Boundless -a Real Life Transhistorical Journey


Ola! Long time! Today am here to share a rather very-close-to-my-heart poem of mine that got recently published in The Harbinger Asylum magazine brought out quarterly by Transcendent Zero Press, under editor Dustin Pickering.

This poem is particularly close to my heart as this isn’t an imaginary piece of writing. This Really happened to me. Still happens. The Boundless time-space dimensions trans-historically just opens up before my mental eyes every time I practise any activity with Mindfulness. Present Moment Awareness.

I was recently listening to the famous Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh and was pleasantly surprised to hear verbatim this phenomenon in one his talks, where he says with  practise of Mindfulness you are able to touch the historic dimensions..all past, present, future.. And I cannot agree more!

This poem here is an example of just that – when the mind stands still fully in the Present Moment Awareness, the entire historic dimension almost bursts open into your world and visions of ecstasy unfolds as you touch unseen real worlds across time and space. It’s Real! It Is possible! Hope my dear readers enjoy this one and are also pulled towards experiencing this magic!



I see
Floating in my frothy morning mug
Multitudes. Aeons of sweat and toil
Rising in brown scent of soil
My cup the holder of who knows how many
Hearts of the Dark Continent?

I touch
Gushing through my kitchen taps
Rivers, tributaries! Of Indus perhaps
Or the Tigris, the Mississippi
Endless miles of the Nile bathing me with
Blood and brine of Civilizations

I kiss
Rising coils of prayer between my lips
Perhaps ancient chants of pipe ceremonies
Birthed atop sacred Wayna Pichu old
Perhaps these rolled up leaves still hold
Maps of a Virgin land’s slavery?

I feel
Hugging my heirloom Cashmere piece
Breath of how many winter solstice
Ringing with bleets from Bethlehem
Irish hills, Aborigines fields teeming with
Shepherds of human Conscience

In each act – in every spec
That touch and melt in every thread
With Eden to Zion embedded in my loins
Boundaries I transgress

Boundless and I

Beauty and Eternal Beast
Entwined – enmeshed –
Harvest fields of Time and Space

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016


About TZP, it’s a niche nest of thinkers/poets/writers/artists and minds much out of the box! This quarter’s edition has some lovely pieces both by several renowned and new poets, along with Pulitzer Prize nominee 2008, Heller Levinson. Copies are widely available on Amazon and links are provided below if anyone wishes to grab a copy. 🙂

Website :

Links for copy of Harbinger Asylum :

India :

Worldwide :

Happy reading! Spread poetry. Spread Love.

Blogpost, poem and images © : Nivedita Dey, 2016


Blind Spine and Stalemate


A flippant slash
You’re blind to feel it
Only in skin
Look within
A gash so deep
You bleed as your dagger
Digs deep into another

Drop that coal!
Charred hands in vain
Busy burning faces
Palms it laces
With scariest scars
Too deep to ever heal
Crying hoarse for a sequel

This story never ends
Yet blindness pretends
Just one more trial
For justice we seek!
Meanwhile you reek
Along with your murderer
Your dagger as much in you
As it is in another

Read the distant clouds
Hear the thunder peal
It does reveal
One truth
Deaf ears don’t hear
Clench a two-tailed spear
Indeed! A two-way touché
You too bleed as blood you bay

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

For Children of Polyhymnia


(Dedicated to Rachael Mead)

There my nocturnal repellent jar
Sucked empty
Here life blood too
One behind blood suckers
Another beneath blood boilers
Spent, done for, done,
Now my nights return
To mundane mosquito bites
And mysterious flying words
Stinging, evading, nagging,
Making a lesser uncanny hum
Than the Suns just gone by

There on a quasi trapezoid
One sips tea, sighs
Here on a quasi kite
I sigh, gulp in kinship
Each attempting to etch clarity
The geometry of life
Of an intangible familiarity
Of horror settling into the dusty carpet
Yet! Yet to bite the dust

Between flashes
Of fire flies between the brows
And loud claps
To kill winged blood suckers
What are nights made of
For children of Polyhymnia
And lovers of words?

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

Rachael Mead is a dear fellow poet I very recently got to know and read. She is based out of Australia whose words can be read at

Do visit her site and enjoy her writings.

(Disclaimer as the Days might demand: This piece is purely a creative endeavour birthed out of moments, random reminiscences and poetic inspiration and executed with due poetic license and doesn’t intend to carry any direct or indirect intention to refer to or offend any person or place.)

Relapse Reinterpreted


A milk train of dark night
Stopped short on track
Whistles you back
To the womb of wounds
And you sigh
And stare
At an unpromising sky

… ….

I wear my scars
With pride
Testimonial seals
Some call it a curse
Some others, tough life
And I long back
Have christened them ‘Proof’
Of battles, of Ubermensch
Of defeated javelins
Of jeopardised hope
Post mushroom cloud growths
Of isms, nihilisms
Of prophets of lies

… (contd)

Again two blogs come together for a cause.. a poem on mental health survival and relapses through the journey to recovery.. For the full poem please do visit my Mental Health Awareness Blog..

Kindly reblog if you feel this is a burning cause needing much attention and awareness in our broken world filled with our countless loved ones hurting in helpless silence. Thank you always for your readership, love, encouragement and support, dear all.

Author © (poem, note and images) All Rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

Zen Pen (Fragment)


Walls wait for words
The world waits for words
I have none

Beggar Queen of words once
Now paupered Rich, richly undone
Wordless, serene

The train seeks iron wheels
Nail marks on barks of trees
I glide on breeze

Hands, mouths, ears, eyes
Seeking testimonial rites
Heady wordy wasps

Charring the hive, setting free
Fiery stings of worded spree
Poetry no more suffice

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016



The memory coke
With sun and air
Loses sting
No more choke
The thirsty throat

Buildings standing tall
No more smell
Of half eaten pizza
Moulded then
Pungency breezed
With seasonal sun

They say I write in riddles
Memory but a fiddle
Picking on strings
Mysterious ways
Now no more
Now trained hand
Holds the fiddling
To perfect angles
Drying pickles to
Perfect sun tanned oblivion

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

Water Delivery


I stand in neck deep water
Thirst rising through soggy skin
I question
The water in my womb
Or curdled milk
Or whatever that be

We sit encircling the sacred fire
Ancient tribe
Ritualised under
The sunken moon
Comb-search the next one’s child
She of another and so on
Looking for lice
Occasionally finding
Star dust in a strand or two

Squatting in neck deep waters
As the sac bursts
I in labour
The verity of each one I birth

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

Kapadia House


A ghostly mansion stands
Amidst creepers crawling dark
Skeleton placidity

An iron gate gapes
Rusty teeth barring all trespassing
On yesteryears’
Forgotten genealogy

A child in awe
Swallows oodles of warm delight
Surrounding a sight
Familiar unfamiliarity

The tall yellow walls
Perhaps once bustled with warmth
Fireplace and kitchen squirm
Spices, aromatic tea

Long-gone-ladies in laces
Phantoms in boots, babies with nannies –
Eerily whisper in crannies
Of bygone alacrity

A ponched master with pipe
Perhaps droopy eyes behind bifocals
Attending to locals, now lies
Interred into history

The convulsing mother of six
Bringing down the roof on maids
Doing her braids in bed- the dead
Breeding diurnal scenery

Big mama in white – now ashen –
Sucking toothless her overboiled meat
Complaining of heat
Haunts that deathbed till date

The background gramophone
Once whining of joy and flowing wine
Ballroom on cloud nine
In silence curse their fate

Glory then
Now warmth a hearth
Void – Dearth of life web
Looms of dead vivacity

How many untold sagas
These walls hold in folds of tattered curtain
Is not certain
Yet they certainly

The mansion a witness to all
Stands helpless and tall
The Silent testifier to tentacles of time
Enshroud in mystery


Facts : Kapadia House, an iconic bungalow on Napean Sea Road, Mumbai now stands vacant and sold off to a realty promoter who plans to bring it down and erect a modern multistorey (concrete monster?) in the same place. More and more iconic buildings all over the country (India) is being handed over to promoters in the name of profitable urbanisation and modernisation which can only crush hearts of some of us, the emotionally silly brigade, of poets, empaths and lovers of history and our roots.

P.S. This poem is not intended to malign or defame any of the legally rightful parties involved with the said property. With utmost respect to their personal decision about their personal property, this piece only mourns a poet’s, my, personal loss of memory and much cherished mementos of yesteryear.

Disclaimer : All the  people and events depicted in this poem are fictional creations of poetic imagination. Any resemblance, to any person, dead or alive, and/or to any actual event, is purely coincidental and unintended.

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

Pic Courtsey (with profuse thanks!) : Girbban Paul
You can find some of his stunning work here :

Choice of Rains


A tiny flower
On my window
In my mind
Dances to the drizzling sublime

A choice of Rains on earth
Reigns in us
Pain, pathos, acid wash
Blades, bullets, blood bath
Blades of grass bathing in sunray
Pane washed by pours afresh
Blood teeming with downpour
Joy and bliss
The kiss of peace

Tiny planet running on Rains
Reign, be reigned
Here’s an array of Rains to choose from!

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016

Courting Another Quilt


Blanket your senses
With the warmest duvet of silence
Let eyes court
The canvas beyond sight
Let ears tune in
To the void of outer space
Beyond which the Loving Beast
Sleeps while awake
Wakes while asleep

I turn my gaze beneath
See the softest scoop
Of a bed
Of a Hand too strong
For amnesia, alzheimer’s, abandonment
For mortal hands spoon that weak,
Not This!
And I hang in bliss,
As the world beneath my horizon
Turns and turns on gyrating wheels
Breathing fire,
I float

Mystical, royal, sublime
Garden of Babylon I
Hang serene, secure, from the hook
Of The King’s timeless Hand

© All rights reserved, Nivedita Dey, 2016