Small Things and other Sharp Poems

Small Things and other Sharp Poems

Small Things can be folded and carried in a pocket… But what does it happen with Big Things? Today, you can listen to Adreyo Sen and his sharp opinions.

Three clever musical poems: Small Things, Immortality and Light. Enjoy the day, Yareah readers!

Small Things and other Sharp Poems

Small Things and other Sharp Poems

Small Things

Things that are not small are limited

by the inconvenient truth

of their bulk. They cannot be folded and

carried in a pocket, or secreted under the

heel of a shoe like a non-lethal sliver

of revelation. They are not born to deceive,

they do not pass through the immigration

counters of nations and minds as

entirely different things. Things that are

not small are not born convicts, born

rebels, born amoral heartbreakers.

Things that are small luxuriate in their

consummate talent for becoming symbols, for

selling themselves to ideologies and doctrines

with just a twist at the corner, or a pretence,

slight, of change. Things that are small know

how it is to be the cancer at the center

of what is misguided, but genuine; they

know how to pervert everything into a

worship of their tiny selves.

Some small things do not abuse their

tremendous power over your heart. Rather,

they seek, like kinder gods, to protect it.

They stand bland guard over your

dressing table, or repose with pained dignity

on your bedside vanity, alerting you

subtly to memories under-appreciated,

lurking behind the front curtains of your

mind, calling out to you as you sleep

in the voices of those you once loved

with all the fatal sincerity of a heart that

had not learned to know better,

and conveying sneakily late at night

into the dingy and sad confines

of your room, the wonderful fried smells of home

and the warmth of damp, cheerful, floury love

you only pretended to disdain.



Immortality as a human condition,

is not the permanent given

we’d like to believe in.

Age, as an artist, is patient. She never wearies

of waiting, of only ever applying her fine

network of wrinkles and hurts and

disappointments, to the masterpiece of defeat

that is your face, with infinite slowness.

Age has to hold off on us with a scornful shrug

of her grey shoulders, only as long as there are

people who still see us as when we were

young. Who see us as when our youth was

heartrendingly obvious, who see us still,

so sadly, in the furious light of our then arrogance,

and idealism, our then terrible, tragic capacity for

hope, our then half-hearted, over-committed

insanity of love.

It’s only when the last custodians of a

past we’ll never remember full well

ourselves, and certainly not as the time

we were our best, most ardent, and most

genuine selves (if only we secretly, miserably, suspected

ourselves of being counterfeit), age out

and die,

that Age steps in with her terrible brush,

to make of us art that is perhaps only this beautiful

because its existence has been entirely forgotten.



When I was small and roaming our alley,

aimless, convinced as was my peevishly feeble

way, that no one loved me and that I was

better off dead, a stranger grabbed me

in her arms and put in my tear-stained,

dirty palm, the brilliance of an orange.

As I walked home, the promise of joy so

welcome and sticky on my fingers, I felt the

world was brighter. The buildings no longer

had the bombed look of shell-shocked, greying

victims of indifference.

Awakening from my selfish ways and discarding my

toybox of petty hurts, I looked around and saw

the world spark, so softly, so briefly, into the

pastel-bright colours of love, everytime a smile

was forfeited from a kind face without receipt

of payment, everytime a man with no more

strength in his feet, was moved on from

Despair, every time a tiny, ragged girl shared

with tinier children still, the little slivers of

her meal, everytime my parents held me in

their arms, and I found the sun and the

universe in their shoulder.

And growing now, I began to want to

do my bit to make the dull skies shine

that bit brighter. Not used to being

good, or particularly kind, I took baby steps,

to place my hand where it may be caught,

to let my ears be my heart, to let my eyes

speak when the slowness of my tongue could

not say, to find a girl I could love with all the

intensity of my narrow heart.

And that, love, is how I grew up.

View Comments (3)
  • IZara

    Good, good, poetry. Congratulations Adreyo Sen

  • Hello, I’m Martin, the editor of Yareah Magazine. Thank you very much for your poem. It’s intelligent. We are proud of publishing your poems. Congratulations for them and you are more than welcome here.

  • thanks, Martin!. and thanks for publishing me!
    thanks, IZara!


Adreyo Sen, based in Kolkata, hopes to become a full-time writer. He did his undergraduate work in English and his postgraduate work in English and Sociology. He has been published in Danse Macabre and Kritya.

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