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"I have known music to be her timeless reverberation in a forlorn corner of my soul; just when life was closing down upon me with its pangs of haunting silence."
"Hope is the point the 'world within' comes to an equilibrium with the 'world around'."
"The cold that my body feels can be comforted by pullovers of our choices. It is the winter that comes back each year, inevitably; is how we are connected on the face of time. A sweet suffering of forever..."
"My poverty, I know, was glamorous because trading you, my love, for a better life is outright heinous."
"Love was the day when she drank and I felt quenched."
"Life, ever since, had been one gripping tale. Your happening gave it a genre."
"Want is the soul's desire. Need, the mind's crave. Love, thus, I believe, is a bit of both."
"Art is how you lie to the world without ever feeling sinned."
"Sorrow is true and beyond the powers of healing, when you can taste the oceans on your lips."

Schizophrenic Sky

Schizophrenic Sky
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, July 08, 2018 |
spears of sunshine come
stabbing through wayward
branches. and the wind is cold
in my face, almost erratic.
it shakes massive
jackfruits to the ground. my
walkway is pulp-splashed,
and this lazy drizzle does little
to wash it clean. sprinkling
soundlessly like fine sand -
dusk-colored and oozing
out of this schizophrenic sky;
touching everything, drenching nothing.
my garden is a messy emulsion.
enough earth but too little rain.
enough water but no real mud.
i am not looking forward to a rainbow,
for it will be dark before it breaks.
an electrocuted crow falls to the
pavement; feathers ruffled and claws
turned inwards in death. it’s one
distorted rainy evening, i wonder.
all i am hopeful is about the petrichor.
but the drizzle hangs on grass blades
like evanescent mist, too light on the
gleaming green spine to go down to
earth and break the fragrance free.
is this even real? i frown.
then
i remember your naked body against mine.
damp. just out of shower.
the sensuous odour of your floral bodywash
permeate through sheets
to become my breath.
i had felt ‘us’ on my fingertips
treading down the knobs
of your slender back; on my lips
in salty memories of mouthful kisses.
just so you know,
i sleep alone in that bed now.
becoming increasingly privy to rains
that fall without filling.

The Wait & The Welcome

The Wait & The Welcome
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, July 08, 2018 |
last summer
we sowed lemon seeds
in a plastic pot kept on the balcony rails.
it had been empty for a while,
and pigeons idled
on its edges, pecking
at the sun-hardened soil.
twigs of grass broke out
of the soil and perished
on its own. mostly torn away
by pigeons and squirrels to
cushion their modest nests.
for months after, with dots of green
hovering low over moist soil, we kept
it covered with a wicker basket
lest it became nests in no time.
and shooed all birds and squirrels
from the resting shades of our balcony
through four quarters of a day.
it's close to a year now, and the
plant has grown to a couple feet.
it has climbed past the balcony rails,
as a soft green wing hangs out
from our fourth-floor apartment.
its leaves big with prominent veins,
and stems, mud-laced, tad too thick
for pigeons to be beaked home,
to be chewed by squirrels.
now a steady rain continues to fall outside
and i watch the tendril bounce in the torrent.
the leaves washed, look like the delicate green
of its birthing days. a lone pigeon leaps up
from the ledge. its feathers damp, and perches on the pot
to drink from the puddle at the plant’s root.
the squirrel too is back, and is waiting at the rails.
it lifts its dark-buttoned eyes to my
unhurried face and waits. i wait too.
almost holding my breath.
then it slowly scurries over to the pot
and drinks the rain.

If rains are lies...

If rains are lies...
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, July 08, 2018 |
my weather is
not in the radiance
of the sky, but in the
colors of my being.
what's daybreak
but my fond recollection
of your laughter, a silver
brook my poems sailed
to become songs;
the mellow nights
- our secret hideout,
where in the shadows
your ravishing spirit
milks my longings into
the tired blue of a crestfallen
sea. and the great rains, the
devouring downpour
is when the old postman
slips your letters under
the doormat when i'm not home.
you write to me asking
if the summer is
bearable at home?
and i look out into
the obscure light of rains,
and tell you that not a single
cloud has stopped overhead
since we hung our boots.


- Sobhan

Living Again

Living Again
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, July 08, 2018 |
this city is stopped
and started by windows,
sweetheart.
stopped when shut
against the dust
and destitution of lives
sweating at the hearts
for the night to settle upon dew.
and started when pushed open
at dawn to drop breadcrumbs
for pigeons, and water the pallid hibiscus.
i’ve been your beckoning
both as the evening din and
morning's gentleness.
but it’s been a while
you’ve been out of bed.
drifting between shots,
syringes and men every new
hour. that's not the way, trust me.
you can choose not to fuck
and hold my hand. and we
can open doors to a new place
where there’ll be no gravity,
and you’ll feel no weight of
your scars. we’ll float. near
and far. in thoughts.
of forgetting
and loving anew.
there's always a way.
but this is not it.
not all pleasures can
be touched through
writhing naked bodies.
open your eyes. there's
a morning in the way i’ve
been wanting you for long.
and now it’s here at the
end of all your drunk nights.
for you.
to live all over again.

White Lies of Wronged Nights

White Lies of Wronged Nights
~ Sobhan Pramanik | Sunday, July 08, 2018 |

i know you didn't
sleep with him. but
neither does it take
a hammer to break a
heart. and i have died
a hundred deaths in the
thousand little things
you did around it.
there were days when
the summer got the better
of me, and i had dozed
off without a good night.
but i did get back to you
late, close to daybreak,
only to know that you'd
been awake - in a candid
conversation with a dear friend,
and i admit, i felt terribly
substituted. i remember
leaving at your place my
favorite novel on your birthday,
and i had called you to check
if the story was in line with
your taste. instead you sent
me a video of your special outing.
shaking a leg with mr. candid
in a lavish one piece; his gift
to you. 'beautiful' i had replied,
watching you gyrate to the music -
your body a spinning flame
reveling under sweeping lights
- choking on a fresh batch of tears
that i regret having cried. on another
day, if you remember, we had
an argument. and we didn't talk
for a week. i was alone, and wrong
enough to hope that you were too.
mr. candid kept you company, you
told me. that you being upset was a
pain he couldn't stand. that in his arms
you divulged about my lovelessness,
and he, like a true friend, offered you
solace with his lips on your mouth.
'but you love me, right?' i retaliated, furious.
'yes, baby. with my soul. and so i
didn't reciprocate to his smooch.'
if going down is the benchmark
of adultery, i have been cheating
since day one. for on my knees
i have prayed to heavens - thanking
for this life that has you in it.
it's to close this chapter, i realize
i committed a sin. having held your
profanity in the sacred rooms of love.

- Sobhan
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