A collection of poems by Archisha Mukherjee 11-C


A dusty pathway, brick-laid, unused, leads into empty corridors

That wind inside a stocky building, with windows shuttered and closed doors

Evergreen grass sways gently as the wind rustles through its undisturbed blades

It’s a strange and liminal environment, unsuited to this silence, that rings and rings and doesn’t fade

It thrums in anticipation, and waits for the pitter-patter of feet to begin again;

To listen to the squeak of a marker against the whiteboards, to the silence wane

The twinkling laughter of children, returning to the days that were.

In A Dream

In a blissful, fitful sleep, I had once

A dream, so real yet fake

A house, no a blazing inferno, in the middle of a blizzard land

I stood there, alone, not lost, and longed for a friendly hand

The ice pelted down from the heavens above, spiteful

And the fire raged on inside that house, blazing and contorting

I splayed out my gloved fingers against its burning walls,

And I watched, stone faced, as the fire raged on through the halls

The land outside the window was white and barren

Save the footsteps, that printed themselves on the snow

Frost encased the cracked, yellowing glass, slowly, bit by bit

It crept up my hands, and the fire inside did nothing to quell it.


The stars are dim and hazy tonight,

A little nebulous, if I may say

The lazy wind that blows so light

Leads the mountain mist astray

The city below dimly twinkles

Just as foggy as the stars

I can see them, just barely, through the night’s wrinkles

Like a prisoner, through their bars

The rooftop I sit on is cold and moist

As the droplets begin collecting

I picture myself, the pinnacle of grace and poise

With my hands on my lap, wringing and complecting

The moon is nigh invisible

Hidden beyond tonight’s foggy clouds

It attempts to show, a task quite unfeasible

And in the distance, somewhere, a raven shouts.

Time To Spare

It has been a while, since I’ve had the chance

To indulge in all those little whims of mine

That so often pop up

But back when the world ran

As if there were no tomorrow

I found that not a moment could be wasted

On all my little fancies

Now, when the world has quietened down

And I have found myself with hours

And hours to spend

On all that I would like to spend them on

I have discovered

That the ink flows freely

As long as I give it the time to do so.

Secret Garden

Secret garden, blooming bright, walk me through the

Greens and blues, the fluttering, flittering wings among

Leaves and petals, and over barks that gnarl and slither

The vines that creep like viridian snakes and wisteria ropes

Secret garden, calm and quiet, let me rest and

Come to stop, among the fragrant, lilting shrubs

Those soft blades, that curling moss,

The dirt from whence life is born,

From whence it sprouts and curls back up.