nivedita dey


The Dark Room of Eye

The cornea eyes a corner diffused

Orange glow of midnight bedside light

Life’s Penumbra incandescent in my heart

I capture it.

A strike a flare bursting the dark air

Crackling peach of yellow brought close

To light up the control held between my lips

I capture it.

Saffron serpentine sheets flowing down
My body still as mount Kailash as I observe

Dance of shades dark and light of my life

I capture it

That blue black spread endless nowhere

I assume No closer scientific God than this
A-dimensional antispace behind my eyelids
I capture it

Pitch dark descends. I, a firefly in surreal flight

Of fears unknown, psychedelic desires,

The canvas must repaint my next golden hour

I capture it.


Restricted Zone

And then one day

Faces suddenly stop talking

Names become common nouns

Mind hounds

Wagging a sniffer on a trail

Of sinister plots
Of loves gone awry, tales astray.

An eerie wait
For new grounds to now explode

Mangling carcasses of warped silences,

Shards of sooty eyes, fingers

Flying off in all directions – 


Any time soon!


Summer of ‘16

The Sun sprays fire through invisible nozzles

Down on earthy heads

As the ancient fan rotates

Above my meandering mind

Half-finished cup of tea cools into insipid a loss

Of appetite and desires

That I stare at with absent eyes

Wondering about God

Is he too feeling the heat?

Bamboos hold up newborn roofs before my eyes

It’s gods have gone on lunch

A tiny bird does hop skip jump

In a nearby field of reeds and swamp

Today the idlers too are gone

Turning their tanned backs

Upon the unforgiving Sun – giving

A godly respite

To the fry in the neighbouring pond

Their fins too fried 

Breathing liquid heat

They send up bubbled prayer beads

To some Fish-god of theirs I do not know

My lids laden with lead-weight

And lethal lethargy

I take one last mighty drag

To dispel with smoke the sweat

And swirl my hips out of bed

To stand under another nozzled sky

In transient effort to wash away

Only for a while

The prayer of passion beads
Breeding forever
In the fold of breasts, thighs
Teeming with sweetest tormenting life


Almond Delight

Almond –
The ‘l’ dropped
like a pebble dropping in the calm waters with a
Almond –
the ‘l’ dropped makes all the difference.
I repeat it to myself like a child
gladdened by a sudden delight.
Alomond – Almond – Almond

My mother used to tell me
I have lovely almond eyes.


What You Don’t Realize

Had I been your mirror

Or you just mine

Reflecting fury to

Cut glass perfection

Could be — legit as ascientific dilemma

Here and now

Infinite You lit

In me, infinite I

In You fail

All attempts at 

Closure unless we cut

The wire. Flip the switch,

Shall we?



An idiot box with red set in red

A smaller window 

To the world – a blaring blue

Her yellow handbag

She carries sunshine in everywhere 

To sprinkle some

A tint of branded Brown nevertheless

To cut out the Sun and

Judging glares

Mud shaded sheets soiled with 

Sleep and sleeplessness forever

Alternating Time

Crumbs of green orange cream on

Her plate to kill a more sane hunger

Amidst part chaotic part soothing

Blotches of matte and gloss the White 

Remains arid white unstained with

Inkish blue – her slice of night sky!


Horse’s Mouth

Ever since

The re-realization

Of the circus, the full-timer


Took off the cherry, washed the paint 

Left the ring


Sit back outside, in circle of spectators

Watch the comic monkey trapeze

Trap by trap

No, can’t clap

Gut does trapeze up the throat

Leave the scene to air it out a bit

Sometimes the looney blue moon brings one back 

To cast a wary glance at the spectacle
This macabre dance

More rarely to volunteer, don the dappled cap
Re-enter the ring, briskly pull up a stunt

Leave again

Back to the gallery as a silent spectator

Amused to death

Not at all amused

Here and now
A clown coulrophobic


On my Mind

On my mind

Penumbra, perforations, dragonfly, still waters, horizon,
photons bright, colours, blur, a ball

Time, Dali’s watch

Firewood in ashtray, Rising snakes, a supine snake

Distance, Parallel universes

Arches, bends, historic, stoic




Says who

Poetry always suffices

To wring white the soiled shrouds 

Around the human heart

Soaking wet with shades 


I know Passion

Too large to

Coin contentment
Transcontinent a spread
A joussaince a bleed
To contain within
Virgin rims costing some three bucks


Neo Atlantis

Temple bell tolls. Fugitives

Fall in line with brass bowls craving

For more than the last more.

Beggars sweat-wipe brows. Hand

Out a plea to in a penny from swipe 

Of cards delivering happiness galore.

Apples with red lips. Strut fast

The streets of my city of stone-chips stoned

On questions of sin with dual core.

Baby food in stalls. Newborn moms

Buy belly belts in flat malls standing 

Over a graveyard of grassy folklore.

Noise, virtual voice. The dead

Drown in poultices new, never enough 

Strong to headlong meet the ancient sore.

Eye watches. Sandy retreats

Forever quicksand of quickies trying to

Fix with cellotape this broken seashore.


Not a Romantic Poet – Or Am I?

Notion of The Romantic

E-vaporized – etherized into clouds

As seeds burst into mushroom gardens

In the Sun’s first-love land some mid-year

Spurious – teeming with corpses -

Now the notion itself is a ghost.

Dead eyes of the daffodils on a farm

Transfixed now upon another

Crowd in the holocaust field so fertile

Yellow splattered with Red

Cart wheels squelch in Red

Carrying the orphan bastard child 

Of War and Peace

Meanwhile – in the Lake District 

Dead bloated fish float up to the surface

In multitude.

I ask You 

What IS left

Of the Romantic? 

A leg wide open – a mouth too

Wide with greed to gore – hands

Fissured and sore – the eye

Turned red with

Pestilence of fear and fume

What more?

A night flight outside my window

Low humming-iron-bird drone

– Reminding me of iron and steel

Bent, broken, shards, splinters,


In so many worlds – and still

Soothing the childish ears – years

Gone by!

I imagine shades of skin, scents of

Varying oiled hair, clean shaven cheeks

Pretending hard to not care – to see

The next-aisle neighbourhood strange

Only – Life betrays this act

As the attendant bends a smile

“Sir, what would like to have?” – Warmth

Rebels, breaks out, piercing the cold facade

I smile upon my bed

How high and far can humans fake robotics?

That’s my leftover
Morse of the Romantic!



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