Lockdown Poems IV


It drizzled for years
Till spring came

With shades of yellow
Each other’s childhood

Nightmares, memories
Escape routes 
Self-inflicted pain

Pleasant, ugly and 
Horror like

This seasoned body,
ageing soul,
had found a meaning

But, no sense prevails
to make sense.
I need some clarity now.


We enter the exit
On a Sunday night at half-past seven, trying to erase time
Unacknowledging, as if, the hills were never there
No freezing moonless lonesome nights; as if,
The bus never returned, and the coffee cups were all empty,
And we never lost the road back to where
We would eventually crash; as if,
The sounds weren’t played and the doorbells never were rang
Nothing was ever there. Nothing is never there.

So, I turned to my routine
Like many months ago
To delineate time.

Practising inability, inhaling reality,
Exhaling bitterness and rhyme
Do not practice love.
Stop breathing,

So I it goes on again,
Hallucinating, watching and washing excel sheets
Smoke breaks with elderly gentlemen from other offices –
Speaking about UN’s diplomatic impartial ways, fudged GDP
losing hair and nails when you work
With bureaucrats and secretaries. Fuzzy survey datasets, and how there is no Child labour in India – My ILO friend shares
With a face that is sarcastic as well as sad
So we will return to the routine, again
and I will follow the custom again until all my love within is gone
Old age has its constraints to perceive creativity aesthetics.
But from Bundesliga to UCL, transfer gossips, latest interactive games,¨C60Cto the dynamics of regional politics in Andhra and Odisha,¨C61Cwe discuss them over rounds of coffee and cigarettes.¨C62C

This seems familiar.
This seemed familiar.
This may seem familiar again.

Everything is welcome, as long as you have a cigarette.
Sometimes, even to gift one, which I particularly do not like.

Practice inhaling reality
Practice exhaling bitterness
Do not practice love.
Stop living.

Wake up; drink your black coffee with the first cigarette
Brush, take a shower, talk to the autowallah if they may please,
inculcate their smiles;
Reach office; come out with a cup of coffee, smoke
Hallucinate, watching excel sheets. Live.

Continuity is the key.
Everything, like life itself, becomes a habit.

How to erase memories

The short-lived once are the hardest
Comparing does not work
Whining is just me; fading out like time, evaporating
There is a thin line between possessiveness and the end
I examine the two ideas closely. Oversleeping,
is a good advice
Oh fuck, someone stop that filthy music, fuckers
Coffee makes you restless,
Work is slow, so are our movements.
Count your hours before we can converse again
Ultracet is helpful
Sometimes, Qutan
Sometimes, your memories.

This is the end

This inability to articulate a loss
Is the inability to write
A carnivorous numbness engulfs me
My mind and body are not in the sink
My feelings and diction have sundered
Should I rejoice everyone else’s ecstasy?
Or, should I rejoice this solitary existence,

This end of thought,
Meaninglessness death?

Goirick Brahmachari’s debut collection of poems, For the Love of Pork (Les Editions du Zaporogue, Denmark) won the Muse India – Satish Verma Young Writer Award (Poetry) 2016. He is also the winner of the Srinivas Rayaprol Poetry Prize, 2016. Other collections of verses by Brahmachari include joining the dots, 2016, Wet Radio and Other Poems, 2017 and A Broken Exit, 2019. He is currently working on two collaborative volume of verses titled The Nightwalkers along with Debarshi Mitra and Non Tribal/ Tribal with Avner Pariat. His poems and essays have appeared in various journals, magazines, blogs and pamphlets.