Throne of a Sinking Mind & Other Poems



Embryo of death will bloom


I am being lost like a madman

Observe my struggle

Month of March is lagging behind this journey


These rocks define relationship

Reasons form cloud

This is fashion, some people point out


Your model is in front of me

My pores in front of you

Innocence is being naked gradually


The things that are seen in the sidewalk

Are called writings



From the Other Star

Comes to facebook from another star. Loses the ring in a proper place.

The fish of the surface level. Its reasonings are like water. Cliché’s candidates initiate teak wood forest here and there. When fever severs its crust, bring him some newer panic. Tell him that there’s no compassion of insurance for his bridges. Days of gentle explanations are now gone. The mists haven’t become urban even by plentiful physics

Using the Demon of the Lamp



Has been lost in such a way that you cannot forget those exclamatory marks.

The memorizings cannot be removed off the skin. From the sixty-four types.

Came budding biology. Hope came. Sunshine’s embroidery came on the proper planters. Even his mirror shattered by good-byes. He will withdraw his name from his future. He kills his letters by using the demon of the lamp. Prepares mind and demeans farewell

Around My Body


Around my body

Close to the door

The baritone of a singer loiters

I sense a mild smell

Something is being rotten somewhere

I couldn’t sense the fear of it

Somewhere in someone’s heart

my past-present-future is boiling up

Fear’s conscience tells me to go to dim light

Tells me, you have been living so long

as a memory of someone else

So long like a human being on the earth


I see, my organs are fear

My colour slips off in the group photograph

I see, I’ve gone for a mild walk

In front of the mirror

I cannot look into my eyes



I too observe people

Accommodate my body within the shadows

I see markets like people

Excite my furs


Various hunger in various woods

The outcry of trees

swings lantern


How many places

In faces how many would I belong to

How much shadow of the shadows would I become

In many a brotherly tales

I lived stealthily and became a hero at last



I am mainly the weather

Live in your homes

And surprise you

The New Skin

Writing’s dying

And I’ve got sap and became afar and rainful and reigned like a blossom

Its virgin neighing

Thrusts stuff into my throat

Its drying jelly

Has already told me to go away

Don’t engage your hands in bad jokes like waiting


Actually, the pre-history has not been ceased yet

As if I have got a new skin on the Christmas day

I start newer ages by wearing it

Writing has been losing its ambience

Since some previous life

After all this, I think, that ancient and dying writing

Will engulf this writing with its last tentacles

Will tear apart the lively muscles of this writing with harpoon


I won’t mind these wounds

I am another person- this kind of woods

I will hoist around myself



Gradually become human


Fever of coziness fades out. And the railway platform turns lonely

The army of a flute brings numbness to the eyes

This acid of illustration

Reveals the lies of the landscape

Now there is a doctor found in an old cinema hall

who opens up the door of blessings

As if there is no danger if you stay near the fairies

The light of your inner home will burn with other’s fuel

Chemistry of a concept held its ground

Although nobody knocks the exam door of other people

Only, they light up the flame of whisper

Signal moves within the ribs


He posts letters to himself

He appoints a detective in his own name




O, wander path

I cannot bear this reticence anymore

This walk and those rocks are true only

The road that isn’t touched by sun

has been ancient like a civilization

Inside the breaches of those rocks, in its fertile soil

I want to be elevated by entering into and standing upon

I want amongst those coniferous trees

the lifespan of the eternal pines

Inside the dead cloaks

I have been leaving by bodies one after one

As soon as the turning of the face

The wood and rocks of other preoccupations are being burnt


I have been writing many days since

Nobody can identify them as poems anymore

About author

Animikh Patra
Animikh Patra 1 posts

Essentially a poet. Fictional and Non-fictional prose writer. Occasional translator. Birthday: 16 March, 1983 Education: M.A. in English Literature ( Calcutta University ) Profession: Teacher Publications: Three books of poems: Patanmoner Kursi (2016), Kono Ekta Naam(2013), Jatadur Boidho Boli (2009) Contact:

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