A Dream’s Spine

I’ll write about you again.
As if I never have.

You know, I’ve been trying
To swim with just my hands,
Beating and battering the water all around,
Knowing that
My legs are tied.

My lungs have inhaled so much poison,
But I’ve been trying to breathe
Through the mouth,
Knowing that
My nose is clipped.

My hands are patchy
I tried to pick filth from water
I worked all day, all year,
Knowing that
My hands were bare.

I still dream of love,
When the voices are quiet;
And dream of day,
Endlessly on an endless night.

And I dream that
One day, when skins would
Crave for one another,
And will realise,
It’s all that was missing
Through all the meandering,
All our winning and losing,
None of which, now matters,
We’ll cry a little.
We’ll leave it to the skins
And stay absolutely quiet.

And like we haven’t in years,
We might sleep a little,
Trusting,
Closing the drenched eyes.

And when hammered back
By Reality’s tireless blows,
Torturing and testing
A dream’s spine–

I’ll write about you again.
As if I never have.

Sometime.

_____________________
Subham
Jan29
2018

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When They’re True

I can’t stop thinking about words,
And how they become
So much more.

And if you’ve been with them
Long enough,
It matters,
Even how they look.

There’s a right time for them.
They come like thoughts.
Like dreams.
And feel true.

Some, you will remember.
More than faces.
There are words that occur
Like events.

At the right time.
Or wrong.

Subham
Dec19
2017

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Unblighted

What about our melody?
Do you remember,
How it goes?
Do you know your way
Back to it?
Back to where we got stuck,
Back to me.

Will you be back for beginnings?

I’ve asked time to wait.
Hearts to be patient.
Pain to evanesce.

For you.
For the smile,
You wear in eyes.
For a love,
You weave in silence.
In innocence.

Remember us.

Remember.
We had serenaded.
In each other’s shade.

Subham
Nov25
2017

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Knowing Better

I am leagues behind,
In knowing about pits
I am in.
Have always been.

I am within,
It’s mostly dark here,
Because I’m in too deep.
You wouldn’t know.

So I wouldn’t.
Know what you do.
See what you see.
About me,
About a person,
This person.

Because I’m busy
In being me
I am not you.
I’m busy in my work.
Down here it’s mostly dark.

How do you do it?
Praise.
Where do you stand
That you praise.

Yourself.
By looking away.

How do I walk
How do I speak
How do I look
Strong or meek

How do I know
What you know.
And don’t tell,
And don’t reach out.

I’m deep.
Deep within.
Scrambling in the dark.
Pretending
That in here, there’s treasure.
That life is happy.

Who between us I trust?
Who knows better, without doubt?

You who don’t know what’s within,
Or I,
Who can’t ever get out.

Subham Basak
Nov19
2017

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In The Middle Of The Night

There’ll be moments
Fighting mortality,
Waiting for you, telling no one.
To no one
Shall cater the cries,
And the past
Shrieking into the silence
Of broken dreams,
Of broken strings,

Deep into time.
Deep into sands that swallow half-shells,
And half-memories,
Half-forgotten and half-alive,
Half-lost in hindsight.

Only to form again
In disjointed halves,
Raising its neck over the coming tide,
Before breaking again
Into a thousand parts,
Into an emptiness that’s cold,
That’s cruel,
That’ll hold;
Weeping and wailing,
Dreaming and disappearing.

There’ll be you,
Dreams of you,
Desires and despairs of you,
All that’s launched directionless,
All my heart could manage,
On faraway nights,
On nights long, long back,
That shall one day find their way to you.
All of me will find all of you.

And one day,
You’ll wake in the middle of the night.

______________________
Subham Basak
(January 2, 2017)

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Starry Night Sky and Girl Watercolor – Art Painting Print 8×10 by Heatherlee Chan | Lady

Stranded

I could tell you stories
About how a world gets buried.
How millions of them get perished
And converted. To one of rubble.

I could tell you stories
Of tears. Losing their worth.
Never given a chance to discover any.
Buried in eyes that aches of loss.

I could tell you stories
About toys. About the smell of childhood
That they carry. That are bargained
To sustain households daily turning more humble.

I could tell you about names.
About a few million tales
Set aside for them, names labelling each,
And each ending midway, each casually slain.

I could tell you about homes,
About the ghosts that haunt them,
About the darkness, despair, and delusions
They go through, inquisitional, as you abandon them.

I could tell you about
That famous winter fair
Of a village that lost all its kids.
I could tell you about
A last leaf, hating its green,
Stretching itself to the wind,
Craving for a cradle, awaiting death’s kiss.

Or

I could tell you about forced endings.
About how certain things simply end.
Without notice.
And ones that don’t, feel stranded.
Without practice.

___________________

Subham Basak
(December 16, 2016)

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Image credit: http://ahntify.com/the-intensely-visceral-images-of-naava/

Party of One

It falls out of place perhaps when you have had too much talk with yourself and suffering from a loneliness that can’t be peopled out. It is when thoughts turn into whirlwinds. Some mild, some loud. Some to glorify the essence of life, some enough to consider ending it. Thoughts are a bitch. Guiding everything. If I were inside of my brain, I was sure to throw up. But then, just prior to the point of exhaustion, just before submission and giving in, it all turns beautiful. Just like truth.

They are all around me. They have surrounded my helpless senses under the veil of refining them. They are playing games. They are spineless, little impostors. They are making me talk and walk, love and hate. They compel me to trust them, walk alongside them, ask them of preposterous unearthly favours.

I want her to love me back.

I want myself to be happy.

I want everything fair.

 

They are not enough to accompany me. They scream when it’s silent around the ears. In tedious, unflinching repetition:

What’s yours must be little, insufficient.

 

It’s as if I find myself sitting at the centre. Silent in the middle of a throbbing party. There’s music playing. Creating waves, lashing against the walls of dull stony cage. Waters that are warm. Thoughts that can dance.
And then, if not thoughts, what are you left with?

In flashes like those of a lighthouse upon a bleak expanse of waters, before the silent awake soul, it suddenly bemuses you by being beautiful. By glowing in a fearful radiance. Like it’s all true! Like one too can make an eternal party! Like the tears of happiness and sorrow, they all count (even the ones swallowed down)! Like the world is a faraway place, made of stone and wood with Life filling its holes, emanating a fragrance. Where nothing must make sense for everything to be of sense.

And we must be lonely.

Subham Basak

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ORIGINAL ARTWORK // Thoughts Leafing // 40 by dirissigmundsdottir

Night’s Way

Silences wait to be heard. To be read. To be plunged into, to get wet. They remain, and they appear. They change mundaneness into longings. Longings of reciprocation, of language, of an embrace just meant for you. You would find compositions in the air, in the fluttering breeze, conspiring to keep you awake to the magic and warm in the night. It is as if the day’s passengers have used up their space and passed by, leaving stories that haunt you, sounds that whisper to you, an existence that persists, as ripples left by an evening boat in the ocean that last the entire night.

Everything around, bathed in whitish celestial sacredness, stooped and sat in silent meditation, emanating communally a silence, ceremonious in parts, imperceptible by urban light in others. Trees, fences, mildly trembling waters, and roads writing the history of its dust. They all seemed touched upon by a higher sense of purpose, each dedicated in isolation, towards a common goal. The beauty of the night remains to be written. The composition must be perfect.

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