Poulomi Bose

Born and brought up in UP, Poulomi Bose moved to Delhi for her graduate education and pursued an Honours degree in English from IP College, DU, MA in English Literature from JNU and Mphil in English Literature from Hyderabad Central University. She has taught in various colleges in Delhi University for 4 years as assistant professor of English Literature. Her areas of interest include Victorian Literature and Literary Theory as well as Communicative English, and she has taught language proficiency courses in both JNU and DU. A constant academic achiever, Ms. Bose has several publications to her credit in various national journals and books, and she has also presented papers in prestigious institutions like DU, University of Hyderabad, Jamia Millia Islamia, Jadavpur and Osmania University. She has also published a novella, a short story and several poems. She started writing poems while in college, initially to pour out emotions and experiences into words, which later grew into a way to resist and speak up against sociology-political issues that she feels strongly about.

• City behind the Clouds

  • Do you know of the
    City behind the clouds?
    Where golden waters
    fly in the sun of night
    as birds with glistening
    feathers swim by
    across the fields of
    soft, soft cotton balls,
    baked ripe with the
    warmth of the mist
    that guards the
    city like a secret.

    Do you wonder
    if it’s people, made of thoughts
    also shift in and out of
    reality like their city keepers-
    one moment a dragon,
    another, a unicorn,
    a house, an ocean
    a hallow, or nothing.
    Do they laugh like the
    sound of rumbles and
    cry out big drops of rains,
    and walk on air like magic?

    Do you want to go
    to the city of clouds,
    where the floor
    beneath your feet floats
    over the world, and your thoughts
    roll on the fairytales
    of the horizons where your
    dreams have lived,
    since forever.

• How to be a Vegetable.

  • Learn to be calm
    and composed and very,
    very still. let them look
    leer poke prod pinch
    touch grope squeeze.

    Hold it in, right there
    contain the explosion
    in your throat, until you
    taste blood with your
    vocal chords. Try to speak.

    If you can hear yourself,
    Learn to be calm
    and composed and
    very, very still.
    Rinse, Repeat.
    Caution: If it gets into your eyes,
    gouge them out.

    Get glass eyes, that will not
    be cast down in shame
    everytime they leer poke
    prod pinch touch grope
    squeeze.

• The Lizard

  • Like clockwork you move
    Across the corner of my eye
    Tick tick tick and tock
    Goes yet another mighty king,
    You, the mother of Grendel,
    Seducing them with your
    Swirling tongue that moves
    Like the whiplashes on the body
    Of the Salem witches whose
    Laughter echoed in the ears of
    Those that burnt them, even when
    None of them ever laughed.
    Don’t you know, tongues are
    Evil, you graceful salome,
    Moving silently with the swish of
    Your tail, dancing the tarantula
    And then comes the call at the
    Chime of three, like the lustful hiss
    Of medusa, and every time they turn,
    Thinking they have been called
    And as they look into those
    Widening black eyes, their hearts
    Turn to stones, stones that had bruised
    Your bodies in Salem, the battle scars
    On your skin that water cannot wet
    (The fools tried to drown you too)
    And tick tick tick tock you
    Moved across the clock of history
    Hidden in the corners of their eyes,
    The folds of their bed, the curtains
    Of their bloody bathrooms and each time
    They cut your hair, your tail grew back
    Again and again and again and
    Tick tick tick tock with your burning
    Touch and your flickering tongue
    You lock them all in your trap
    Savouring their taste in your mouth
    Drinking their blood drop by drop
    Like kaali, moving faster and faster
    Your tongue wet with desire and then
    Tick tick tick tock.

• अल्पविराम

  • मेरे विद्रोह की भाषा
    आपके व्यंग्य की लिपि
    की आभारी है.
    कितनी सहजता से मेरी पीड़ा
    आपकी तटस्ठता के स्वर
    में सज जाती है साहित्य
    बनकर, और मेरे
    अधिकार आकांक्षl बन
    शृंगार कर लेते हैं. मेरी
    असहमित नासमझी की
    पयार्यवाची है और
    स्वाभिमान अहंकार का
    समानाथर्क, जो मेरी
    अभिव्यक्ति को उच्शृंखता
    में बदल देते हैं. मेरी
    असहजता की वर्तनी
    आपसे आधार लिए अक्षरों
    में हर बार सम्मति बन
    जाती है. जो कुछ भी इन
    गिरवी शब्दों में कहती
    लिखती हूँ मैं, आपके
    व्यंग्य की बंधुआ मज़दूर
    मेरी भाषा टूट जाती है
    अपने ही बोझ से दबाकर,
    और एक बार फिर मेरे
    शब्द आपके अल्पविराम
    बन जाते हैं.