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. Three major poetry publications, “The Dead Funeral” (2012), “Carnival Birds” (2016), “Godzilla’s Own History” (2017) all are in Bengali. He has won the Sunil Gangopadhyay Memorial Krittitas Award for the year 2017 for his second book. His poetry has been published in major Bengali journals in India. His works has been translated in Turkish and English languages. 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.

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