Arnab Das

What Happened Yesterday?

What happened yesterday?

Would anyone tell me definitely?

Were there anyone aware of my

Innumerable births, except those

Phantoms that squat on my mother’s porch

Like gargoyles.


What happened yesterday?

Through that long night of sleep

When I slit the throat of the fairy

In my dream, and she turned into

a hairy spider, and then I cut her head,

And her feet and her feet, eight of them,

Until there were no fairy and no spider.

But there was a frenzied necrophilia

That danced inside my snot nose,

Maddened by lust, sniffing off

The passing moments.


What happened yesterday?

In the heavy hours of the dawn

When the images overlapped?

But you won’t; you’d rather not

May be for reasons unknown

Even to you: you’d not tell me,

What exactly happened yesterday.



My Missing Bones

One fine morning I felt, I had a few lesser bones,

Frightened, at once, I looked out for the missing ones

And listed them, one by one, on a perforated sheet.


I wondered then, my whereabouts, the previous night.

Robbery, accident, or a drunken fight,

At some lone dark corner of a street?


Confounded, I leaped into the shades of my past

And asked everyone, from the first one to the last,

Of every doleful phantom I happened to meet.


But none of them were quite very sure,

And indeed, they could tell me nothing more

Than, such knowledge do none to their purpose fit.


Wearied in the end, at the park, I met an old hag,

And lo! she had my missing bones and took ’em out of her bag

And dropped them in broth to boil them and eat!


A Descent Through the Night

I should have listened to the plausible moments

Of the hours- the saddening monotony

The slowly reddening cigarette- the hearth

Of passions that intoxicate the night.

I’ve read a little life within

The pages of yellow dampened books.

In the mornings, that rarely arrived in my

claustrophobic room,

I’ve measured it from corner to corner.

I’ve grown old, stale, calm, cold.

Through the heavy hours regimenting down the


Through the movements of blood and time.

And wayward souls haunting the city-heart

On a dark moonless night.

What if I act a little less composed tonight?

What if a little inclined toward my elements?

To call a spade, a spade.

The queen of hearts has changed hands on the


It is a tough game to draw on cards;

To pass it, on time.

The lights from the alleys through my open


Make the fan slightly obscure, slightly infirm.

A hollow that lurks to gape

My sensibilities, artifice, insipidity, infidelity etc.

Or perhaps morality (?), upright (?), what?

To find truth in the eyes

Those tell only lies.

And I swing the night, between eternity and


And when my sins are busy, feast on my naked


The light appears in the horizon.

I blow out the candles with a smirk,


To breathe on…


Mainak’s photography.

Arnab Das, the author holds a Master degree in English literature and is a connoisseur of art and literature. He hates fish, dreams of being a poet, and trying his hands at it from a very early age. The following poems are his maiden attempt at any serious publication, and the author urges the reader to judge whether his creations are worthy of being called poems at all. Email-