LatinosUSA

• Juan Re Crivello: Do you think poetry is back in fashion?

Kabir Deb: Poetry has never been out of fashion. We fall in love and we spill a poem. We cry in pain, we think about a poetic justice. We pray to God with the verses of poetry written in his devotion. So, it was never out of fashion. Our normal world revolves around it. So, sometimes we just miss the axis.

• J.R.C: Do you write poetry daily, or do you write as ideas come to you?

Kabir Deb: Ideas do come daily but to prepare a good meal, I starve myself. When I can’t take the hunger anymore, I write a poem.

• J.R.C.: What is your next publishing project? Could you tell us how it came about?

Kabir Deb: At present, I’m working on a book of short stories. This came out when I fell in love with a woman who writes stories. She pushed me to write prose as she saw a good prose writer in me. Currently, I’m just jotting them down and whenever it gets to see the light of the day, it will be for her. A proper muse.

• J. R. C.: The city you live in, and a description of your favorite bar or café.

Kabir Deb: I live in a town named Karimganj, and a cafe named Bites and Delights is my hub. I keep on visiting it to participate in jamming sessions since both the owners are musicians.

Bad Days, Good Days by Kabir Deb

I keep my bad days in the front pocket,
Constantly touching, feeling them,
The bruises appear in here,
And over the creases, sometimes
They stink, scaring every possible man
Around me, in other times infinite
Possibilities draw me to sleep,
I sleep like death, I wake up to a ripped
Edge, blood drips, a blood moon,
I touch every bit of it, I moan
Through my pain, the pocket soaks like
A woman, a struggle narrates its
Story, a story it is of struggle,
The bad days menstruate, it’s the
Only time I’m not told by me that I am a
Man, I bathe my pain off, I dry my
Body with the sky, sun sets on
My waist, my front has a night,
Owls hoot, wolves come out, it is
When I touch every bit of me, bad days
Thrive beyond a pocket, it creeps,
It pulls, it draws the divine on
The hands of the devil, a witchcraft
It is to taste them; before it is morning.
.
.
I keep my good days in my back pocket,
Sometimes they’re forgotten, while
In other times I walk right over
Them, I am told I don’t love them, I stab
Them again and again to drink their
Blood, I wash the stains, erase
Every possible clue, manipulate the
Evidences, I even don’t care if someone
Steals them from me, I expose
Every bit of my back looking for the
Things I need to have, how pathetic it all
Sounds, right? I don’t do these to be
Honest, I just know that if I keep
Them before my eyes, I’d grow a lust,
A very ominous lust, a weird longing for
A good time, may be I’d kill someone
To take his place, or burn a home
For my mansion, I let the back pocket
Bleed through the crack, I wobble
Through the crowded metros where the
Good days get wet of the heat,
I keep them in the sun, they dry up
Over my skin, every drop of sweat slips
Down my legs and all I now know
Is that a good day is a storm,
If I hold it properly it’d take me on
Its ride, if I do not someone might steal
It from me, then my back would hurt.
.
.
On average days I do not speak of them,
I just drink and smoke, I play with
My words, speak of the life
I often think of not leading & just sleep,
To know everything isn’t necessary,
To have a bad day is to have a
Fever, a good day isn’t different, it picks
The right moment to spill a coffee
Upon, on bad days I wetten
My bed crying my heart out, the good
Days leave me with a bed drenched
In love, laughter, lunacy, I don’t get my
Bad days because I want to, I do
Get it for I’ve no other option
Left, consolation doesn’t work, no one
Can motivate a fallen flower to
Bloom again, there’s a myth,
“no one is having a bad day, we just
Choose to suffer”, a tightly constructed
Bubble it is, I didn’t choose to be
How I am, I don’t push myself
Off the bed just to enjoy a bruise,
I do it because I want a wound to be in
Power, pain has been a demagogue,
My average day is when I embroider my
Smile, and pull the cloth off pain,
A lark would come to your terrace every
Single day if you know the needs of
The lark, a man dies in me on some
Days, a woman echoes behind my lips,
I commit a murder, I make love too,
A dichotomy is what I live, I suppose we
Live between everything and nothing.

Author Biography

Kabir Deb is a writer based in Karimganj, Assam. He is the recipient of Social Journalism Award, 2017; Reuel International Award for Best Upcoming poet, 2019; Nissim International Award, 2021 for Excellence in Literature for his book ‘Irrfan: His Life, Philosophy And Shades’. He reviews books, many of which have been published in national and international magazines. His last book, The Biography of The Bloodless Battles has been shortlisted for Muse India Young Writer’s Award.

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