The Storm in the River


There’s a storm in the river.

When I cross the river, I see beautiful little creatures running across, fumbling for silence.

As this storm is of a long duration, there is mass destruction all around.

The storm didn’t stop. It never harmed me.

Rather I didn’t allow it to. The Storm in the river was extremely devastating.

However, I kept quiet and still. The river was silent again. The Storm was gone…long gone.

Neelanjana Seth




The Sailing Guests named Poets


I lived on the banks of a river.
Among the Poets.
Few would walk among the orchards
I would hear them sing every single evening.
Others would sit by the river
Listen to the stillness of their mirror
And gift memories without a limit.
Some said,
Let the clock stop someday
And then we would remain timeless. 
Like the sailing boats on the 
obscure river. 
The day when the instruments
Damage their strings
There would be music in silent eternity. 
Let the others stop writing,
There would be rhymes all around. 
The masts of the vessels would strike
The pale shore where lovers reside
With time. 
Let the guests stop arriving,
There will be enough food left for dinner.
You are the gatekeeper of hell.
You have created the rust on that iron fender. We lost the beauty of the orchard.
We won’t stay here with you anymore. 
There were lots of immortality within the figures named clocks.
I used to cry calling the poets
Around me, they would gather,
some would say love and some garner. 
There were few more
By the white waters.
They would often quarrel regarding the
Colour of the river.
Few said White and the rest Colourless.
The majority won but there still remained a doubt.
They simply said,
The calligraphy on the book would remain untouched
If there’s none, but only one. 
Give us time, give us evidence. 
Timeless evidence and evident time 
Would keep ringing. 
It would keep bringing
Guests expected during the 
Seconds of your day. 
I prefer to keep quiet and still.
I see them writing and I stop moving.
I behave like a stillborn.
Only then would the others start writing again
The lovers will never reside with time.
Eternity and immortality would go hand in hand
The sailing boats will keep their masts high.
Stay still. Listen to the song of your cry.
It will cruise you.
Listen carefully.
Can you hear the scratch of the pens?
The poets are writing. Stay still. Others too are writing…
Neelanjana Seth



Yuki’s apprentice showed me all the wondrous birds in the aviary.
‘The Yuki was out of town’ she mentioned.
On Survival she would return.
But now she sowed the seeds of patience
She showed me the peacocks in the aviary.
The apprentice said, ‘this is the bird of paradise in a desert of rhetorics.
It is a mirage. A colourful attainable mirage.
It speaks a different language
But undoubtedly Yuki still hears her call.
When I walked into the fishery
I dropped my handkerchief from my nose.
The apprentice picked it up for me and said, ‘Yuki never used it for she was an easy going woman.’
I asked when would she return. But all the apprentice said was ‘May be someday.’
The day was over and my contract of visiting zoos ended.
I called the apprentice at night in case there was any news.
While I wanted to speak, she stopped me when she said,
‘Good night Yuki. It’s quite late now. ‘
 Neelanjana Seth 

Travelling Deserts


I have seen memories in front of my eyes. I have never seen them so clear yet so shadowy. I knew a day would come and I had to shake hands with it, all over again, but I never in my wildest dreams thought memories could be haunting and disturbing to this extent…

When I walk in a desert, I find myself sleeping to find strategies out of this trance. It’s a long trance and a trance of pessimism. I never viewed deserts as something positive. But to me, realization comes later. When you didn’t see me while we walked together, I concluded I traversed a deserted island. There was nothing great in it. What it housed was absolute shallowness.

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Sometimes, memories do haunt. They have this natural tendency of killing you from within, but at the same time they give you immunity. Immunity against a deserted land. A desert.

However, deserts need help. Memories need help. Nostalgia needs a lot of help. Help of my life. How will these parasites stay without me? I have a great responsibility and that is to keep them alive. If I kill this desert, I kill myself and I never want to die so fast, so early without travelling the world or setting my foot on my dream land.

Neelanjana Seth


The Shadows of Glass


Thousand seconds to figure out what happened

Twelve seasons of monsoons passed by,

And still they remain in drought

Trying to figure out through the windows of glass.

O desires of heart, what have you created?

Fifty one memories did make me bleed,

Seventy three more to rip my wounds

What is it that I am trying to figure out through the panes of mist,

The monsoon or the drought?

The famine or the loneliness of the days?

When impossibility turns it’s head down

Translating the unscripted words

What is it that remains?

O the garden of time

Why are you pacing so hard?

Smoke is starting to set fire on ice

Through the bliss of paradise, Pigeons walk

When unbearable lightning of the sky touches, I start to realise, what did I lose,

Was it the time or just a single moment of love?

Destiny designing it’s way out of my heart

The waves of sea turns still

Why are you being so stubborn?

Flow over the last part of drought

The desires will start realizing the arrivals of monsoon.

Eighty seven touches on the toughest part

Feathers seem like stones.

The excitement of the months keep arousing

The timely tales of rain that casts the clock today.

Why aren’t you mad O heart?

Why don’t you find your own door…

Pavements of diamonds near the fountains, sparkle

While the sailing smoke speak on its way.

Neelanjana Seth