[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Utsav kaushik – Issue.XX : September 2016 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]poet in the making…[/ultimate_heading]

Introduction to the Poet:

Utsav Kaushik doesn’t consider himself a poet yet likes to bramble obscurity. Also has a deep interest in doing theatre, writing songs and music. His voice is deep set in the grey shades of North India. Nature always inspires him for awkward cacophony. And he is a very talkative poet. He is currently working on new theories in the literary field of post-colonialism. His poem entitled “Leaves” was published in the March issue 2016 of Londongrip. His poems entitled “Confession of a Sexist” and “Strange Tides” were published in The Paragon Journal, etc.


Labouring Stains

Working – nothing new beneath the sun

Except labour – day and night. How charming!

A skeleton: meek jaws, torn collar and profane femur.

Sweating, spitting and staring through cracks.


At once raise, both hands stretching back,

Muscles tightening behind the neck, straight nose,

A bow waiting to lose: at once came down inches deep

Into cement, concrete and Red.


Lustrous bodies – polished shoes in sundry:

West African Sepia, Black chocolate and Grey-goose.

Fighting the other, filling their skull and carrying



Red fumes rising and shattering the Blue.

THE TIME HAS COME to trade not in Green

Or Silver or Meaning. To blast with hammer and spade

Every socio-civil structure, pulverizing them into dreams.


Mistah Kurtz –he ain’t dead: “I want Blue not Red!”

At once raised their hands, stretching back behind his neck,

Straight noses, several bows waiting to liberate

At once came down several spades inches deep into Red.




It came from somewhere and caught my buckle.

Only when it pulled,

I realised…




Saved innocent minds;

Her shrill cries,

Her miseries,

It locked away.

That scar, humanity gave her.


Bold but beautiful,

The blue of her eyes

Hiding behind edge, confessing:

“Dowry burned me!”


Life without adoration.

Beauty left her alone.

A life she didn’t ask for.


Her eyes saying…

Seclusion and monotony: her companions betrayed,

Were jealous, gone. Her beauty,

The burnt edge of a candle;

Like melted wax sticking to the bottom.

Neck wasn’t fair,

Cheeks didn’t carry

The tint of skirmish crimson,

Eyes were small and shy.

Not like women from Mills & Boon.



Eclipsing her,

Making her shudder.



Burning her

Every now and then

Even in this new life.