The Schoolyard


We were in the schoolyard, the girl and I,    

whose name and face I don’t remember.


We played during lunchtime, throwing 

a softball made of old socks at each other’s faces. 


The ball delighted us with every touch, with every hit, 

and we whirled ‘round and ‘round, hungry for each other’s faces.


Light as dust on a flea’s wings, 

we sauntered all around the yard.


Later, in seventh grade, we were playing,

I went to the edge of the schoolyard.


You raised your hand to throw the ball, but were 

too afraid to do so. I waved goodbye, and 


you stood mute, with tears welling up in your eyes. 

That was the last time I saw you. 


The years have plunged, and the heart has plunged 

into an empty, windswept place, without the sun, 


or the moon, or the stars, or the softball. Only 

a peculiar light of thought spins in the darkness.  


From the blurry freaks of cold memories, 

all I can remember is the softball on your hand. 


Girl, whose name and face I don’t remember, 

throw that softball at my face once again. 


The house is empty, the couch is old, the people 

I once loved are all gone. The clock has stopped. 


I am aware of nothing but my own loneliness.

Throw that softball at my face, and break 


this stillness of my life with a soft touch.  

Twitter @bibek_writes


Life and Death


(Old poem full of cliches)

All my childhood
I believed I was different
That I could think like no one else
That I could talk endlessly,
About demons and demigods
But I’ll tell you now:
My whole childhood was a big lie.

Like a fairy without wings,
Or a peach without any seeds inside,
I lived leaving holes in the universe
Holes from where darkness seeped out
Like truth.
Like pebbles that kept rolling
Against the hungry tides,
I rolled gathering no moss.

All my childhood I talked gibberish
On and off I thought like a maniac
But now I am silent
Silence is up to my neck
Thick, thick, thick.
I do not think
I am cold
Cold like a glass of beer before sipping
It’s wonderful to see how I
Insert myself between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat
I gnaw like a mad dog
And lick my own blood
That runs through and through.

Now that I am old and dying
I can hear a scream
Is it a birth cry?
What is it that you find so fascinating
In being born?
It’s violent, you see, our time’s so cruel
With a goddamn baby screaming somewhere,
I feel there’s a bloody birth in the air.
A birth that has once again
Invited the inevitability of

Twitter @bibek_writes