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Goirick Brahmachari

Night, Letters. (an eight poem sequence)

Night, Letters. (an eight poem sequence)


moon jumps out of the snow-capped window
for trees to speak only when it's midnight.
a town falls asleep, goosefleshing
emptiness of skin. It snores rain

the night has asked us to wake her up.
for she wants to listen to the snow melt.

I count the distance the moon has travelled.
and wait for the night to fall asleep again.



the wind is so cold that you could
turn this night into a stone.

moon licks the hills white.
many rivers look away.

too much travel 
has left me weary.
memory too
is a whore.

those fat trucks make love to the lonesome roads.



I and the night sing to the morning.
we choose our parts carefully.

she prefers soprano.
I hesitate, but take the bass
as a thousand cellos hallucinate,
morning makes faces, mocks
our collective deaths.



memories, like short wave radio stations,
bring tears from a distant hill that

rain has forgotten many years ago;
then, the night escaped her.

as mist cloud the sky in our eyes,
perhaps the wind will cradle these pine trees to sleep



a river has travelled through the night
the moon adores its reflection.
a train has lost its way into the forest.
snakes move in memory.

night wears burqa by the hills
and dreams of elephant trunks
     'bow string winters'
     stars under your feet,
     symphony of crickets

dead blue lips
make love
to non-living things



night apes a woman
keeps hills in the dark

from her desires
fireflies mock the moon

or the absence of it
the river has aged

and dried
it hesitates

does not confess
as the day waits

to get back to work.



night contemplates death
chooses spring

and a river
when the moon plays holi

and the fields are all mustard ,
apple trees run dry

it is in these sort of nights
memory longs for murder.



night grows over you like a bad headache
it eats your brain cells

and cleans your memory
there is no room for misery if you are faking it

night has grown old in you
she spies on you when you sleep

sometimes only a day can help you


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Goirick Brahmachari is a writer based in New Delhi, India. He hails from Silchar, Assam.

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