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Where are the surviving poems hiding (Poems by Abhijeet Singh)

August Sonnets


this room is smitten by agalloch

nothing placed above me except loneliness

nothing is untouched by the body

fever rises as the leaves keep falling

rains and their fury-dance

walls have seen art of a child

now dead and gone between lost worlds

of my agility and my ignorance

in my grandmother's house of intimidation

silence milks the men on sofa

woman is always a butter, always a bread

my hands are dictated by habit

my eyes follow the memory-calendar

I have known myself to be a woman: I'm eaten


I'm eaten by dear insects of affection

in the glycerine hour of the day, a want

desire is weak in the knees forever and always

no one knows the cure for such deaths

those that are essential and ritual

ritualist sits and reads and smokes

whereas, windows in this chocolate block

and fingers as harmless as the nostalgia

are my inventories for the remaining day

I have never cared for any death, but poem's

in such seasons of rage and rage and cages

are on the hunt for those who sing

where are the surviving poems hiding

where do they go and sing, is my thing


my thing dangled like the seven'o'clock

by three a.m. fights were settled

love was brought in, politics pacified

whole bed was like an iceberg

tilted to the side of water, as usual

sea calls by the name and sand rises

now there's nothing to see but window

every picture in this roll was a negative

somehow cinema always remains a draft

one character is always on a journey

one story is a story of grief and unchanged

one can always be happy watching television

there's nothing much to do with a remote

when you can change the channel, you do


you do not see the end to this madness

neither do I. we have had conversations

everyone is reading faiz. anger is regular diary-entry

writers are being manufactured like leaders

world is all about looking decent

that we are good at and done with

will you drink a cup of tea? yes please

then we can talk about some news

maybe laugh after few awkward pauses

touch hands and bite lips and click tongues

someone might be dying somewhere, true

but sanity is also something to be kept in check

are we walking over someone's corpse?

yes, but let's write a poem about it

The bedtime funeral but a love poem

the green lawn

is my shadow

against which the moist night

hoists the moon

exploits the room in which we sleep

trespasses our nakedness

our bare hands are holding:

moonlight by the window

moonlight by the lingo of our

intimate air

and moonlight of the limbo

between our brains:

a Dali paints


my death in your mouth.

banal sounds

around our fleeting whispers

an ellipsis, an exclamation, an idea

of a colon

a question mark that is

all nibbling is a call

all fidgeting is a call

all mumbling is a call

that when you move this eye

to that place

that place moves to me




all the places we go to sit

are standing in a long queue

to buy a few more pictures

to get a few more senses

other than the five

the sixth we share

the seventh we wish

we did

but shit

you purse your lips.

tomorrow a grave will wake up

tomorrow few tears will fall

tomorrow this tree will turn to me

tomorrow it will say: I owe you a leaf

tomorrow a stranger will know

they are not a stranger

tomorrow I won't be here

to see this happening

but as it happens

play me a ghazal

shift this bed to the terrace

let it rot in the monsoon

let my books suffer the hands

they will move to

let them miss our rendezvous

play me a fire

burn the curtains first

burn the shirts next

put in some perfume

our favorite

decide the color to wear for the funeral march

decide what rains would prefer

tonight is the night when we do this

this love is not final

but the fifth act has arrived

the clowns are out of hands

the rivals are understating themselves

the queens are dying on their own

just as they lived

just as they loved

we are undressing hastily


as we do

the clumsy climax is a tad bit late

but here now

here now



pants come off

the lipstick

the only red I cannot bear any more

the bras

that were never there

the hesitation

ah yes

this whore is a menace

but our mother

dear mother

insistent fingers





we knew not to exist

pains out of a cube

where Picasso kills

where he is nothing but an abuser

windows are as cold as this closure

I say

I want you

you are reading this

in a tomorrow:

I have turned into a kiss



Half of the World is Asleep⁣

⁣to Sujatha Pillai

I'll never sleep⁣

because the final dream⁣

never arrives⁣

I have to stand at the door⁣

I have to stare deep⁣

in the streets⁣

in the faces⁣

brewing ⁣



I have to look for it⁣

the sudden urge⁣

that will become my poem⁣

when nothing volunteers⁣

to jump⁣

to pull ⁣

the first trigger in the only⁣

heart that is cruel⁣

𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦⁣

I will⁣

I have to be here⁣

till then⁣

looking out for places where ⁣

moon hid when clouds left⁣

where sea slept silent⁣

where a tree undresses⁣

another tree⁣

and green happens⁣

where blue of our bare chest sky⁣

kisses the yellows of our⁣


and mama's saree wipes ⁣

the leftovers⁣

on lips⁣

on cheeks ⁣

on territories of father's manhood⁣

there I have to document⁣

a photograph⁣

to show my daughter⁣

not to be in that kitchen⁣

not to cater the territory⁣

not to let her father⁣

become anything⁣

that brings it⁣

i have to put an eye⁣

in a book⁣

like a flower⁣

to smell like the city I grew up in⁣

in visuals, i want it to⁣

remind me of baby rebellions⁣

I was part of⁣

to remember what was fear⁣

in my country⁣

what it looked like⁣

to remember and not to forget⁣

when I open those pages⁣

𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦⁣

my new room⁣

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸⁣

what died in the debris of⁣

𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦⁣

my old room⁣

I cannot sleep⁣

because there's yet another poem⁣

and another and other⁣

waiting for a taxi⁣

on the darkest corner⁣

where no public officer cared to put⁣

a lampost⁣

I have to be there⁣

not with a taxi⁣

but a sun⁣

that sets not⁣

because the final night⁣

never arrives⁣

because the final poem⁣

is only the first⁣


Abhijeet Singh lives in Lucknow and considers Love as the only source of poetry-writing.

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