A Woman Never Sleeps Before She Dies

poems on our dead world

kousik Adhikari: A Woman Never Sleeps Before She Dies
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Verlag: BookRix
Sprache: Englisch
Seiten: 11 (Druckfassung)
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What is poetry? Poetry is wish, it is prayer and it is life. This collection includes poems mainly on the salts of life and if there are some sugar coats that often vanish when the life becomes on And ultimately if it is possible why life is called life and if not why love is called love.




Night at Balasore


                           The night at her fashion-less wedding 

                           On the nude streets of Balasore, 

                           Beggars hunting sleep 

                           After day's wrecks, 

                           Trees luckless at their 

                           Mid-widow life, yearns 

                           For a rainy day's dance- 

                           Men with their salted tragedy 

                           Glancing women, 

                           Women meaning grammar 

                           At their heyday, wearing roses, 

                           God forbids sleep. 

                           Only the Dark perching 

                           On the top of tree 

                           Washing hands till 

                           The tinge of blood out 

                           Or washed, 

                           Shrill cry of street girl 

                           Heard, hunger strikes 

                           Empty breasts, abdomen at once 

                           With both his hands of thorns 

                           Till the night grows green, 

                           Till Dark's washing finishes 

                           We can speak about 

                           Avenues, roses or 

                           Empty smiles' nude parade. 


 Note-Balasore is a small Indian city in Orissa, reputed for its culture. 




The Octopus


Now she sleeps like the last octopus of this yellow sea Who wished to cling to earth,

Perfect sad, perfect white face mirrors the soot-ceiling,

Hip dismount thighs from worlds,

Who could discern different years, lying cold, dull before those peaks?

She sleeps when the idea of woman; stretched, stretched and torn,

Now the entire Milky Way shall sing ballad of stars, lullaby.

Only no sleep will descend, no sleep will come out Of the churned metamorphic sea;

A woman never sleeps before she dies.

A dustbin is not a dustbin before it's stuffed and stuffed and spill.

Now the sea can doze a little before hunting a new octopus?

(written after reading a news of an infant female child raped on December, 2015)- excerpts from the book