daipayan nair



Chemical reactions
in a woman
start from me
and I am all
that wants
to be seen.



One orange, peeled
into two moons
as I sit in-between
the sourness of a day
with a bite
of each
till the bitterness
has a closed eye
closes to its
as if it never wants
to wake again
except for a disbelief
a fake sweetness.



I don’t eat myself
any longer
except the first
and the last berry
in her night of
unseen forests
which she sees
being eaten
without sharing
and at times,
even by me
with stares and glares
as she can
no longer pride
herself, in being
the selfish unity
inside an innocent baby
and I am being
no different, but
just like her
but failing
in being her
as ‘the man’
has stopped eating
and is
dreadfully alive.



‘What kind of politics
do you love?’, you ask.
I hate the politics
that govern us
but not the one
running your country
where the Right
calls for the Left;
deserted and neglected fens
have their own welfares
and the urban wild
are the ones
most looked after.



I can’t feast
on dead eyes anymore.

The eye seller refuses
to leave the house gate
until the last bargain.

Two is the limit.
I will chop one, many times
or many in one time.

And the dead eyes,
they just don’t blink.

And what’s creepier,
they like staring at what’s
happening to them,

at a barbarity
enjoying it being rhythmic.

They just see it all.

I just can’t but eat,
at best pacing it up later
with my eyes closed

to devour.



Which erases itself
from a face is a nine,
an eight, a seven, a six
all down to a face
and it keeps on adding itself,
it’s still limited.



My footsteps leave behind
what’s forgotten
as I’m giving myself
into the stranger air
each second.

I stop, when
I don’t hear
the sweet whistle

I stop, when the air
has hands and legs.



Sunny’s Dad advised
I should open
the doors and windows
once I am alive.

An open window
is open enough to close itself.

Why fool
ourselves with a will;

running from a tendency?

The majestic night
on my window
will once more caw;

I will show, I feel irritated.

A tendency to flutter
when I am the only life
after death

among the dead,

I feel, are dead.



Satiating reflections
are in fact
sadistic ghost figures
without mirrors
clinging on
to one another
when all things
around burn.



I have written a few pages.

Each new page begins
with a life after death.

Life tries repeating itself.

Death still finds itself
where one understands it.

Death is still a story, a poem.



Those few black earthworms
on the footpath
wriggle into a few
dark street cracks.

They come out of a pit
where smaller pits
are absolute diversions.

The movement of a worm
is expansion

and the expansion
is always neglected
or kept in store till it hits

and slowly,
it continues unseen,
spreading, taking over
as dark, uncontrolled,
countless veins

and every time
the pandemonium has its veins
popping out of a quake,

the pit bubbles out a face
on grey foot soles,

happy, laughing,
teeth widened at none
but its own.

Quakes have one epicentre
Epicentre has many.



I find a few blue birds
on my windowsill.

The white petals at a distance
competing for
the position of cloud.

The bright neighbour panes claim
they can’t be peeked into

and if given a chance,
they would engulf all as a Sun.

And then,
a gloominess falls, engulfing all

as a face appears.



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