Puja Goyal
country : India

*Radio Jockey with All India Radio (A.I.R) 101.3 FM, poet, play-writer, and part time actor.

*Primary influences are writers like Mario Puzo, D.H.Lawerence, Emily Bronte; especially her book- Wuthering Heights, Robert Frost and William Wordsworth. 

*Writing style is offbeat, with a touch of the dark lingering in some of them. I like it when there is one element missing in the poem or piece, in this manner; everything is left to the reader’s imagination. The poems are not trying to make a statement or trying to say something. A cross between silent music (through words), poetry and short story has been experimented with over here, and I really hope that people appreciate this new style of writing. 

*Published works: The Royal Bird Eagle, To Be with You, Dream Again, The Essence of One, The Day the Clock Stopped, Stolen Happiness, You Remind Me, Mathilda, etc
*At present working towards getting a collection of my works published.

The Day The Clock Stopped

The window lies open 

The path is swept clean.

Somehow the cup of tea… 

          Never runs cold.

She places the black roses in the vase,

Fresh as they are from yesterday.

They resemble the thoughts in her mind.

Life goes on.......


The milkman comes again,

It is the fifth day-

She orders extra milk.


She sits on the portico 

   and stares again .

Deep and thoughtless her eyes wait.

Her expressionless face - 

         “A Portrait in Disguise”

Her posture-

        Straight and composed.


The letter she received from her son  

was seven years and four days late.



Tequila Sunrise 

I woke up nude in the park today,

with tequila in my hand.

it hit me hard

it hit me strong-

Oh, it felt good 

whichever way it hit my head.

I feel dizzy, I feel dazed,

nothing else made a difference

nothing else mattered to me today.

The soft breeze is around me

 and Tequila is in my head.


Tequila sunrise it is and all feels good.

People walk past me staring in total disgrace.

The girls, they see, they giggle, they laugh,

As I wink at them, I smile, 

I flirt my soul out.


The sun turns orange and my eyes turn red .

I try to stand up and fall down again.

A third , a fourth , the fifth time… I stopped,

Big deal!

I had the whole day to stand, to walk.


“Where are my clothes?”

I wonder, with a little sense 

that is remaining in me.

I could not see…


My girl fled with all of them, I think.

My clothes, my girl, my money, my car,

every bit of it,  gone with the wind…

All gone with sanity .


No sweat, no regrets,

She left Tequila behind.

It swished through my head,

And then everything felt fine.


It was a new morning,

A bright new day,

When I was free from all 

Free to live, Free to stay,


“Wake me up tomorrow”,

I tell the people around me..

“When its another Tequila Sunrise, 

When I'm me”.



Broken Toys.


The barren street sends a chill to my spine.

I look around for a taxi;

Everything looks dark and sinister.

No place for a delicate toy to spend time.

The bricks on the wall; washed clean.

I await my wooden bench,

The one I bought in the flee market.

What a bargain!!


‘Little crooks hanging around the next corner,

They could bring the knife to my throat,

Steal everything there would be left of me,

Molest me, leave me to die on those streets.’

The more I thought, the more it made me dizzy.


“Give me a dime”;

“Anything, I'm hungry, quite desperate...Please.”

She jumped out of the corner and looked at me.

The filthy smell on her attire making me nauseous.


Sixteen, seventeen or maybe younger;

Kohl spread all over her face,

She may have been crying, she was hungry.

Her torn brassiere indicating a different story.

Scratches on her hands, neck and legs,

Blood on her dress and shoes.

Her pleading eyes asking me to save her.

I stood and stared at that face.

I had spent the last dime on my broken bench.


I thought.... what could I ask her?

Where is your mother; or

What are you doing here; or

Do you want to spend the night in my bed?

I had not been with anyone for a long time.

I could offer her the last piece of stale bread.

The one I had left on that broken bench.


It was her turn; she looked awkwardly at me.

Lost eyes, dry tears and pale skin.

She followed me as I walked. 

“Would you wait a second?” 

I stopped and turned to look.

She was bending down to pick up her broken toy.