3 poems by Goirick B.

Chasing winter back to where it had started

 Early dry mornings will celebrate this end of seasons

End of lovers under halogen lights,
Evening mist, C R park streets, empty fields
No hawkers to brighten our dinners.

Hard to keep fighting without the ease of this chill
Hard to look good enough without a jacket
Hard to shine

Under this blazing sun.

The best poems were never written

I defy Eliot; February is the cruelest month
For each hour that passes now seems an hour less
Of my winter, an hour more of your Summer.

And flowers of all colours shall bloom
And this old city must wear a weary high
Spring springs out of this heat, this ruthlessness

That your Summers await
As if to suck every bit of our ability to worship sloth.

Two sisters

Two sisters sell tea, fried eggs and Maggi
By the end of the corner, opposite
IIT, to pay for their ailing mother.

Hands wrapped in cloth
to hide the burns, the oil they burn.
Two sisters at the end of all
pubs and cafes, rich employees, watch hungry drunks like me
Swallowing eggs, sipping tea, when time runs out.


Don’t Become

Don’t become the sand
Don’t become the sand
Where we end,
Become the water
Become the water, where we come from

Don’t become the cliched Halloween pumpkin stew
Become the grass, become
The fishbone, where we
Started from

Don’t become the winner
Don’t don’t be the winner that eats us all,
Become the summer
Become the Indian summer that stales them all.


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Goirick Brahmachari Written by:

Goirick Brahmachari works as a consultant in NIPFP, a research org in New Delhi. He hails from Silchar, Assam. His articles and poems have appeared in various dailies and literary magazines.

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