Daipayan Nair – Three Poems

poetDaipayan Nair was born in a small town Silchar in North East India. Daipayan Nair, is a poet, song writer and a blogger is the author of ‘The Frost – Selected Poems’, a book containing his most renowned works. Apart from that he has got his works published in a number of anthologies. His poem ‘O’ Mademoiselle’ received appreciation worldwide.

The Dawn Blues

The damask dawn leaves its hut straw – hued
only to watch the misty ivory bare it all
The poet inside many a bud mushy, burgeons into rose
only to get plucked by juvenile quills answering the call.
Sparrows chirp marigolds of tales classic;
weaving renewed waves of grandeur with a tease refined
The Sun inside many a hibiscus attracts the desirable moth
only to be lulled by the melody of shutters defined.
The vibrant vibgyor acts jealous of the dominant red
Daffodils of paradise adding chiffoned adjectives to the verse
The tranquil shores inside many a Eurydice restless for her Orpheus
only to be calmed by the dove’s whistle terse.
Bells and horns, livelihood adorned, engage in a symphony new born;
The grasses dreaming of elegant twigs, drawing conscious breaths
The fragrant air inside many a skin waits to pen a rhyme
only to be inhaled by romance tinted fronds of inner depths.
The damask dawn leaves its shell velvet stained
only to watch murals newly hatched
The poet inside many a bud mushy, burgeons into rose
only to get plucked by juvenile quills answering the call.

MY……(Fever Fume)

The playful mercury
– pecking mark one nought five
Wet pores act mean
Surya bulbs glowing dim and green
The breath, hard to derive.
The tear filled orbs
sketched pale by many a sneeze
dream of one nought nine
Not the cough, not the cold
but the fever prime
Guess the incomplete
last line.
The walls freakish
shadowed by flesh of odour
watch the clock struck five
The last healthy call, marked
months before,
at five, heard
Not from creators, not from pals
but from the fever prime
Guess the incomplete
last line.


Swirling head
Twirling ankles
A tissue half drunk
kissing the shackles
The pigeon has left
Relaxed are the knuckles.
I can sing
I can dream
I can fly
I can scream!
The eyes pleading
“Come lets make a film”
That which sounds raw
is expelled by many
Veils pouring in abandon
seems worth a penny.
The hidden semen
becomes the core
Breasts of unknown shores
acting merely as a door.
Why this intoxication?
For what is it’s use…
The bone half licked cries;
cries for what’s natural
cries for more.



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