Cipun Mishra

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Cipun Mishra (Cipun Mishra)

If hearts were landmines, you would be tripping one right now. 23, Bangalore. Read about my Spoken Word Poetry tour of Odisha here -

https://stories.yourquote.in/meet-the-guy-behind-indias-first-spoken-word-tour-in-odisha-ceab19770086

Top tags: yqbaba love heartbreak life dreams
Your body is a marketplace,
and I have always bargained
the leftover promises
on the window sill
for a sight of you.

Victims // for Tulika. My eyes are victims, mostly. Your heaving breath brings abandoned cities in my atlas back to life. These tremors you send along my spine must be criminal; you turn my kisses into napkin poems, and carry them around in boneyards. My eyes are victims, mostly. Your voice quivers as you cup my face at the porch right before you leave. Your lips ball up like a compliment, and sway till they meet mine. Have I told you that I forget guitar cases inside my mouth? Sometimes, they carry songs across borders. Sometimes, they carry pleas to not go away, in between our bedsheets. My eyes are victims, mostly. Your body is a marketplace, and I have always bargained the leftover promises on the window sill for a sight of you. Your skin sells my infidel desires for the value of your scent. I discover routes in your thighs, sometimes, leading to an abandoned city where your home lies. You have been speaking sins to me in sighs, and my eyes only know to succumb to you. #love #nostalgia #memories #pain #yqbaba

11 JAN AT 18:43

Maybe, my poems cannot hold you
with the affection my chest can.

Paper cups. Some people are like coffee- ground, not crushed. Their aroma scatters through your living room as they tell you of seasons that alter patterns with certain names. I have seen such grace in the night falling asleep in your arms that now, your thoughts are the color of stories you tell with references to people who leave a spoon in your jar. You have been stirring it for a while, but this casual killing knows only a taste for pain. Your coffee gets served out of paper cups that let you drip, sometimes. Maybe, my poems cannot hold you with the affection my chest can. Maybe, that's why I breathe you in as you waft through my fingertips, and lose yourself in poems where you are never crushed, but ground. #people #nostalgia #love #memories #yqbaba

5 JAN AT 18:46

Sometimes, when she is not looking,
I return back to her embrace,
when her silhouette
was no more a promise.

Vanishing acts. Do you ever wonder what those threads were before they were your second skin? I have been tossing coins into wishing wells- hoping for an answer to how I am left without feet when our mention arrives. I fall into sounds of missing spaces between sentences. I have not mastered typewriting yet, some words skip their turn to be introduced, and merge into the previous. Vicariously, them or us, atleast one of us would have made sense. Sometimes, when she is not looking, I browse through old memories to steal her smile before a rude realisation makes it vague. Sometimes, when she is not looking, I return back to her embrace, when her silhouette was no more a promise. Our conversations mutely move through carefree eyes. We were explorers before your search rolled me into appearances where we got reduced to our impressions. Your clothes lie in the corner of a room that swims in between our loud desperation. You have read my face before, and my sweat smells the same as you now. Even when you leave, your side of the bed warms up my blanket when my poetry does not touch your lips, but stays trapped in my nails. Do you ever wonder what those threads were before they were your second skin? I do. #nostalgia #heartbreak #love #memories #yqbaba

3 JAN AT 13:17

She tells me how transient
life could be,
but leaves her toothbrush
in the bathroom
as a promise of coming back.

Purple // for Shrey. Her sighs often hang from the corner of her smile. She tells me how transient life could be, but leaves her toothbrush in the bathroom as a promise of coming back. I hope that is how Maa lost Baba, how my grandparents forgot to spell each other's names. When the skin wears too thin, they say the color brown turns to is purple. I have been trying to find her letters in a house where I feel like a prisoner in the clothing of my own skin, I lash out with words which sputter like black ink, but cause blisters that never heal. My memory knocks on addresses I usually like to avoid. I remember my Maa saying that some wounds never heal, I think that she knows that under the scabs, the rising oceans still look purple, irrespective of how blue the skies are, how bright the moon shines. #pain #love #memories #yqbaba #newyear

2 JAN AT 15:52

My curtains strangle the day
to uncork some night.

Usually. Usually, the way you leave that door open, every time you walk out, I fear a little more if you would ever return. I cower into my skin when kitchen-sink remorse starts to leak, and my pillow stinks of second-hand words. I try to avoid poems in my speech, but they are insolent. They lack manners. I apologise for them; it is only fair for me to apologise for metaphors that seem like your perfume even when it has been five months of your absence. I read up a lot about human mind. I wonder how these definitions and explanations seem like a mockery of tissue papers we roll up in our heart because how else do I stop the bleeding from my chest? I am told to walk on broken foot quite often, "That's how you stand back up." But, what do I do when my skeleton is less bone but more punishment now? I often try to escape into books and songs, but when your body is a housefire, your mind smokes like a chimney on lucky nights, like a gas furnace on most. Molten steel of my determination weilds knives I forget to count before sunlight is just an excuse to wish for seeing another day. What do I tell you of pain when what I can show is so little? What do I tell you of pain when people leave, and flowers choose to die? My curtains strangle the day to uncork some night. I have been struggling with words to synchronise poetry with expressions. It is common to misunderstand poets for communicators, while we are barely human. Usually, the earth pours into the skies before their heaving breath becomes heavy with borrowed rains. The way you leave has been riling up storms in places I come from; my washed-away home is a wreckage of whatever you take away every time. It rains somewhere, and it falls on my head, before it rains from me to wet someone's stray shoulder. Usually, when you don't return, my winters turn into callous monsoons, forgetting a season they don't belong in. #love #heartbreak #pain #separation #yqbaba

17 DEC 2017 AT 21:01

Often in my shivers,
my blanket turns to your embrace.
When it fails to even smell of you,
it becomes a prophet 
of a God 
my nightmares don't belong to.

Nightmares. Your dream climbs onto my bed, and sleeps on your side. I have been trying ever since to allow my heart to beat with your name, but my breath chases your butterfly memory where now your dream chooses to lose its way. Often in my shivers, my blanket turns to your embrace. When it fails to even smell of you, it becomes a prophet of a God my nightmares don't belong to. Your dreams climb onto my bed, and sometimes, pull my pillow away. They have been cotton-swabbing the contours of my wet cheek. When my life fails to fit in with all my breath, I try to carve a bed for your dreams to sleep in. When your dreams climb onto my bed, they leave me in a bath of you; I start to wear you in sweat, but sometimes, I become a little more. They climb on top of me, pull a little bit of vocal revolt, and where my agony does not sound like craving, your dreams mature into nightmares of our making. #love #heartbreak #sad #dreams #yqbaba

11 DEC 2017 AT 19:16

Let me help you
strangle yourself tonight.
Two more poems
would carve your back
into their blanket,
and your pitiless spine
would just be another carcass.
You would never breathe
without the stench
of your own blood
in your mouth.
It is surprising how
sweat tastes like tears
after every nightmare breaks.
It is amusing how
broken bones can be plastered,
but cut lips are just
pagan symbols of
a wrist full of blades.

Oxymoron. Let me help you strangle yourself tonight. Two more poems would carve your back into their blanket, and your pitiless spine would just be another carcass. You would never breathe without the stench of your own blood in your mouth. It is surprising how sweat tastes like tears after every nightmare breaks. It is amusing how broken bones can be plastered, but cut lips are just pagan symbols of a wrist full of blades. #oxymoron #depression #heartbreak #nightmare #yqbaba

5 DEC 2017 AT 11:47

This extravagance becomes
your recluse on
infidel nights
when goodnight kisses
are heartbreaks in 
the middle of 
parched autumns.

Extravagance // for Kiana It is a weird comfort when the whiskey breath of forgotten dreams is an unkept muse. The nails of your poetry extends into the flesh of your sanity. You have been tearing your lips apart for far too long. I want to tell you that these metaphors can collapse into a rubble for your own saving, but sometimes, ruins can become homes too. This extravagance becomes your recluse on infidel nights when goodnight kisses are heartbreaks in the middle of parched autumns. You might be aware of a lover's arm that fades into molten ashes wherever you stop. You might be aware of unbecoming dreams like shades of a sunset seen backwards, chasing your tousled hair. You might be aware of rescue missions where you are the disaster, and you are the fire escape. Sometimes, saving comes from extravagance which is a play that goes on without a script. Sometimes, it is a couple of drunk words, hiding from colors, wrapped in thin whispers wafting like incense in your breath. #love #hate #heartbreak #poetry #yqbaba

30 NOV 2017 AT 19:49

You have been more
of my child than my elder sister.
But, I abandoned you 
when you needed me the most
because I have always been afraid 
to let my pretense break, 
to show you how the younger brother
you admire becomes less of a human
every day.

Dida, I know that you hate being called Dida, because in Bangla, Dida means grandma. But, in my limited knowledge of Bangla, I have learnt that one does not need to know a language to love. Dida, did you know? Our laughter still resounds in the stairways of the college auditorium. Our evening conversations where I mostly cried, and Dida, you just held my hand and listened, still resonates in the ears of a building that committed us to its memory. On most nights, when you reach out to me, I try not to respond back now, Dida. I know that if I do, just like the last time in September last year, my shackles would fall, and sometimes, some people are safer in their prisons. I know that you have been alone, distant, scared, Dida. I know that I have been too. I want to ask you how your day did not have a moment where you smiled, how living close to home should have been a happy decision, but all it does is drive a larger gap between our chests. I want to hug you, Dida, and tell you how I always almost call you Dida and hold back to call you Di, because you hate being called Dida. You would ask me - “Do I seem that old?” – No, Dida, you don’t. You have been more of my child than my elder sister. But, I abandoned you when you needed me the most because I have always been afraid to let my pretense break, to show you how the younger brother you admire becomes less of a human every day. I love you, Dida, I want to tell you this, but talking to you never had to be a challenge, just a picture of you feeding me food in a college fest when we had been dancing the whole day, a picture of you sitting next to me, taking my shoulder for a bed when I felt untouchable. We might not have been born from the same womb, but you have been more familiar to me than my reflection, Dida. #sister #brother #love #home #yqbaba

22 NOV 2017 AT 15:08

You have lent your
breath for someone else’s 
smoke break.

Origami // for Arunima. Colors of your yesteryear memories wash up at his shores every morning. You twilight a bit of the Sun in your drooping eyes. Thank the clouds for some roots that learnt their way to heavens. Your sentences become lyrics to his songs that save him when papers rot with dark corridors you call with a name. His framed whispers reach you in between long sighs when your love for him folds like a crane stretching at your voice. You have lent your breath for someone else’s smoke break - with beeping gospels like a ventilator in a winding ambulance on a drowning highway. The fire escape that leaves your lips becomes the fog that only telegram-souls speak in - "You", these milestones read, "will find your way to him." These hot air balloons of your clenched fists are now a mere summary of poems you want to write in between phrases that implode and become images of someone’s fleeting love for you. You would reach out to a chest that gets carved out of pungent sweat and saliva like adhesive for shattering idols. Faith of your infidelity which like your forest would burn subtly in a camphor effervescence. Your mornings would be a stained memory of love-drunk pages which would bookmark these origami years. You have been bringing home wounded songs from runaway memories - this morning, you will try to save some again. #love #heartbreak #relationship #story #yqbaba

16 NOV 2017 AT 17:27