Notes from my Rented Room
I’m at my desk again, scribbling, dreaming—
of verses unreachable, of words unattainable.
Each day a mere repetition of the day before—
of what’s already been said and done.
Nothing is certain in this country, I write. Except
the masks, the batons, the towering lingam—
our sweet opium, except the myopic eyes
of jaundiced gods staring from dilapidated altars.
I write and delete the last stanza, an invisible thought
police breathing down my neck.
Dreams of a ballot box fester like an old
sore—the state-owned needle pricking its head,
letting the gangrenous pus of free speech drip—
down, down the rotting gutters of a fallen democracy.
The wound is clean, and verses run through my body,
boiling, buzzing, bickering—
they rush and seep into every pore, every cell—
uncalled/unadorned: not in the mood to leave.
I confess I don’t know a nation that doesn’t kill.
Between cooking and teleconferencing, I dream
of a world devoid of demented dreams—
I walk down the road in Dillibazar to meet
the poet who died some fifty years ago, my head
throbbing with questions: How did it feel to be
an artist in a country bereft of art? How did it feel to be
tread upon, to be shat on, forever and evermore?
Drenched in the slowly falling night & the gasping city
light, too afraid to disturb the sweet slumber of street dogs,
I stare vacantly at the crumbling facade of the poet’s
house that once housed the genius, who left the world
too bruised, too battered—the same feelings I have as I
scheme for my exodus from this ramshackle rented room.
Poetry by Bibek
Read 78 times
Written on 2021-04-29 at 18:04
Tags Monologue  Musings  Meditations
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)