Poems by Nayanika Dey


Nayanika Dey


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 .






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 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.



The Denouement


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.



An Urge


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

Orchestrated symphony

Of the endless cavalcades

Of those reconvening,

Ebb and flow of

Aquamarine waves

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

Unpleasant sensations

And mental distress railed.


Did I become feeble and die?



I didn’t.


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.


~Nayanika Dey



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