A Poetry Showcase from Bharti Bansal

black concrete road with distance to mountains

photo by Nuno Antunes (unsplash)


The days are turning into sunflower yellow
And people are running/living/thriving
But when the sunrays strike my windows
I see the glass turning into ashened paper
Here sun doesn't mean light
In my land, people ask each other when do we feel okay 
And the only answer that echoes is soon enough.
I turn towards God to ask answers 
But when misery present itself as a question
God asks us to strive
As if the only men who get to taste happiness are those
Who haven't wondered long enough about the truth of this word.
I keep praying to a voiceless God
Ask him to send signs
But when God is a lonely child 
Would it give away its favorite toys?
In our land, it is forever night
And moon doesn't borrow light 
Because self respect is still a notion here,
I turn towards anything without a shadow
But you don't see one here.
I am hopelessly running towards a door less visible
From a distance called superstition 
Colors are myth 
Does that make blindness the only way to look at things?
I donot ask such questions
But I still pray 
For my lover
For he is stranded in our land
Where every song is a pitch high 
Where every word sounds more like a vagabond's  plea for directions
My lover is a flower no more seen.
His petals lie drooped 
And the only way to hold him is to avoid wind
By wind I mean breaths
My lover has fallen  down the rabbit hole
In an attempt to rescue me
Does that make him brave
Or me selfish?
I still see him in my dreams though.
Burried under the iceberg
Cracked open only at my touch
Does that make my embrace warm?
I have no answers
In our land nobody seeks one
So I ask him to keep his eyes open
Slowly one becomes adapted to loss of light, I say
But he keeps his eyes closed
And that's how he hopes in a land
Where everyone walks without falling 
Talks without missing a vowel "I"
And lays dormant to the world around
In our land, lovers don't survive
So I push him away 
And tell how world witnessed through darkness is still a world with colors
He believes me
And I keep believing in God
Who sleeps an eternal sleep on a street nearby.


A borderline mind, 
my therapist says other people have it worse. 
I try to make sense of this
As I look at everything but her.
There is a big mirror in her room
I wonder if she asks people to meet themselves through that
I think about how many people have cried looking at their reflections
Will I be asked to do that as well?
This, I think to myself, will make for a good poem
I am unsure of my identity 
Now that doctors don't call me a depressive
But a borderline
"How do I process this", I ask my doctor
And he says nothing but increases the dosage 
I remember my therapist yawning behind her mask
Bad for therapy, I make note to myself 
Yawn, I swear is communicable
Because now we both are yawning
Uninteresed in each other 
This won't last long, I say to myself
My doctor is yawning too
Now I am looking at him.
His plastic shield to protect himself 
of the virus or humans, I can't tell.
I tell him that I wanted to be a doctor once
"What changed?" He asks
And I, trying to be funny, says," physics teacher"
"Borderlines tend to do that, keep changing their minds"
I laugh loudly
My ambitions were the part of a disease
My whole life was a disease developing and manifesting itself
I wonder if doctors are taught to treat their patients as humans
Or if we all are walking syndromes waiting for diagnosis 
Fifteen minutes up!
He gives me the prescription slip
And asks me to come again after two months
I calculate how costly his yawns were
And I decipher, 500 bucks each for three
We leave and people/patients with their expecting eyes look at us
How do I tell them
That the magician inside that small cabin 
Is bored of us
Or tired maybe
Because the pigeons don't disappear there
I keep walking along the corridor 
My head held down
Trying to act unbothered by the pairs of lost eyes
There is a lift in this hospital 
And nurses who talk politely
A basement too for physiotherapy!
I remind myself as I hold the feral cat in my arms
And pat her head
I know I am not going back
I kiss the cat on her head
As she stretches and yawns
I laugh as she looks at me lazily
And runs away
I look briefly at the sky turning into yellow and red
The lake in its glorious blue
The house without windows
And a dog that just scared cows and is walking proudly now
I remember I have it all 
Little things that bring me back to life


I am a little late to the party
Where people meet and drink and laugh too much
I sometimes pretend
Actually a lot of the times 
I have misinformations in my brain which I turn into poetry because then things seem acceptable 
I don't even know who Frank O' Hara is
But his name has a musical tone to it
So I perceive he must be like me
Just like Freddie Mercury
They have no use in this poem
But now you know how I try to dodge names 
Or questions attached to them
I have no real sense of directions
Once I gave a man wrong directions in my college campus
I left the college afterwards
Do these dots connect?
I believe sun can rise from any direction
If you keep changing positions 
And pole star is a conspiracy theory
Of the sailors who never wanted to reach back to the shore 
Aren't we all escaping somehow?
I am little late to the party
Where people smoke and get high
I can't 
I have to take antidepressants with me wherever I go
But to tell you the truth 
Benzos literally help you astral project
Which ones, I won't tell
I see people standing in a group
Playing, some sharing their love for cinema
While some singing old songs 
Beatles, Backstreet boys
But I have no memory of ever hearing them
Someone approaches me 
Asks me to join too
But I have nothing to tell about myself besides my name
I nod and smile
Move slowly, recollecting all the books I have read, movies I have watched, rock bands I have listened to
But they ask me something different
Am I a poet?
I didn't think about it while preparing myself
I mutter a vague no
They start talking to each other
I am now moving towards where the food is
I see him
The boy from yesterday
We nod as if in a world of handshakes, this is the new rebellion 
But I know he knows 
I start munching down the French fries
My heart beating fast
What if I eat it before everyone else?
Will they see me stand?
Like a celebrity, will I lose the privacy of world in my head?
Nobody's looking, I see
Nobody's looking, I make it a note in my mind 
The party is losing the rythm 
Nobody talked about Frank O' Hara or Freddie
Or Sylvia or Virginia 
I take their names as if I know them
I don't 
But we all were at party somedays
I remember I am the only sober one to drive
But I don't know how to
I never know how to start
Or vehicles
The party has now stopped 
People are staring at me
And I am looking elsewhere.
The boy from yesterday is now coming towards me
Saying a vague hello
I whisper instead
Maybe he is shy 
Maybe I am too expecting
The people in party are leaving 
For their homes 
Glittering buildings with dark alleys
And I realise I have nowhere to go
It had been my home all along.
I was a guest sitting somewhere 
Who didn't know how to claim her own space
Without curling into a fetus
The party is over.
And I realise the boy from yesterday is still sitting
Looking at me
I don't know what he is thinking
Maybe he is wondering who  Frank O' Hara is
I say he's a poet
Like you, he asks
Like me, I answer

Bio from another site: Bharti Bansal is a 22 year-old poet from Shimla, India. She has been published twice in books Sentient and Love As We Know It. She writes mainly on depression and other mental health issues and suffers from clinical depression herself. Bharti finds solace in stars and space and wants to pursue astronomy in the near future. She hopes to write a poetry book someday.

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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