Nayanika Dey is a 23 years old aspiring 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 loves to write and portrays her works mainly on facebook, twitter, and instagram. Her works got published and featured in The Criterion: An International Journal In English, American e-magazine, Indie Affair, and other magazines. She loves to take part in writing challenges and she has also won many of them. She is a contributing writer of some prose & poetry anthologies as well. She loves reading John Keats. The words cinephile and philatelist aptly describe her. She is a word hoarder and a pianist & guitarist in leisure .
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 rose and,
Culminated 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 travelled
Through the furrowed copious vacuum,
Of clairvoyance created in my mind.
I sensed myself sinking down,
Culminating the stuccoes of existence,
Crossing denouements of mortality,
Obeying the laws of life’s caducity,
And defying the clusters of earthly brevity.
My nostrils perceived
The essence beyond the sod,
My ears apprehended
The sounds of heavy metal spades,
And my eyes saw the quietus,
When the granules of clods broke,
And made space for me,
To lie amongst them,
While my body felt the ache,
When I was being gently graved.
I roused to realize,
That my sweven
Toured me down
To the afterlife lane,
To forgraith me,
For the next realm of existence.
It was an urge.
It was a long held urge
Which was abscising me from within.
It was repeatedly coursing up to my heart
Trenching inside my ribs
Chocking my gullet
And ploughing the interiors of my veins
But I couldn’t and I kept absconding
And devouring them back
Etching their marks deep beneath my skin
Till my squishy flesh got overloaded
And swamped by that necessity
And finally a bead of drop
Streamed down my eyes
Osculating my thirsty lips and sighs.
It was a long held urge to cry.
Beauty In My Broken Places
It is as ardent as a ruby
And nonpareil as a gold,
Decked with keloids like pearls
It is a pure treasure trove,
Of bloodstained esteem to behold.
It is as byzantine as an art,
Spilling notions of forgotten seasons,
Frescoing the final caged tumultuous echoes,
That had once ripped and rushed
From this heart within.
What is it?
It is nothing but the pains and pleasures
Of that blood clotted scar
On the pinkened flesh of mine
Tasting peace and making me remind
Of those historic embalmment
Of my conquests and of vanquished released.
I am just drifted through
And addicted by the beauty
In my broken places
Across, beyond and beneath.
Ruckuses uproars and turmoil
But that was not all
That our ears perceived
Bloodshed carnage and bloodbath
Of our own bloods
That was what our eyes lived with.
Our bodies were tripped over, tied up, tasered
Spanked, flogged, scourged and savored
By the inhuman communities.
With blood leaking out
From swelled veins
And with lesions and cicatrices
Getting deeper with every perforations
While we sat fragile, worn
Looped lassoed and shackled in silence
Watching shadows and scenes
of assaults, electrocutions, bashings
Decollations and alive burns
Beckoning to deaths
And we are some of the bondage survivors
From a world without peace and enslaved.
Once I tried
To fathom the ocean,
And the deep rumbling
Of the endless cavalcades
Of those reconvening,
Ebb and flow of
Wrapped in lyrical brevity,
Kept implying deathlessness.
While the spumes
Like rhapsodists in a choir
Made me hear their passacaglia
Of epigrams, missals
And pericopes of life,
Sweeping over my feet
Kissing and trying
To take me back
To the immortality and eternity
Of wisdoms and insights.
I found peace.
That is when I found peace.
The Insubstantial Past
I lagged behind.
I lagged behind in the horizon
Where the other one
Was running ahead of me
Along the parallel racecourse.
I was exhausted and wounded
Chasing after it.
Blood clotted and nerves strained
Abscessed, splanchnic damaged
And mental distress railed.
Did I become feeble and die?
If I were dead
I wouldn’t have been breathing
Here in this very present.
I was just lassoed and shackled
By the thoughts of lagging behind
Resuscitating, mourning and trying
To cure the kaleidoscopic vistas
Of the wounded time,
That was hovering around me
And that I was mulling over
Or to be exact the unreal,
Non-existing and insubstantial past
That was lesioned and already dead,
The moment presentism took place.