Voices Within: Pitambar Naik

Pitambar Naik is an Indian poet and writer. He was longlisted for the Wordweavers India Poetry Contest 2017 and the Rhythm Divine Poetry Chapbook Contest 2018. His work is forthcoming in an Anthology of South Asian Queer Poetry for HarperCollins India, Joao-Roque Literary Journal and has appeared in Vayavya, Ethos Literary Journal, Mojave Heart Review, Literary Orphans, Occulum, Moonchild Magazine, Bhashabandhan Literary Review, HEArt Online, Formercactus, Coldnoon International, Spark Magazine, The Wagon Magazine, The Hans India, The New Indian Express, Better Than Starbucks, Kitaab, Muse India, Best Indian Poetry and elsewhere. He is working on his twin of poetry books. He can be reached at pitambarnaikwriter@gmail.com


At the end of the season, here’s subtractive serendipity, the morning bursts into splashes of the tulips. What makes our togetherness monochromatic? Don’t we long for a prolonged reclamation? In a standstill elusive frame after the excavation of our galvanized journey we halt the time and watch hearts’ pulse oscillate like dandelions’ fur. I’m deep-neck alongside the distrusted apathy, some around me are engaged in lynching they coin it as floriculture and a tradition of seismology; we wait for other times and other people; by chance the intense frustration exhibits its optimism. How come you accommodate the fathomless Pacific? Heaven is a few feet away from our dense sins, and you measure a vacuum envelope under the skin to disturb the condescension. Some lumps of disproportionate pathology are cranberries; the two-thirds of times chest-thump in a traumatic quilt beyond hope you blossom like the diamond lily. Then we patiently walk in a long march and accidentally befriend those deprived boulevards. A misty baby sun crawls sweetly into the cleavage of the narrow-mindedness in the vicissitude our oldest pang gives birth to a premature dharma with a window of geography and Greenland. In the middle that old acrimony is oblivious the pain in us doesn’t wish to waltz in the territory of our divinity, yet, we long for a prolonged life even after death.

How far is pain from laughter?
Let the life measure the fathom of pain
No issue if we’re a in between!

The Artery Gland of Frustration

In a dark cell of earthworms’ valley, white lilies have a poetry meet. And a density of saffron debate on the lanes of the artery gland peeps with frustration; though that’s a diversion in the axis of alluvial sunscreen; where an oval-shaped anxiety plays board game in deep shock just as the worn out shadow of your postnatal delirium. Bones of some bygone souls chant from the Book of Isaiah; the back of a green meadow lying prostrate your shadow is unconscious for centuries. It’s little shibboleth with little crumbles of the Cro-Magnons in your long absence what accompanies the blue moon. Twice you talk, thrice you abandon the quadrilateral sacrifice looks like soft greediness a bit humid-laced, bitter cold smitten raucous with the womb of a half married sea. In the biting of the fossilized thirst a conclusive metaphor converses. Who chimes like the tickling of the flute at the end of the day? A swarm of angels descends to watch the concert; theirs is a world of soft efficacies; elation and its extract from a distance. Out of their vicinity a glossy spa, a shiny casino and a posh civility cook pun; in fidelity those eels are like premature chrysanthemums; probably they’re on the verge of a renaissance of topology. Dashrath Manjhi’s is an indigenous monogram; a prolonged sigh exhumes the real taxidermy of his dream.

Shadow of your inhalation
I prop unto your embroidery of coziness
A transverse meadow sways in summersault.

The Civilization is a Pint Full of Bourbon

A broken mirror of crypto currency shrouds its spasm. Rather aloofly, with all intricacies haphazardly your sister’s 3rd bridal makeup lurks in the drawing room and your feminine silhouette positions for a photo session in the farthest display of the vintage cerulean wall. Nights are like the Arabian folk music blended with jingle bells and pensive classical songs of the ghumura; in the nearest metro station the replica of the white moon dabs lipstick in maroon responding to your suggestive quaint eyes and the civilization froths with pint full of bourbon. A half-baked fantasy hangs astride little farther like the lone pendulum in your granny’s bedroom; seven mornings together, seven nights in total and seven weeks as a whole posthumously your fortune greets you. Do you expect anything of those disconnected antiquities? The century-old angst in them licks the familiar pain; after whom, before whom who goes on a sabbatical in between is that a hiatus, how your secret affair remains secret? Those storks which once went vegans woefully in Benares are a sort of disguised empathy, can you trust? The sinless archetypal intimacy behind us is in a shadowy fissure with a sandwich of love letters; maybe like disillusionment or a slick conversation with the intimacy of Phurlijharan. For a while, let’s shroud ourselves in the crude cadence just walk past the tense vulnerability; the prime-time news on TV even spreads elusiveness. And the civilization we’re in watches a soap opera of curse.

In a typical antediluvian normalcy
You keep honeybees with butterflies
I sing anticlockwise forgetting my sustenance.

Ghumura- a clay pot musical instrument of Kalahandi
Phurlijharan is a water fall in Kalahandi district in Odisha in India.

That you Hardly Explore on Google

Banavasi Dhangadamajhi is a geographic ambiguity; his name has a cultural-bipolar hash-tag that you can hardly explore on Google. He’s anonymously addressed almost every occasion his identity is wrapped in history’s arcane chapters. He is little bent to shy away to pull the dress of any season ever since he started wobbling as a baby there’s a civilisational anathema. His story never becomes a Netflix saga; and Bollywood blockbuster never ever. Of course a dream ceaselessly swings every season like the nests of a weaver bird between teeth of wildness and wobbles in the rhythm of honey and nudity. Every evening the folk songs spiral the tapestry of the snowy nights and drink coconut water in CHIKUNGUNYA; dear ones happily sit around the hearth place as to knit stories bead by bead like the Eucharist of love even in pain that includes 2 mm of rain falls, 3 bags of millet, full truth of separation and certainly bitter longing of déjà vu. There is exodus of exodus of exodus of exodus across the Chhattisgarh borders and across the Kalahandi borders; grimace of vicious hunger shockingly sucks the frail husk little above the sky of Dangadamajhi’s ageing eyes. A bald mountain with no vestibule of tender clothing and an old model of Boeing jet of famine scampers in the sky; life waits like a refugee for a new climax in the fogy horizon. The century is a decaying dusk there on an anvil the drape of each dawn remains flat; Dhangadamajhi’s resume is a deprived yawn of several shrieking pendulums.

In a crawling road, hope is a hexagon
He crisscrosses the heartbeats of amoebae
Every inhalation is an exchange of déjà vu!
Voices Within - Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019

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