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

Deed of Gift: Amar Mitra

Deed of Gift (drafted by Sahebmari Baske) Beneficiary: Sahebmari Baske, s/o late Muchiram Baske, race Santhal, Indian in an extended sense, address Mouza Sonarimara, in other words, the Indian republic.

Firdaus: Mukta Singh Zocchi

Grass grows, birds hop around and fly again, waves smash their heads on the shore, then dissipate. I have my sponges. I will watch them as they grow and die, then

The night train through Simultala: Vineet Iqbal Singh

I would start scavenging the house looking for the ancient, weather-bitten, faithful rucksack – signaling the end of my summer vacations. My itinerary would be in public domain – a

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

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

Krakow, Poland: Swagata Basu Pajor

The first thing that you notice upon landing on Krakow’s John Paul II International airport is the crisp fresh air. The drive down to Nowy Sacz is truly a sight

Diaspora, Critical Theories, and Death of Language: Ahmed Shams’ analysis

Avik Gangopadhyay has both critical and creative writings to his credit published in esteemed journals and leading newspapers. A post-Graduate in English Language and Literature from Jadavpur University, Kolkata. He

The Lobster, Yorgos Lanthimos’ latest masterpiece

« I’m sure that there are people who really like what we do and others who don’t[…] I just think it is interesting to start a dialogue », Yorgos Lanthimos, leading figure

Sonauncle’s Home

A cycle was approaching on this late autumn afternoon. – Jugalchandra was sitting on the top tube with his legs dangling, the thin wind touching his eyebrows, hairs protruding from

An Ambivalent Text: Chayan Samaddar

I heard that Children’s Literature was ’Impossible’, I heard it was an amorphous entity, I heard that there was no readily definable body of Children’s Literature any more than there

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,

For the Fragrance of Puran Poli & Other Poems: Ravi Korde

Name : RAVI LAXMIKANT KORDE. Born on 14th Jan. 1979.  Place: Jalgav Mete,  Aurangabad District, (MAHARASHTRA). Completed Masters Degree in English Literature. Poetry Collection in Marathi entitled ‘Dhoosar Zale Naste

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.

Bon Appétit

I rose stiffly as he entered the dining room – noisily, laboriously – and plodded towards the table where I was seated. I had been dreading this lunch, but once

Freedom, I Cry & Other Poems

everyone thinks they used to be happier thump thump you wake up to the sound of your heart pounding against your ribs anxious to go back back to the day

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

Chronicle of a Horse: Part II

Amar Mitra won the Sahitya Akademi award in 2006 for his novel Dhruva Putra. He also won the Katha award for short story in 1998. Aswacharit – Chronicle of a


1 por la precisión supe que el tiro vino de dentro **** for accuracy I knew the shot came from inside 2 me oculto en la rutina   sonrío    reparto tarjetas

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


No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply