This Hour and What Is Alive


Walking from one room to another—

Almost crying in each one,


Opening and closing the doors,

Leaving memories adrift in the stale air,


Days pass and I wait,

Drinking the last dregs of watery coffee,


Inside the shabby, threadbare hovel

With cracked floors, the lumpy undulations,


With holes as big as my fist puncturing every wall,

Exposing my life to the brawl and bitterness outside,


Below the reed matting of the roof,

Sagging—almost touching my head,


In front of the single-burner gas stove,

Broken cups, ceramic plates, a knife, a fork, a spoon,


In front of water stored in a plastic bucket—

A thin film of moss floating above,


In front of a table, a chair, and a wooden stool

With cracks visible from every angle—


The blotches of coffee stains gawking,

The repairs made with wire and string, mocking—


In front of the oil painting of a girl,

Gifted by my long-lost lover,


Her arms are folded, a long-lashed

Lingering grief hangs from her face.


With an ironic half-smile turning up

The corners of my mouth,


I want to lean in and

Kiss her cold lips.



Twitter @bibek_writes

The Last Goodbye


Under the street lamp

Her large, soft-brown eyes

Sparkle like jewels of desire,

Her face shines in the warm, yellow light.

Her lips widen in a half-smile—

My heart, a beggar, begins

To plead and hope.


She waves goodbye and turns away.

I watch her walk. Her dark silhouette melts,

Becoming a part of the night itself.


Every night when the night rubs itself

Against the windowpanes,

I lie on bed—wrecked at my heart—

Among the heaps of broken dreams.

Music plays on a radio somewhere—

It is an unbearably sweet soprano

With happy, boasting tenor of a duet.

Closing my eyes, I paint her from darkness

With light and colors of memory.


Every time she walks away,

In my dreams,

I can never obey the impulse

To hold her in my arms

And kiss her lips.

All that remains in front of me is

Her fading silhouette waving goodbye.


Twitter @bibek_writes



Tonight I hear the wind   
That is your voice.

In the Valley of Gods
The gods themselves are nervous.
They fear the red glass of wine.

The night is paused on
The television screens.

The silence of you eating alone
In an old photograph is deafening.  

Someone screeches—
A panic attack of harmonics.
Is it your own heartbeat?

There is pain in you that seeks its way out
Through the crevice of your heart.

You know this is going to be over.
But it takes time.

The overhead yellow light is on.
You are by yourself at the dinner table.  

Pick up the pen.
Bleed poetry.

Twitter @bibek_writes

The Gift



“We should not have been bestowed

with the gift of thinking,” my friend once said.


I am in a state of uncertainty.


Last spring you said I had a gift.

Had you forgotten the fact

that I could not lay bricks like you?

Nor can I say, “hello” to every passing stranger.


See, right now, I am trying to take my head

in my hands, swivel it, and write a line or two

that may bring the best of you.


Is this my gift?


I eat without speaking, hunched over my plate

in a crowded restaurant.

I prefer solitude and cannot talk about weather

to the man who’s sitting next to me.


Unlike you I cannot smoke.

Not the clove cigarettes of all the things.


I think what I am doing is merely my job.

It is enough to crack my heart open.


On a soft October night we stayed up late,

drinking rum outside your house.

Do you remember that you said

you were happy for me, that I was a poet,

and it was a good thing? Were you drunk,

or had you been dreaming?


Now, as I am trying to bring you

the memories of the paper,

I marvel at what you had said,

And say to myself, “Is this my gift?”


Twitter @bibek_writes

The Young Men Left Us



The young men left us.


They took everything with them—

Money, warm April breezes, youth,

The scent of parijats, and above all, love.


The young men left us, 

And went to work as migrant laborers

In distant sultry lands,

Far away from the touch of Heaven and Hell.


All that remains, here in the hills,

Are the dusty poplars, the winding lanes,

The cottages with broken eaves,

The decaying walls, roofs of rusting tin,

And reticent villagers crippled

By the constant hammering of heavy memories.


“Where’s your son?”


Don’t you ask that question!


The answer is obvious.


It is a feeble pointing

With a languid index finger

Toward the dusty gravel lane,

And a cold look with yellow eyes. 


Twitter @bibek_writes

Not Floating but Exploding


A sheaf of paper drops like a Raku bowl
From the edge of the table.

The light plays the trick, reflecting,
Momentarily blinding
With million images and mirages.

The paper drops and explodes,
The fragments go on and on—
Like rumination.

I was a child once, then young,
Now an exploding piece of paper,
Waving through the furious air.

Rumination won’t stop.
No, not even with the corked bottles,
Or the bright multicolored pills.

I used to hide under the covers,
Or in the closet with my own clothes.
It was of no use.

This pain, this rumination would
Wake me up from my dreams,
Leaving me lethargic for rest of the day.

The juniper outside, the dull furniture inside,
They are of no use—
They do not listen to me rant.

The paper flies away,
Away from a lifeless body of mine,
Across the ethereal void of time.

I am just an object in this space
Without any aura,
Or any meaning attached.

Twitter @bibek_writes

Melancholy Eggs for Breakfast


The time for melancholy
Has just started.

I think over breakfast, slicing
The poached egg into two.
Melancholy is all yolky—
Easy to digest and remember.
I wonder how it is often
Confused with creativity.

I dab the brown bread
With a lump of peanut butter—
Smooth as sadness—
And take a greedy bite.

“Is it the only way for artists?”
My friend had once asked.

I rant of things in retrospect,
Scribble lethargic lines of divine despair,
Unable to keep my mouth shut,
Or my pen down.

I once wrote a hate-poem
About a friend,
Now she’s no longer my friend.

I’ll never forget what her eyes looked
As she read the poem—
Marble-heavy, burning with loathing.

Sometimes silence is golden.
And gold is the solid quantity
To measure anyone’s success.

I finish my coffee.
I eat the last bite of the poached egg.
It’s poetic whether I want it
to be or not to be.

Twitter @bibek_writes