By Goirick Brahmachari
The Winter Goddess of Kamrupa
I lose my grip
I fall asleep
like the evenings that fall
over the valley
over our faces
over your hill
as the river rolls
as blood drips from the neck of a goat.
And the holy chants echo through the stone.
Children go to school
some take birth
some jump into the river.
Some swim out, some disappear
others rotate in loop.
and resist the night,
helplessness pricks, only blood oozes out
For a fraction of a second at least
love is like that girl
who speaks like the snakes by the moonlight.
Like limbs floating in dead, black sea
like forgotten sentences,
gibberish before sex.
A million winters’ smile
Oh, she wears the cold, cold winds of coal
in her eyes.
I fail to recollect how it all started.
Many things that I have typed over the years, my follies and my ideals
Now rush back in.
A million images from my past attack
Gripping my throat
Leaving me empty.
One by one I lose both.
I lost my innocence a little later than my peers,
Lost the sense of taste, morality in love and relations,
Lost friends who mattered,
Lost my control over my self-destructive anger,
Lost my voice, clarity of my speech,
Gained and gathered ignorance.
Now, only a few songs remain.
You have endured my rage,
My unreasonable movements, my insanity.
My continuous losing, search for love that gradually erased every bit of love that was there in me,
You have endured my romance with failure, my body now wearier,
Erodes in islands, memory.
For years now, I see you silently breathing in my pain.
I choose to sit by the window of my winds
And let this winter night wash off my sanity.
Naked like truth it dawns onto us.
No cigarettes to warm us up.
No bodies to set us free.
I shiver to see my love for life wither away.
And I let myself go clean
Till there are not ragged walls to lean
On. For free.
Another drag, yet no remorse,
No comfort inside my throat,
Not an inch of difference, singularity.
My thoughts, now zip past a dead time-lapse.
No altered reality.
And so I try to rhyme aimlessly,
My last attempts at fighting this cold with uncertainty.
But when the crows come back home,
I lose my hope, my love for cold,
I too sometimes turn weary.
I have lost myself again.
A beautiful winter’s day quietly
Spreads its wings around me. Breeze,
Sunshine, thickening my worries over my ruined chest.
Every day I kill myself a little
Thinking about all my faults, my insecurities.
People I have lost, memories I have spoiled,
Screaming my disgust,
Abusing friends, amorous with strangers,
I collect my follies,
and count them later
when it rains.
Photo-credit: Adity Choudhury
Goirick Brahmachari is a writer based in New Delhi. He hails from Silchar, Assam.
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One Response to “Four Poems”
They all read like half-assed attempts to create something very beautiful.