Imagining night on a dead, drunk morning

POETRY EDITOR ANANYA S GUHA’S NOTE: Goirick Brahmachari’s poems are full of sensations and distinct images of the natural world. These ‘night poems’ are palpable sensations and evoke a world which has an endearment to the writer. An exceptionally talented poet Goirick will soon come out with his first collection. Savour these poems and watch out for him in the future years to come!

Imagining night on a dead, drunk morning

Moon jumps out of the snow-capped mountains.
At McLeod, trees speak only after midnight.

As Olafur breezes

through the shivering memories and goose bumps,
A town falls asleep.
It snores emptiness.

Night has asked us to wake her up
for she wants to listen to the snow melt.
I count the distance the moon has travelled.
and wait for the night to fall asleep again.


The wind is so cold that you could
turn this night into a stone.

Moons licks the hills white.
Many rivers look away.

Too much travel 
has made me old and weary.
is a whore.

Fat trucks make love to lonesome roads


I and the night sing to the morning.
We choose our parts carefully.

She prefers Soprano.
I hesitate, but take the bass

A thousand cellos hallucinate.
Morning mocks our collective deaths.


memories are like short wave radio stations

they bring tears from a distant hill

rain has forgotten its name years ago
then, the night escaped her

mist tastes the sky in blur
hills cradle trees to sleep


 A river has travelled through the night.

 Moon adores its reflection.


A night train has lost its way into the forest.

It glides through memories and haze.


Night wears a burqa by the hills.

She dreams of elephant trunks

and bow string winters.


Winter makes love to non-livings things


Night apes a woman

Keeps hills at dark

from her desires
fireflies mock the moon

or the absence of it
the river has aged

and dried
it hesitates

does not confess
the day waits

to get back to work.


Night contemplates death

chooses Spring


and a river

when the moon plays Holi


and the mustard are all yellow

apple trees are white


it is in these sort of nights

when many nights choose to die.


Night grows over you like a bad headache

it eats your brain cells


and cleans your memory

There is no room for misery if you are faking it


Night has grown old in you

she spies on you when you sleep


Sometimes only a day can save you

help you forget.

Goirick Brahmachari lives in New Delhi, India. He hails from Silchar, Assam. His poems have appeared in North East Review, Nether Magazine, Pyrta Journal, Raedleaf Poetry, Coldnoon Quarterly, Reading Hour, The Four Quarters Magazine and Vayavya. His articles and film reviews have appeared in Economic and Political Weekly, The Hindu, The Shillong Times. The poems first appeared in Ucity Review.