About the poet: Nikita Parik is a 22 year old poet from Calcutta, India. She holds a Bachelors degree in English and a Masters degree in Linguistics from the University of Calcutta. Her works have appeared in The Voices, Femficatio, TheCommonlineJournal,  Blackmail Press, Contemporary Literary Review India (CLRI), eFiction India, A Billion Stories, Ann Arbor Review: An International Journal Of Poetry, Open Road Review Literary Magazine, Shot Glass Journal,Aainanagar, and others.

Gaach tawla
On red-eyed university summers,
The broken Radhachura petals from
The lane overlooking Centenary building
Fly across guilty noonnaps, phosphenous blindness,
And their dull fated in-between-ness,
(Much like half-baked poems
scurrying in and out of consciousness),
Before being lulled by the passive joint fumes
Into drowsy summer dreams where
Their yellowness makes hot, hot love
To the sea of
yellow taxis and cheap second-hand bookcovers
outside dusty magical boi-er-dokaans.
On such passively pretty university summers,
When the world stands still,
I wonder If you will
say, twenty years hence,
That kalboishakh from years ago
when, at Maidan, we’d smoked one together
In turns (my first!)…
….(and the world had stood still).

October Doodles

Jotokkhon na ki the filtered October twilight Vapourises,
 Making way for a more corporeal, dhuno-smelling roddur,
One has lived a lifetime.
So, between you and me,
Between the constants and variables of life,
Between somnambulism and insomnia,
And SoftCurlCaresses, EarlGreyBlackTea,
Dhaak, dhunuchi, drizzledance,
Ei shei,
What is it that REALLY matters?
So the whirlwind of illusory time frames and pointless philosophies
And that memory from a dream
Of making love to Scar Tissue
Like the tangy-sweet after-taste
Of white wine on an ashtami bikel.

Phrase courtesy: EarlGreyBlackTea- Adarsh Yagnik.


So on no-heartbeat-days as these,
We’d just lie here,
Next to our aborted nothingness,
Watching their crimson corpses decay,
And bleedbleedbleed it out
In the name of creativity.
I secretly believe still
That rain has a memory,
And I are its memory mirror,
But the reflections are too obscure,
Too DISPARATE, you see,
To be strung together in words or images.
The verses we compose in our slumber
Make love to the ashes from yesterday’s cigarette,
Producing orgasms similar to the ones We experience
on watching thunder tear open
The heart of a kalboishakh sky :
With you, EVERYTHING is poetry,  see?  🙂

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