Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Shubham Shree

ABOUT THAT BOY

with three days of stubble
every guy looks hot
(that is what I believe)
and if, instead of the gym,
for a week he is hospital interned
then his eyes turn philosophic
yellow and melancholic
burning and lifeless
unsalted laughter, shrivelled smile
walking but to tire
on a fulsome evening, shawl-wrapped—looking at infinity
eating once, puking thrice
crouched in syringe-fear.
running her palm over the wistful face of that boy
the girl thinks deep within,
let me die but nothing should happen to him
ailing boys become suspicious of their lovers
they cannot read minds—these ailing boys.

उस लड़क्रे को याद

उस लड़क्रे को याद

लीन दिन की शेव में
हर लडका हॉट लगता है
(ऐसा मेरा मानना है)
और जिम के बदले
अस्पताल में पडा हो हफ्ते भर
तो आँखें दार्शनिक हो जाती है
पीली और उदास
उस लड़के को याद
जलती हुई और निस्तेज
बिना नमक की हँसी और सुखा मुस्कुराहटें
चले तो थक जाए
भरी शाम शॉल ओढ़ कर शुन्य में ताके
एक बार खाए, तीन बार उल्टी करे
दुबक जाए इंजेक्शन के डर से
उस लड़के के उदास चेहरे पर हाथ फेरती लड़की
मन ही मन सोचती है
मैं मर जाऊँ पर हसे कुछ न हो
बीमार लड़के प्रेमिकाओं पर शक करने लगते हैं
मन नहीं पढ आते बीमार लड़के
Close

ABOUT THAT BOY

with three days of stubble
every guy looks hot
(that is what I believe)
and if, instead of the gym,
for a week he is hospital interned
then his eyes turn philosophic
yellow and melancholic
burning and lifeless
unsalted laughter, shrivelled smile
walking but to tire
on a fulsome evening, shawl-wrapped—looking at infinity
eating once, puking thrice
crouched in syringe-fear.
running her palm over the wistful face of that boy
the girl thinks deep within,
let me die but nothing should happen to him
ailing boys become suspicious of their lovers
they cannot read minds—these ailing boys.

ABOUT THAT BOY

with three days of stubble
every guy looks hot
(that is what I believe)
and if, instead of the gym,
for a week he is hospital interned
then his eyes turn philosophic
yellow and melancholic
burning and lifeless
unsalted laughter, shrivelled smile
walking but to tire
on a fulsome evening, shawl-wrapped—looking at infinity
eating once, puking thrice
crouched in syringe-fear.
running her palm over the wistful face of that boy
the girl thinks deep within,
let me die but nothing should happen to him
ailing boys become suspicious of their lovers
they cannot read minds—these ailing boys.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère