Scent of Women & Other Poems

The last line

Two consecutive lines of a poem
Always have an ego clash.
Who’ll seat beneath?
Who cares? No one wants to…
But one has to sit.
The succeeding line
Always wishes to die.
But who’ll let her free?
The poet consoles –
See, you’ve more lines to follow
So, what to worry?
Think about the last line…
She has none next
Except the vast blank space to share!

Men wrapped in newspaper

Men, wrapped in newspapers, are lying on the footpath. They’ve been soaked with blotting papers. Palms have been oiled. Come morning, the President will export them…to the North. They’ve less people. We’re more. In return, we’ll get oil, soap, salt, butter & whisky to drink! Besides, blotting papers, soaked with blood, are in high demand.

In the night, the melancholy boys of the city, drink heavily. They yawn, but don’t fall asleep. Who knows whose term’s next?  Just before the dawn, the police roam, with a mike, calling the names. Now everybody goes to sleep, ahhhhh…you’ve one more day to live!

And those others whose term has come, wrapped in papers, wait for the long voyage. In the dock, the dark sea roars with striking black water. The men can now feel – their country retreats, the President waving the flag, retreats. They can only feel. They can’t see as they’re wrapped. Moreover, in the President’s rule vision is prohibited!

Secret Radio

Got a secret radio room. Can hear every secret now. Like who visits the abandoned book store? Daily? To read all the old abandoned books? Whose pencil is blunt? Still father doesn’t buy one? Who rescues an armadillo in flood hit town…blah blah blah.

Normally I keep them secret, either under my pillow or in between my diary pages. Barring mother armadillo, she was worried for her child.

Nowadays, I’m addicted to it. All the time I look for other’s secret. I know I’ve gone mad. That’s my secret… indeed. The Radio just told me that.

Father’s tree

Finally sold my father to a tree. Simple job there.
Watering daily and manoeuvering often a while.

Under his new assign, father doing fine. Food,
Clothes are free, even lodging under the tree!
Forget fruits, flowers and oxygen, no one
Even counts them.

Sold my father to a tree. It’s a fashion now.
Everybody is doing. Under every tree,
A father’s living spree.  They never knew
What they sowed once, shall grow to a
Much more of a tree!


Scent of women

My lover can’t tolerate the scent of women. She says, they smell fishy.
She counts their heartbeat, as well. It’s her hobby. But women don’t
Allow that. They think, heartbeat is a private property.

My lover can’t tolerate the scent of women. Sometimes she wakes up in
The middle of her night. She smells woman. I wonder, now and then,
That she forgets – she herself is a women!

Godzilla’s own history (Not written by men)

Godzillas are vegetarian. Trust me, offered chicken lollipop,
They refused. Basically they’re freak, never killed even a fly
And you offered chicken! But since they’re framed as monsters
In Hollywood movies, they’re depressed.

In the Galapagos Island, sitting amidst sea waves, they’ve stopped
Taking food. Since last two days survived only on water, but still
Live in fear on men’s word -“Godzillas drink blood”.

Evening has arrived. Their hill sized shadows started shrinking.
Don’t you think they too have shrunk? Before the civilization?
Even Godzillas may have their own history! (Not always written by men).

About author

Abhijit Bera
Abhijit Bera 1 posts

Abhijit Bera is an Indian poet and writer. Two major poetry publications, “The Dead Funeral” (2012) and “Carnival Birds” (2016) both in Bengali. His poetry has been published in major Bengali journals in India. He has also made a short film titled “Pipe Dreamz” (2014). A graduate in Mechanical Engineering from National Institute Of Technology, Nagpur, India and presently works as a Civil Servant.

You might also like

3 Poems: Anirban chattopadhyay

Cylinder is kept at the dickey of the four-wheeler That is stockpiled narcotics; using it The four-wheeler enters a love-scene Moving lush green, scattered Sun on its way The Black

Kite & Other Poems: Bijoy Sankar Barman

An accomplished Assamese poet and translator, Bijoy Sankar Barman (b.1980) already has nine published books on different genres to his credit. The recipient of the prestigious Munin Barkataki Award in

This letter won’t be long…

“But we, by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.” – Chapter 10,

Ins and Outs & Other Poems

The first gardenia smells of fresh skin the second is naked body that sweats and drags itself between the sheets the rest I cut their throats so as not to

Paradelle on Love & Other Poems: Lyn Coffin

Lyn Coffin (born November 12, 1943) is an American poet, fiction writer, playwright, translator, non-fiction writer, editor. She has published fiction, poetry and non-fiction in over fifty quarterlies and small

Silver-tongued Goddess & Other poems

Expressions    My verses are born in the silence where Zebras play with their colts. After a long expedition, I’ve found a page marker, an intense negation and the shadow

Twin Peaks – David Lynch’s Unfinished Masterpiece: Riddhiman Basu

David Lynch as a filmmaker is acclaimed for his surrealist and often mind-bending cinema. The most celebrated among them are the films ‘Lost Highway’, ‘Mulholland Drive’ and ‘Inland Empire’, which

Resignation & Other Poems: Ángel Guinda

Ángel Guinda (Zaragoza, 1948) received the Premio de las Letras Argonesas in 2010. He is the author of poetry books Vida ávida, La llegada del mal tiempo, Biografia de la

Nostalgia and Other Poems

grief I stood there, awash with sand dunes I never visit one foot twisted inside of itself: coquette, doll-thing. my father’s words washed over me, this script my antique. I

The Chemistry-Lover who doesn’t have a Nuclear Sense

As we returned from the proposed nuclear power plant, we carried a pamphlet with us. When we reached back our village, the electricity had stopped. I ran to the room

The Rain and Other Poems: Shankha Ghosh

Shankha Ghosh (born 6 February 1932) is a Bengali poet and critic, born in Chandpur of present day Bangladesh. He is a leading authority on Rabindranath Tagore. Other than that,

Sikkimizing & Other Poems

The Dawn Half the globe is played by the children And the rest gem-studded on rich man’s hat A poultry befitting into this little earth where morning starts with a

Christmas & Other Poems

Birth of a feeling And the dogs groan … to make them satiate and sedate a night was made Intercourses, cold – to be performed crossing the greedy voyeurs of

Why Not A full Fledged One

I begin to offload. Not mere  clothes but  more . . . those  thoughts  hanging  about heavily. Stubbornly unmoving, intruding even now whilst I  am  trying to  cover this nakedness.

The Minimal & Infinite

Our time, habits & nuances have been changing rapidly since ‘90s. It started from 1991, through Manomohan Singh’s reform & liberalized economic policies .Then  it started with more sweeping changes

Ghazal for Goregaon & Other Poems

Alone When my friends left the country, one by one, I ate and drank and sang at their farewells, talking of how true friendships last across the tunnel of distance.

House With Legs & Other Paintings: Santanu Mitra

Santanu Mitra has obtained Bachelor of Visual Arts and Master Degree in Printmaking from Government college of Art  & Craft, Kolkata. His work has been exhibited in several Art Galleries

The Cadaverine Man & Other Poems: Rajosik Mitra

OUR WORLD She shone against the obsidian night, The great blackness of the sky.. Like a half moon, a light from beyond The known, and notions Of life that glue

Ostrich & Other Poems: Adrija Chakrabarti

WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN ME Not everything has a meaning I walked to nowhere today My feet touched a lost day’s dew My heart felt the thrill of speed


No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply