in the fading light,

inside the rented room,

muslin curtains

over the windows

deepen the dusk.

the last ray of sunshine

slants inside

between the translucent creeks.


eyes half-closed,

she looks around,

& the place

she has lived for seven years

looks so tiny, so decrepit, so gloomy.


the dim light

plays in the warm air—

red-brown, like tobacco dust.

she sees nothing

but tired, overly-familiar furniture

that makes her dizzy.


the thick books

of mathematics & poetry

look like a medley

of grey & gold.

from outside comes

the soft cawing of crows

among the simal-trees.


in the haze of red-brown,

floating beneath the waves—

calm, serious, melancholy—

her throat swells with a sigh,

& swooning, weeping, hiding her face

in her palms, she surrenders—

seven years of yearning,

seven years of writing.


now the evening shadows fall.

the sun, low on the skyline,

shines through the curtains—

a mere flickering brightness,

as if hummingbirds shed

their wings in flight.


the night chills.

she clings to her blanket.

her sighs sound louder,

& the squeaking of the pen—

the sound clear as crystal on her heart—

lingers in prolonged vibrations.


Twitter @bibek_writes





Once again,

In my poetry,

I am going to lapse

Into my customary



First, I’ll just throw words

Like popcorn on a stove,

& they’ll expand & burst

From the kernels,

& puff up

On your face.

I’ll force you to chew

The crunchy frivolity,

& even gnaw on the cob.


There’s a voice in my head—

Brittle like unpopped kernels—

That’ll soon explode into

Butterfly or mushroom flakes.

Soft, tender, mushy words

That you can chew,

& forget what you are chewing.


At the end of the poem,

You’ll stare at the popcorn bag,

& question what was inside.

Hysterically you’ll tear it,

& throw it in the air.

The confetti will fall slowly,

& land on my face.

I’ll go back

To my own boring life,

& lapse into navel-gazing,

Once again.


Twitter @bibek_writes

February Fourteenth


The black clouds near,

Rapidly rolling their convolutions.

A gust of wind bends the poplars,

& at once comes the rain,

Pattering down on winter leaves.

Puddles of water running over the gravel

Carry off a scattering of yellow leaves.


Everything seems wrapped

In a drifting darkness.

The weather sinks deep in my soul—

Somberly melancholic, numbly despairing—

I sit by the window,

& stare with brooding eyes.


Afterwards, the sun comes out,

Lightens my little room

Like a golden bed lamp, with soft touch,

& the sky turns white as porcelain again.

The ducks quack,

Sparrows shake their wings,

& once more it is warm.

The bedlam that broke awhile

Starts to cease, & now

Lulled by the brightness of the sun,

Smothered by it, I sink again

In a state of gloom,

Ruminating over my stark & bereft



Twitter @bibek_writes




A nightingale laments

For the unresponsive rose,

While moths flock

To the candle flame,

Only to burn themselves.


Drowning my sorrow

Of life’s never-ending quest

In a bucket of chocolate ice cream,

I stare at the candle’s wick,

& become the yellow flame.


Withdrawing myself from myself,

Now orange, now yellow, now blue,

I flicker like the three-colored flame,

& melt slowly.


Sinking into my sofa

I write odes in the candlelight—

To my secrets,

To my fantasies,

To the old buckets of ice cream,

& to the lovelorn lovers.


All the while the nightingale sings

Inside my head in quick, rapid beats—

& the singing keeps going on & on—

Only to be silenced towards

The end of the poem.


Twitter @bibek_writes

A Poem


Not starting from scratch,

Go back gently to the ancient giants,

Have a tête-à-tête,

& feel their rage in the wilderness.


If you think they speak

In difficult words & complex rhymes,

Do not shun their company—

Be patient,

Listen to what they have to say,

Feel the desolation,

The broken heaps of words.

Feel the dead men speaking,

& the ghosts preaching.


If you do that,

You’ll know what poetry really is:

It is us hearing ourselves better.

You’ll acquire the gifts of words

& enjoy life, or maybe endure it.

But that doesn’t matter—

What matters is—

You’ll never look like a jackass

The next time you write or read

A poem.


Twitter @bibek_writes