94. C. Oulens
Personal revelation and philosophical enquiry from India
Oulens is the pen name of this poet, who comes from India. An academic for two decades, and a nature lover with keen interest in human psychology, she gradually drifted to poetic expressions for personal revelation and philosophical inquiry. Her poetry is suffused with sentience, wit and quiet satire. She is often found lost looking for lost and hidden living and non-living things and questions. She is the recipient of the 3rd Annual Poe-It Like Poe 2025 poetry contest awarded by The Six Degrees of Edgar Allan Poe for her poem Seen Unseen. Her works are published/upcoming in The Broken Spine anthologies, The Starbeck Orion, The Candyman’s Trumpet, SciFanSat etc. and in a few haiku journals. Her creative writings posted on Bluesky are well-received.
Poems
A Noiseful of Silence - from Convenience Store Eyes Open-Shut I Beg to Disagree Through the Depths Doing Away with Monster The Wait The Idiot Amnesia
A Noiseful of Silence - from Convenience Store
Hey Silence! Don’t you feign naïveté You are not kind or brave You are merely playing safe C’mon Silence! Don’t go fooling yourself Take off the nirvana cape You’ve got a six-noise-pack Hush Silence!! If you’ve muffled your hoots Is it wise to go about Wearing it in your boots Easy… Silence… Are you scared of my voice Can you clothe in even yours Would you rather be a voyeur Who wears no words crush… flush… shush… < < <
Eyes Open-Shut
Sometimes I fear if I open my eyes this fluid face contained within will vanish and the sightless gaze held steadfast in this unconfined space will blink and the coarse touch of a travelling ache at a distance-less pace will lose its solace. Sometimes I think as I close my eyes the minutes I send gift-wrapped the minutes falling snatched in this bottomless boundless hourglass from a timeless universe— if I’d use them other than giving to Sense and Sensibility to whom I have given infinitely more… often in vain? < < <
I Beg to Disagree
With Due respect to Shakespeare
Your life is not one grand stage— Don’t trip traipsing on and off it; Don’t be judged by the audience. You’re not performing in a play— Don’t enact staid characters in plaids, laid out by someone else. You’re not an audience either— Don’t merely regale in others’ acts! Participate in life trapezing. Inside. Breathe in through your lens. The outside. < < <
Through the Depths
Every day, or perhaps every other day Irrespective of whether it’s a Tuesday or a Saturday Regardless of a dark-draped night or a silk-skein day Notwithstanding a lazing, a musing or a bustling day At some point of time, I stand pointless at the tip of some bay sinking sans gravity Just the one weight — the head; and void sinks in and swells like a torrid tempest in a mouthful of water of some known alien taste Images refuse to surface inside eyes of iron- clad casks The chest — a dead sea — and in it the only thing alive that kicks — tentacled despair. Still, every time, not Just every other time the limbs in nick of time make their presence felt Eyes light up with infinite rainbowed bubbles — Amazement abounds all around in the depths and I stretch my arms and kick my feet back all the way up thrust by buoyancy of the indefatigable — the lithe life! < < <
Doing Away with Monster
Who even tries to kill a monster? What an atrocious waste of time! So much sweat and all that gooey grime! Ever wondered a better way, sure enough to chase it away? Who knows? It’s just an impostor! For all that labour, all that slime, and all that time that’s worth some dime, you’d think it’d vanish, still it grows! Is it even possible to know, how many lives it has, it must live? It’s up and about before you grieve! Is it black or green, purple or grey? Will it listen if you kneel and pray? Could it be an iridescent white? Can its darkness shimmer in light? If you clip its claws, trim its mane will it look less dreary, somewhat sane? Will it give you a little respite if you stop your chase, halt its bread, if you cut loose the trailing thread? Can’t you seek another path to tread? Can’t you choose to chase squirrels instead? Can you do that in spite of your spite? < < <
The Wait
The waiting from the time the child is conceived afloat a mother’s celestial womb to the time to the sun its beauty bursts amidst pain serenading joy, with aplomb is the wait — …only the earth can know carrying treasures within, to grow; …lovers will never get to know as impatience chained to oscillating tick-tock paces, clap-tap-clap-tap to and fro; …love will grow to know when chains unshackle, lead unbuckles, nimbly as on Nature’s rug, it tiptoes. < < <
The Idiot
The idiot, on a fine day was born; before it could open its eyes— it opened up its arms. But it could still manage to see through the filtered light pouring free. Only, the light was so blinding that to the idiot it seemed befit to keep shut its translucent lids. From that day on, all around— in the house, in neighbours’ mouths, seventeen miles north and south, whispers and sniggers abound— of how the idiot was blind born, of how its lids were pale and shorn, of the funny arms that always stretched— when meeting humans always twitched. But hang on, let’s not sing a sob story— be patient, we may find some glory. Sit tight, choose whatever hat to don— pity, sympathy, empathy or scorn! I am yet to tell of the magic lamp that came hidden with a fairy stamp to the idiot, on someday unknown— of its powers, to it unbeknownst! When faced with the human grid the lamp revealed the faces hid— each one to their finest details— of illustrious days or of travails; of lecherous eyes, of flowing hearts; the narcissists or the hypocrites; of dreams beyond, of flights cut short; the cunning fox, the intellectual sloth. Yet, when sieved through its gelatine lid its arms met just the pure liquid, and every time stretched out as bid. And stories, anecdotes still abound, how the idiot could be spun around. Yet it could find its peace in pain. Yet it could savour the glory of rain. < < <
Amnesia
Dreamy dawn Forgets the night’s tears—shed and held— blurred to light’s gold All too soon < < <



Lovely to see you joining 60 Odd Poets C. ❤️
I love Cs work and this is a wonderful collection. Thanks to both contributor and curator ❤️