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

Suchismita Ghoshal

Depression

 

The effort you put to wake up from

A Forlorn sleep is going in vain.

Depression holds you back from behind,

Leaving your eyes blur and blind.

 

You leave no efforts undone 

To prevent depression slither by your blanket, 

But it shows you the icy street of frozen blood

And your silent sobs sharpen its strength.

 

Slaughtered mood, devastated mind, 

Starved belly and horrible traumas 

Concoct your life with crotchetiness. 

You restlessly ask for peace but there's no relief.

 

You loiter in your self-isolated world; 

No friends, no colleagues, no family members 

Are allowed to break the boundary 

Of your self-made gloomy barricade. 

 

If you are efforting enough, please take out your time 

And let's not waste the efforts in blaming your soul. 

Depression is unpredictable but not inevitable. 

Breathe, meditate, practice self-love and drive it away. 

 

There is an open sky, vibrant like the lapis-lazuli, 

Ready with its open arms to embrace you and 

Kiss you with the sparks of the healing stars. 

Stretch your arms, inhale the love and bid adieu to depression.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All I Did with Freedom

 

Freedom is similar to the flowing water, 

a beautiful amalgamation of the hydrogen and oxygen. 

Nobody ever dares to prevent it flowing. 

Freedom is the gentle torture, 

an inch more can choke your breathe 

and an inch less can belittle you. 

Freedom is like the summer sun 

The sharper it gets, the more you screech. 

But today the world before me 

seems to lose the lustre of it, 

and I don't stop the shit entering into me. 

Freedom of speech- a distant dream. 

I sucked into it every time. 

The first time was when I learnt 

to stop my tongue running 

against my puritanical father, 

the second time when I saw my 

mother shattered into the floor 

and I didn't let my words come out 

of a mouth, bandaged, 

the third time when I let my teachers 

not to know the true reason for my chronic absence, 

the fourth time when I willingly let my lover abuse 

me for the way I dress myself, 

the fifth time when I chose to run 

from the bullies rather than speaking up on the spot, 

the sixth time when I saw my best friend 

alleged me against a contagious reason 

of snatching his boyfriend and all I did was 

to offer her a 'freedom of speech', 

the seventh time when I let my scream 

stuck in the pillow for my voice tasted bitter 

at the vulnerable hours of night, 

the eighth time when I crumpled the paper 

in which I drew a woman resembling 

just like me with all the bittersweet flaws, 

the ninth time when I almost 

sucked my depression against my will 

to provoke my anxiety for a dangerous 

torment to almost death, 

and the tenth time when I wrote this poem 

freeing my thoughts on how I let the 

'freedom of speech' chop my wings 

for the 'freedom of living', 

part by part, day by day!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I Look Back

 

When I look back to

The past days of my life,

I see my childhood waits

In the last of a crowded row

Wading between nostalgia

And stammering innocence

With the flowers scenting memories.

I look back to the past days

Of my life when I was

A six winter old toddler,

Grabbling the vials of chocolate

Milkshake to dip in my childish tongue

And weaving warm stories

Under the blanket of December love.

I look back to the past days

Of my life when stars sipped

My aura to scintillate more

And the moon being my

Best friend ever bridged

The friendship with my heart.

I look back to the past days

Of my life when a ten-year-old

Innocently immature me fleeted joyously

In a merry-go-round wearing

Pink frock in the fair.

I look back to the past days

Of my life when muddy-feet

In a rain-drenched day were

My best ever game to play

On the pavement of my house.

I look back to the past days

Of my life when swinging back and forth

In a children park felt like a dream

Of touching the sky accomplished.

 

And this is the way I look back

To touch my memories and rub

My chest against their happiness.

But all they do is disappear like

A wilted flower in a forlorn garden

Tarnishing my soul to be a vacant one

In the blanketed verandah with darkness.

I disappear, disappear in my young body

Like a lost magician in his own show.

I scuff with an exhausted pair of feet

And my soul bids adieu until the next meet.

 

 

 

 

The Embarrassment and the Rain 

 

The embarrassment of first kiss

under the influence of Shakespeare's summer

perched for a lucid and languid stream line of rain.

How I wish my first rain would definitely

be smothered with the lips smashing

against a beautiful girl,

but it went opposite as raindrops betrayed

and summer benevolently approached.

I had met the girl in a rainy day

carrying an umbrella, unfolding her harnessed beauty

in a red top and skinny jeans that surpassed

the charm of crystal droplets of rain,

and she flaunted her sleek body.

Embarrassed me, felt the rush of adrenaline,

pinching my skin to wake up

from the massacre of sweet sixteen,

blushed like a baby strawberry

and completely blank about

the future fragility of something

everyone called love cherishingly.

Embarrassment has the numerous hashtag of moments;

I procrastinate to go back when

I luckily reached to her hands, decreased

the distance from an unknown to a very known.

I proceeded to the beautiful tufts of hair,

caressing her waist with the warmth of my fingers,

my heart poured honey to my veins

sucking from her lips

and suddenly it rained,

drenched hearts, soaked under the shield

of a locked house and we stood completely embarrassed.

Embarrassed in the sweetness of love,

the indolence of rain, and the paranoia of stealing moments.

The perfect rain kiss, it sat

with its complete entity in my mind

until and unless she took me blindfolded

beside the edge of a canal, called 'loneliness'

and burnt me in the blaze of 'pain',

my burnt ashes didn't even bid adieu to her face

as she tied the black piece of cloth to my eyes;

and again an utmost moment of heartbreak,

desolation and crushed embarrassment.

The moment of her departure

also witnessed a caricature of stormy rain,

both from nature and my eyes

as nature couldn't anymore hold the treachery

and I couldn't live in the tyranny of repentance.

Proceeding further one after another

from the rotten smell of petrichor

to wicked look of the monsoon rainbow

that's flawless in showing hoax tints of 7 colours,

I discovered an entirely insipid monsoon

full of bogus embarrassment in loss only.

I sit to measure how much fraudulent preyed me

as she came as a large box of surprise,

and the box I kept on dismantling

in front of my mates one by one,

tearing cellophanes in a curiosity to know the depth

and then a matchbox full of poison came out,

a moment of thunder laughs caught in my utter embarrassment again.

I kept on wailing, engulfing my face

in between my knees in an empty classroom

where I saw God bestowed me the devastating rain

to appease my rage, my tongue, my throat

and my lips at last that couldn't forget the taste of her warm lips.

My entire life shaping into a world of embarrassment

rectifying me from the allegations of rain.

Sigh, I heave a sigh of relief,

keeping my feet to the ground of earth

and escaping my love in supreme belief.

 

 

 

 

Things I Have Stolen Proudly

 

The very first ray of sun

that God bestowed upon me

willingly crawled to my face

and I locked it stealthily in my heart.

 

I touched the tip of my tongue

that still tasted same like the last time

I stole the appetizing foods from

maa's eden like kitchen.

 

Depression was the withered flower that gulped

the poison of socrates once and cramming

nectars from the nebulous sky aftermath, galloping to touch me and I unwillingly stole every ounce of it.

 

I've proudly stolen the coziness

of the woollen sweaters that my mother

knitted against my pressed chest on a distressed

night where my bedsheet failed to sheath me with comfort.

 

The happy arms of my lover, sheathed with

the insurmountable healing on a rainy day

which saw more droplets in the sky of my eyes

and I stole the embrace to paste an eternity to my soul.

 

The exhilaration of my realm tintinnabulates

the frivolous yet heartfelt memories of my theft.

Now that I emerge as a fruit of those reminiscence,

I slowly plant the pride fuming the smoke of light.

 

 

 

 

Healing Process

 

And I was nothing but a lost dreamer,

Dreamer who forgot her ways,

Ways that had no definite end,

End led me to the passionate love,

Love started with an emerging hope

Hope always reflected his picture,

Picture was as clear as the blue sky,

Sky painted the turquoise reflection of his face,

Face reminded me to embrace him tight,

Tight so that he could never leave me,

Me was an ultimate fool,

Fool that my mind sprouted new dreams,

Dreams were badly shattered,

Shattered as they had no roots,

Roots always made me remember my wrong choice,

Choice lacked the quality to judge,

Judge which I could never learn,

Learn that my body wanted me to rest,

Rest for a long incessant journey of life,

Life gave me a second chance,

Chance that I didn't miss this time,

Time was now in favour of me,

Me who was slowly learning to heal,

Heal for a better tomorrow,

Tomorrow will definitely not preserve sad memories,

Memories will only sing the happy lullabies,

Lullabies will take me to my dreamland,

Dreamland will store unending bliss,

Bliss will show me the path of success and love,

Love will remain for eternity.

 

 

 

 

About the poet

Co-authoring for more than 150 anthologies, journals & magazines, both from national and international arenas, Suchismita Ghoshal from Malda, West Bengal dreams high to achieve the heights keeping her feet to the ground. Being a science graduate, currently majoring in Political Science and pursuing diploma in Media Science and Mass Communication, she also works as a social activist for a Govt. Registered NGO "Prayas Welfare Society”. Suchismita is a poet, professional writer, scribbler, professional book critic, storyteller, columnist, copy-editor at Notion Press Publishing, content writer, creative writing professional, nature lover and a change agent and a position holder as Global Ambassadors' Coordinator for Global Youth Leaders Network. She has been a member of many international writing communities. Suchismita also aims to heal people with the majesty of her words. She is an environmental activist too who recently brought her dreams to reality as her debut book named Fields of Sonnet.

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Published by The Alternative.