Bhadauria Manish Singh

Railway Bridge
A century breathes beneath
rusted railway bridge.
Sabarmati’s shallow stomach has many secrets,
waiting under layers of inertia.

Tadpoles of time
still waits for metamorphosis
All those coins offered long ago,
kissing her tired breasts.

Shanta; that rag picker lady
again find herself behind pillar,
to know more of a man and of hunger.
Her daughter waits near small puddle
watching beheaded lord Ganesha;
staring the limbless may sky.


Wintery Curtains
The lord of seven horses
stood; sluggish behind wintery curtains.
A blanket of fog covered; Reality and Nudity
City caressed in the arms of slumber.
Yet, good wife gathered herself
to unending calls of chores.

In an illegal hut
knees digging deep the vacuum of stomach.
Fingers googling life on fire,
consuming plastic and stale news.

Across the road at temple,
Surprises waited for lord Shiva.
Pandit; appeared in full cloth
A familiar tea stall kept on selling;
shallow, sweet quaffs in saucer,
Cricket and politics hooked in naturally
like that pair of leper eyes
staring pot of boiling tea
desires simmered and overflew.


A Balloon  Boy

A twelve year Boy Man; Ramu
alone with a hollow companion,
leaning deeper in skinny shoulders.
Swollen spectrum gropes air on the top
like sobbing breasts of his widowed mother.

Untamed feet pit-pat streets of the city
measuring the golden bridge,
where a horizon claims an impossible
Two ends meeting where the sun sinks.

The boy in the man meets his father’s blood,
a spot holding his father’s last shadow
And pieces of a precious wind screen glasses.
A heap of questions reverberate his pockets,
but this unaware city remained tongue-busy
Sucking and licking own wounds and bruises.

A known trespasser rattled my doors.
Water kept coming in to my existence.
Face of the morning bears new dark circles,
just above its swollen muddy dimples.

Dampness had seized my only ironed shirt on hanger
leather of my day feed new saprophytes.
Tiny umbrellas peeping out of logs
Outside my airless window lie more evidences,
ready to be consumed in muddy canals,
made on the breast by rubber giants

A cup of tea waits for me on the desk
I lift it to discover; a wheel
a symbol of progress on the table top
where a puddles of stagnant dust clinging
desperately .
To my silent days of inactions.

Dawn at Bridge
The yellow moon over Gandhi bridge,
swollen face and deep scars; looking absorbed.
A revolt about to break in the eastern territory
An alone Abhimanyu made a fissure,
in dark Chakravyuh; fog breaking at last.
Heavy wheels of Municipal trucks
shook hefty shoulders of sleepy roads.
Following them was a light hearted rickshaw
preaching “Love is a Sweet Poison”
Two rag picker women burnt their wealth
comfort of fire let them talk their heart out.

Suddenly the passive wind found playmates
Four disposable glasses, a soda bottle
with emptied bottle of Royal Stag.
Beneath the bridge flows the darkness.
Old Sabarmati stretching its limbs
To touch boundaries of an Ashram
where a Hridyakunja waits for a Vishnava


Flutter of a Torn Kite
Flutter of a torn kite diluted intense,
Noon of a May.
Naked branches of Neem remained reluctant.
Toll of new casualties had covered the grove one came to count and compensate.

At a government bus-stop
a blind lady sat
with basket of bottled water
‘Has she ever tasted those minerals?’

Infrared touch of the sun sauntered,
gazing new pimples surfacing.
An assassinated man stand there
waiting for his birthday
A tug of war was on display
crows had found a loath of meat
His stony lips must have spoken,
to dove on shoulder
‘Nathuram killed me just once.”


Eunuchs on the Train
Languid air of third class compartment,
suddenly transformed in to Lead.
Cheap scent of those shaved armpits;
Ignited many sluggish senses.

The train kept on it course,
unaware of castrated assaults.
The big Palms started their affairs.
Clapping, Begging and Threatening

The blessings came rather tersely
Out of lips lying somewhere;
under the thick coat of lipsticks.
To some their demands felt burdensome
like grafted breasts pushed in
forcibly in to those blouses.

Some lion heart remained reluctant;
inspite of all those delicate touches,
right in there again and again.
But fallen down at last,
to an old trump cards,
They stand tall lifting their saris high
Incompleteness was on display.

I was there,
right there; all the time.
Like all those silly fans of the train,
needing a strong jerk to move on.


Bhadauria Manish Singh is a poet, short story writer and educator. He hasbm published two poetry collections called World Inner and Outer (2012) published by Cyberwit India and Jasmines of Desire (2014) published by Nazar Look Romania. He is frequent contributor to numerous poetry journals and reviews. And he has recently completed his doctorate on Indian English Poetry of Jaynata Mahapatra