When I space out
I’m not in lala land.

I’m in the depths of hell
Drowning alone.

I’m not skipping amongst flowers
With a lover holding my hand.

I’m alone suffering my self inflicted pain.
Even if I’m surrounded by my people.

So don’t wave your hand in front of my face.
And make me pretend to be happy with you.

Just let me suffer alone.

Once upon a time
a father with his belt –
(with black shiny paint
and a steel which is melt)

And a son, a pen in his hand
A book by his side
A lamp blowing light
Tears in his eyes
The fear in his veins
With his wimped tiny mole

(A cry in his neck and
a gulp in his bones)

Whimp whimp strikes the ground
Wipes the tears,picks up his pen
Shakes up his head,
Gives him a cloth,
to blow up his nose

(A smile on the boy's face
The fallen tear on the page's lace
It dried his shake on hand and
moved him a pace)

Whimp, whimp, whimp – strikes again
(A posed fear on son's face)
Whimp, and he strikes again
(The clueless child, shakes with his pain )

The blats on the floor
and its black remains
The years of slaps
which slashed up cement

(He comes back..
drops his belt   )

A relief in boy's breath

The steel fallen,
relief is felt

The father with his red hands
(Blood flows out at a spot's end )
Smiles at the son

Dark is his eyes like year's repent

(A strung in his mind
He shakes only once,
As he picks up his belt)

He sits on his couch and
acts as he had a father –
with a belt-
(with its black shiny paint and
a steel which is melt.)

You left our bed at morning’s sigh,
A fleeting kiss, a soft goodbye.
The stars still clung to dawn’s sky,
Now tears and time just linger by.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

The bangles hum your name till dawn,
The shadows sway, their light withdrawn.
My soul’s a flame, its spark long gone,
Your absence weaves my fears till morn.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

The sheets still hold your fading warmth,
But cold winds chant a lonesome storm.
My heart, once full, now frays, forlorn,
Each clock’s slow tick a wound reborn.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

No message comes, no whispered word,
No echo from that town unheard.
My wedding joy, now grief’s own bird,
This bridal bloom, once bright, now blurred.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.  

I light the lamp, I breathe your name,
The night returns with wind and flame.
Alone, I bear a wife’s soft shame,
Yet in my heart, you’re still the same.
Come back, my love, don’t leave me crying.



© Susanta Pattnayak

She dreams, no more.
The rise and the fall of the waves,
the dancing of the breeze,
the symphony of the wind,
the colors of the seasons,
the twilight, moonlit nights
all cease in smoke
under the suffocating arms of
some demonic beast
who ruptures her to dust.

She dreams no more.
Dreams have gathered dust
also a thick coat of rust.
Blurry in her mind, the day,
when she was caged
her voice was squashed
her wings were clipped
and was passed from hand to hand
for mere amusement and joy.

She dreams of
her mother, her father
in the darkness of
night, every night...
Spreading their hands from heaven
the two bright little stars
wait, twinkling for her
night after night, every night.

She dreams of
the strengths of the invincible
the powers of the inaccessible
to annihilate the brutality
and rest beside her mother
eternally till eternity.

Dear Diary

                     It’s not my fault

It’s easy to render
Myself a victim
Driven by consequence
                                    
Accountability
Sheds daily
                    Like skin
It silently falls

Perhaps I shall erase
My cuttings of
                    Foregone conclusions

They surround a
Diary full of days
Each encircled
                    By failure of others

maybe i lay in the dirt because it’s closer to everything i’ve ever lost. grief is such a terrible thing. i don’t mind choking on it.