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Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow, Poems from NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Eleven

Memories of a Casa de Hacienda, Cairoma

The mouth of a wound is a memory by N Sehar

18th August 1990's.

17:29 and the prime studio

publishes news of the internal

collapse- the Soviet Union.

A boy fourteen

kilometres away is born

again- a refugee.

The headlines list down

five reasons for it; specific

ones for disintegration

and the boy takes it all,

snorts and presses

it against the leather skin


Torn suitcases

makes for small

funeral events.

The fallen birds' corpses

on the farms, nestling-

chirps make for a good melody.

The pumpkins to harvest,

the burner yet to be cleaned.

Football net, Franks's diary.

The last words of Zelda-

a scene frozen,

a father dying,

the landscape,

Its texture-

a familiar ache.

The shape of the hands,

footstep and body-

the symmetry of leaving.

And along with it a wound;

and the mouth of it-

a memory.

24 February 2022.

A breeze hustles its way

through a man's hair-


settled near the Bay of Bengal.

The man,

portraiture of

built bricks

out of things broken,


adapting culture

and nuances and

its food habit.

Carrying similar

a legacy-

of a man

before him,

a man

before him;

the ancestors-

the dead elegies

of the liberation war,

semblance of the

poetic arc, the ugliness of


Broad chin, five and a half

inch tall,

reads three different


two in the language

of the Sahib's

forgotten, the state

and other

one in regional

preserving the essence of

each; it's gaucheness.

The Hindu,

Deccan Chronicle,


Burnt houses


quality of seeds,

hate speeches,

Manto, Kaminsky-

his love poems,

Russia's invasion

of Ukraine,

The past buried

in the backyard

and the corridor

reaping the fruit.

The mainstream media


the prime time

news of the fleeing republic-

disdained, almost sliced neat;

a Ukrainian boy raging towards


a wound similar with

its mouth head tilted, falling

wide open near the mouth.

And another wound

steadily crawls its way above

the man,

initiates to

spreads its skin

on him reading,

bulging head-

cracked open easily.

Known landscape.

A forbidden territory

and a language solely bitter.

Resembling an ache-


a known mother tongue;

Its texture.

A memory.

With a face,

a face strikingly familiar-

of a man before him,

a man before him.

Explosive Explorations of a Rogue Human by Mayukh Dutta

This restless city has been silent lately

Offering only alms to the dying, sleeping with dogs and death

However deep I might explore its roads

Hunger unites across homes, across the streets in an abyss of chaos.

Wherever I go, this release of unchained chaos takes over

Darkness in a cave where sound is an anomaly,

Like the universe where light is but isn't all

The screams of breathlessness unite the same, like voids in solid spaces -

Metaphors of sufferings in institutionalized existence.

I go to places with bustling activity

And I see the evenings of red skies

Like blood-stained clothes of slit throats

Blades of social conflicts slicing the other

In a lover's abode, the murderers reside.

These leave imprints on my shadowed skin

The cities and towns, where sufferings are alike

The heavy metallic chatter of bombarded urban centres

Often shrinking convictions like flies devouring fallen crumbs of sweets.

I remember my hometown as a port, a temporal existence in a temporary space

I remember the fields of paddy as a picture, a monochromatic masterpiece singing melodies of the plain painters involved,

I remember the monuments as dead members of a family, unremembered picture frames with generations growing up around

I remember the cities as centres of hope, where lives often collide with meteors of dust, ashes being the outcome.

These memories are parts of me:

My cells remembering every step taken in a foreign territory

And I, a part of these metaphors

For uniting with 'real' places and 'hiding' people often come with a tasteful thirst for blood,

Feeding on brokenness while romanticising the bitterness in catastrophic events of human sufferings

Transforming me into an animal, olfactory triggers remembering the scent of misery, of agony, of torment.

Therefore, wherever I go

Becomes a part of me, involuntarily.

And so I decide,

Begone are the trusted contracts signed with boundaries

Fallen are the walls of hesitant encounters with infant ideas

The accidents shall remain

The clashes shall continue

I shall be uprooted

I shall be reborn.

Lonely hands by Kanishka Shankar

the street flower vendors in my city have melancholy written in the creases of their palms

from 8 a.m. they sell stories and fresh flowers that leave their fragrance in cramped lanes and empty tourist bus seats

every evening, i stop to get gajra from a new place

the lady i bought gajra from today wrapped it in a newspaper that had a headline of workers injured due to the collapse of an under-construction building

her sharbati green bangles curved into a frail shade of hope and her paan stained smile didn’t falter as she handed over a piece of her heart to me like I was her own

tonight, i carry more than just the scent of gajras home.

the thing about lonely hands is

they leave stains on people you love

and for them to long for you in your presence

so that you never schedule I miss you’s for tomorrow

while you gently look at my hands knowingly,

i rip contemplation off my tongue

like a bandaid off a fresh wound

only this once, the ripping sounds like a roaring confession

it’s urgent, so much that it starts to spill over

but i patiently wait letting the pleas fluidly make themselves known to you

for there’s no holding back now.

wherever I go becomes a part of me somehow

i am running into closed spaces and sardonic poems

so often, that I start to become one myself

a prayer in the abandoned church I took shelter in,

the vendor whose resentment towards fate stained me

and a flower tucked behind your hair when you were the happiest

today the clouds carry school bags filled with heavy grays

the static between our bodies is declared dead on arrival

yet we crawl into our unmade bed to make mundane love

counting the little freckles on your nose and memorizing a grocery list for our famishing hearts.


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