We Will Never Be History

Honey, no one will

Remember you if you

Decide to live with me.

We can have a big house,

One that has a huge basement;

Or one that looks like

A snow man even in summer.

Still no one will notice you.

We can have two dogs,

Both your favorite kinds.

Two cats and few exotic birds,

But no one will come

And ask for your autograph.

We can save money in

The piggy bank to buy a Mustang,

Or go to Paris in summer;

But that’s about it.

There will be no history

Written only for you.

We can have kids

Three, if you want,

But they have dirty pampers.

They will need to go to school

Everyday, and you need to

Wake up at dawn.

If you leave the world

And live with me,

You can only have myself;

Fat, ugly and different

Than most of your women

May be too deep too.

With me, you can have

Plenty of boredom and

Only occasional orgasms.

With me, you will have

No story, let alone history.

You know what you must do

To be remembered.

You need to drink and fuck

Like Bukowski, you need to

Sleep on different streets

Every night.

You will have angels with vaginas

Smelling like Dolce and Gabana’s

New summer collection.

Or Victoria Secret models who

Make everyone fall from heaven.

You can have a leading lady like

The conservative filmmaker

Or can have more than one,

Like a French auteur.

You can flirt while you work.

That will make work more interesting,

Experiential, art must be so

So I heard.

Their waxed cunts are

Much tastier than mine.

The orgasms with them

Are like the French crepes

Or mimosa in a fine dinning.

Those will make you

Live in a euphemism,

You will be calling love

The morning fog-

That goes away as the day

Advances towards the evening.

Every cunt where you lay

Your hands on, will promise

A different story.

Those are your sources

Of art, your poems, motion pictures.

Every pair of breasts

Where you delve your nose

And suck with your lusty bites

Will tell you the stories

That you need for your next film.

You can go beyond time,

You don’t have to have time tables;

You can sleep during days.

Remember, no one has to go to school.

You can just laugh and fuck

during dark and whites.

You can laugh at history,

Pastel arts, or wonder around

In the neon lights of

A sin city.

There will be no leisure for boredom,

you will never be sober enough

To be not excited.

A documentary filmmaker will

Follow you to your grave.

He will dig down your

Bones and try to stuff those

With artsy marrows.

You will never be forgotten.

Everyone will remember you,

Even the critique

Who slammed you pretty hard.

All your sins will be forgiven,

And forgotten,

With the candles, flowers and cards

From your fans.

You will be remembered and rewarded.

May be there will be someone

Who will love you too.

At least for your fame, money or

Just for yourself.

Why do you still want to be?

With me?

Why do you want to sleep?

In the same bed that always faces

The south, and far from

Every happiness?

Let me know if you

Change your mind,

Its never too late

To abort my game,

Because I can never promise you history.

Sold My Couch Today

I sold my couch today.

It was comfortable.

Spent hours on it

Thinking about him.

But old things must go.

Don’t ask me how long

It takes to get something

Old. No one ever wrote

A book on it.

May be two days, may be

A hundred years,

Why do we care?

We make it new and old

Whenever we please.

Its all in our head,

Like fear, or a

Forbidden idea,

Like making love

On an open meadow.

Like those ideas

That creeps up

In your little head

On a lonely and frustrated

But sunny afternoon.

Is it the afternoon

Or the dead of night

When people decide

On things getting old?

One day I will declare

My fears to be old

And sell those

Like a black torn

Futon. I will make

Like fifty bucks

And buy myself a

Cheap thrill.

Or, if he is here

I will dance with him

Like an English maiden.

My arms on his,

And his arms on me,

Who needs anything else

When I have him

Right next to me.

If he loves me

I will keep my old

Fear, like an

Old record player,

On the corner,

Just for the show,

and still be happy.

About the Poet

Sohana Nasrin is an international graduate assistant at Gaylord College of Journalism and Mass Communication at the University of Oklahoma. Before joining graduate studies, she worked as an editor, journalist, public relations professional and social media strategist. Reading, taking photographs, watching movies and traveling top the list of her favorite pastimes. Interior monologue is her favorite genre to explore in her literary pursuits. She is often enticed by the multitudinous feelings that are intertwined with the stream of consciousness. Some of her favorite poets are- Charles Bukowski, Pablo Neruda, Mark Stand and so on. She is a native of Dhaka, Bangladesh.

The post Poems by Sohana Nasrin first appeared on Prachya Review.