Volume 4 Issue 2, June 2020
Special Issue for Indian Poetry

Mrittika Das

The Sea Vault

The sea vault heartbreak,
tears down to his beloved.
The thunder of drizzling love
maddens my saddened soul- 
The earth wet beneath my feet
is the witness of lone presence,
virgin mother of lost souls.
The sea vault heartbreak 
arises the gust of sad yesterdays,
anxiety of tomorrows 
in the aching now; 
the fragrance of petrichor flashes 
the blurred image of a tree in my mind 
bloomed full of jasmines-
Where I hold my father's hand,
walking with him to school
thinking the end of its last hour
which shall take me home again
where the squirrels, 
the redness of bougainvillea  

has had trembled for my sight.



Someone Wants to Speak

But there are wires stuck in my throat.
I cannot untangle them,
And vomit forth to speak.

The tremor of his absence which passes down my heart 
to my stomach makes me sick
making my lips shattered. 
Eyes feel better mourning than reaching out to kohl.

My body feels nice 
lying over the bed. 

But my hollow does not crave you- 
I cannot fill you up in my hollow 
and name it love. 
I have grown probably into someone humane.

Now, when someone wants to speak 
goes through a lot of my stormy silence.

But trust me,
that's less cruel.




A Sketch

You are a sketch, 
drawn and hidden away
inside a book 
in the shelf
no one reads, 
moulded in the dust.
I open it 
in perplexity, 
when windows and 
doors are closed, 
all deep asleep and 
I morbid awake;
as I turn the leaves 
your face appears 
like a sudden pearl 
inside an oyster. 
Waves rise 
as huge as mountains 
in your eyes, 
it drenches me 
entirely, your voice 
reaches me, 
with your lips stiff, 
your bearded face, 
makes me remember 
someone unknown 
with his unacceptable 
You are a sketch,
drawn and hidden away
inside a book 
in me, 
deep, forever, 
which no one reads.








You are the poem of my Bindi 

I am the story in the folds of your Hijab. 

You are more of me,   

I am more of you.        

In a world where they are wrecking homes,  

we are trying to mend each other hard.         

All the threads of despair,  

we thought beyond repair     

were stretching out their hands to entangle 

And when we shall meet again- 

will embroider itself with care,  

flaunting bond over and over again.







About the poet

Mrittika Das is an English hons graduate from St Paul's College, Kolkata. She is an aspiring poet and writer pursuing higher studies.

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Published by The Alternative.