Bijay Kant Dubey Poems

A poet of broken self and bleeding heart am I,
My heart, how many times has it broken like the glass piece,
You do not ask,
As have seen my face in so many images of mine
...

The bearman, comes, comes he
With a black bear,
Chained around the neck
Or threaded through the nostril
...

None but I myself tore it, the jeans pants
To give it the look of patches and darns,
Stitches and joints
To make it look like the faded jeans.
...

Luring him with, where have they brought him to,
To which path or crossroad of life
From where he can look not behind,
From where he can return not?
...

Had I been a painter, I would have painted and sketched
Only wild blossoms,
Their hues and beauties,
Which bloom in the forest tract and scatter away
...

The cuckoo is so dark black, dark, dark, pitch dark
Just like the black crow,
But sings it so sweetly all through the spring,
Madly in love,
...

I indeed feel sorry for as and when I see them loitering,
Lying useless and abandoned on the roads,
Unemployed and jobless,
Oh, those horses, mares, ponies and asses
...

I do not understand it, nor can I say about it,
Will they forget to write with pen and paper some day,
Come that some day,
When I shall tell you,
...

My English, it is neither King’s nor Queen’s English,
Nor British English,
My English my own,
It is nor American English,
...

I am not a modrn, a modernist and a post-modernist,
I am the same man,
The same man
Whom you had seen me,
...