
In lucid illusion of benevolence.
One day the clouds with swelled wombs will moisten my parched gullet,
The empty spaces below my feet will be nourished,
And the breeze hitting the poincianas around,
Will finally lull me to eternal sleep,
When obstreperous sins will be cleansed,
When justice will be served,
And truth will be harvested at every silence's leap.

Clairvoyant Kinesics

It was 3AM I suppose, or to be precise
A complete hour of sleeplessness and
I was walking behind or rather following
The footsteps of that decrepit old body.
Her hoary head signified semaphores,
Illuminating and reflecting a way onward,
Onward to a curvilinear farness.
Her bent shuffled maneuvers were like
The surges of the tides that rise and
Culminate on the shore becoming arches
And while I was at the verge of losing myself
Amidst the labyrinth of her creased
And sagged skin
I realized that it was me.
It was kinesics with my distant aged self.

I just traveled
Through the furrowed copious vacuum
Of clairvoyance created in my mind.


I ponder on the burnished face of death,
So charmingly dark and hollow it is,
Longing and whelping the memories yet.

Pulling curtains on the door of casket,
And visions killing visions to release,
I ponder on the burnished face of death.

Seamstresses, to sew the muted lips wait,
With barbed thorns of raven's nest in obese,
Longing and whelping the memories yet.

Creepers creep on, as escapements rotate,
Breaths will be lulled to sleep in shroud of fleece,
I ponder on the burnished face of death.

Residues of stale skin fly and gyrate,
And smoke hangs from the ceiling, like pelisse,
Longing and whelping the memories yet.

Dust we're and to dust we accumulate,
Obstreperous mistress of end she is,
I ponder on the burnished face of death,
Longing and whelping the memories yet.


Let me play the strains,
Of those cadenced memories,
And lost orchestrated dreams.

Strains that ebb and flow,
From my blue, rustic, aged,
Viola of loneliness.


NAYANIKA DEY is a Naji Naaman Literary Laureate 2017”, Lebanon. She is 23 years old poetess from Durgapur, West Bengal, India. She is currently pursuing her Master's degree in Economics and Actuarial Science from IAI. She started penning down her thoughts and imaginations when she was 17. She believes “poetry is peace, it bails the answers untold from the retired cove. The hand could be a dull blade but the pen is sharp enough to decollate and poets are remain of illusions, covered in a body of flesh and blood but in a soul of ink and words.” Her poetry manuscript “Library Of Perfumes” with 32 poems won Merit Prize of Naji Naaman Literary Prize 2017, Lebanon which will be printed during August, (integrally or in part) in the prizes' yearbook within the free of charge literary series published by Naji Naaman’s Foundation for Gratis Culture (FGC), and laureates shall receive an appropriate attestation giving them the honorary title of member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture. She is a published poetess in The Criterion: An International Journal In English, Galaxy: Multidisciplinary Research Journal and Indie Affair. Feathers (The Hall of Poets),Oh My Sweetest Love- A Timeless Treasure, Graffiti Wall For poets, Galaktika Poetike Atunis / atunispoetry.com,Let The Pen Speak For PEACE: A Poetry for Peace First Anniversary Anthology, From The Closet Of The Heart, Around The Corner - Where Hope Remains, IMMAGINE & POESIA" 2017, Italy, The Peace Anthology – People against Genocide: Stop Chemical War in Syria, Pilgrims Of Peace, OPA Anthology of Contemporary Poetesses.  She co-edited “From the Closet of the Heart” and “Graffiti Wall For Poets” and is a preface writer of “Withering Dreams” by Poet Muhammad Shanazar. She says that the world famishes for peace and the tormenting voices echo all around. She will be launching her poetry book that portrays love, life, humanity, human sufferings, and strives to end the brutal wars to achieve world peace in October 2017 as an invited delegate at Pentasi B India World Poetree Festival, at Ramoji Film City Hyderabad, India.

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