A visit through a portrait

need to be said but words dissolve in thin vapors,

a gasp, a wisp of air escapes from open lips,

the voice of an inner world stays voiceless,

swiftly they blink, these buttoned eyes blind,

something is there in every peel, every layer,

on this paint, freshly ingrained, fingers still slip,

touching over, the tiny crinkles of distress,

lost in the lines of art, my heart disinclined,

beatific experience trembles, makes me forget,

I swipe over carelessly these beads of sweat,

.

even darkness is stroked by his silver breathing,

I explore my outline in the haze that appears,

floating in the imagination, conjurations come alive,

brought up by restless mind, flashed in genteel slides,

after a timeless commune, I turn away, releasing,

leaving behind on this portrait, a little smear

of my visit, through the pages of his story of deprive,

left unsaid, narration of his untold tale, denied,

yet I depart but I was here with him, beside him,

looking within, looking at him as his colors go dim

.

This is tagged as the poem for 30 November.

Yes, I completed NaBloPoMo, the goal of which was to write a blog post everyday but I enhanced the challenge for my own benefit by posting a poem everyday this month. I am glad because I got to experience the variety of my ideas. Having written form poetry like villanelle, lyrical rhyming verses, some humor, some mystery and free flowing free verse, I have explored through my mind, not confining myself to a particular style. But above all, I learnt to be patient even when the words do not come to me. It is all about giving myself some time and eagerly wait.

Also, I have realized that there is a romantic element ever-persistent in my writing. It doesn’t mean that I write love poems. I do romanticize things, feelings, emotions and simple incidents of life just like other poets and writers. Glorifying, lifting plain to something above ordinary is the work of every writer. I had always thought my written word could be defined by just one word i.e. darkness, forgetting that darkness has a melancholic romantic element poured all across it.

And thank you everyone for supporting me and sharing your kind feedback with me.

Also to remind you, I had also joined Team Nano Poblano, brought together by Rarasaur. And that is all. 🙂

Note: I was not aware that the painting is based on a TV character and therefore, the poem is not about the character himself. I just wanted to clarify that.

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Shall I shove an apple to thy face!?

shall I shove an apple to thy face,

which thou bite into, with a savage grace,

shall I wink shooting stars through my eyes,

to pierce thy coarse lips, sewing shut thy lies,

shall I bash thou, with my passion of oddity,

as thou wipe your nose on my heart, thy commodity,

shall I taste bitterness of thy sugar coated love,

as thou interrupt the mating of cloud doves,

shall I lose my tongue to thy expectations,

as extraordinary as black carnations,

shall I freeze thy image in heat of my blood,

as thou break my skull, with thy humor, with a thud,

shall I crunch thy bones within my canines,

so as to prove to thee, my glacial warmth signs,

we shall live perpetually in this strident abode,

our gurgling guts stringed by curvaceous roads,

I strangle thee in thy heavy bald locks,

while thou noose me in a hard death lock,

this love is a love, ye would not understand,

look away, as we finish each other off, as planned

.

Ha! 😀 It was fun. I was inspired by dVerse prompt today- to use conceit metaphors and images in the poem. Though I have gone quite bizarre in some of my pieces earlier, today I decided to keep it simple… as I see it.

This is tagged as the post for 29 November for NaBloPoMo. Just one more poem to go and then, I am done with the challenge.

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Vision

not buzzing, not much intonation,

I consider the hive perched on the tree,

and conjecture if I could extract some honey,

to bestow the day with a sweetness,

I can not savor, but discern and concede,

by heeding the clear golden flush,

and the strands as I finger it and above,

those rupturing lines, swirls of purity,

the measures of which I can not fathom,

but I can strive to discern, concede

the marvels of that edifice,

where it is concocted, prepared into

the divine reward of nature, the scents

of which, I gulp in, even if they’re not there,

but I could acquire the traces of familiarity,

which I thought, I had never had,

ah! I sigh… and I depart from the moment,

when I gave a glance, and disregarded,

the vision now glorified into a serene scene,

through the electrons, I am entitled to,

which have altered what took place,

into something, I could only fancy, had

.

This is tagged as the poem for 28 November for NaBloPoMo.

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Dribbling

subjugating my perception,

this affliction expurgating my limbs,

I contort in shapes, figurines of torment,

exuding through my sheathed skin,

this dark secretion, noxious

within and out, I melt down,

the flaming wick, discharging

this wax blood, tarnishing

the ashen linen of notions,

untouched, unrealized,

dribble… dribbling away,

the last that was left in me

.

This is tagged as the post for 27 November for NaBloPoMo.

I am linking it up with Friday Flash 55.

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Thy artistry

saturated in the beads of sunshine,

sprouting shy, subservient, veiling heart

from the impertinent eyes of world,

recherché to touch, inducing an ache,

arcane, unknown, of an artistry,

enfolded in the secrets, shrouded by you

.

a hopeless lover hopes by your sight,

layering within the layers of his love,

yearning for the nectar of you, his lover,

seaming you in his dreams, coloring

his vagaries, in the palette of shades,

the many succulent hues, of thy sly sure smile

.

This is tagged as the poem for 26 November for NaBloPoMo.

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We walk along

hand in hand we walk along,

singin’ for all a soul song,

we ramble through woods,

and talk of vagrant moods,

there’s no dwelling for us,

we ain’t got no home, no fuss,

round and round we roam,

look at widely arched domes,

we are nomads of true worth,

being not noble from our birth,

and thus we shall stay as we please,

everyone’s heart, love, we appease,

they ignore us, look disdained,

their bright white collars unstained,

peace is our protest, we shan’t care,

and open up our frivolous fair,

earn a penny or two and some notes,

singin’ from deep within our throats,

hand in hand we walk along,

deeming society, no ill, no wrong,

hand in hand we walk along,

singin’ for all a soul song

.

The Sunday Challenge at Imaginary garden with real toads celebrates the music of Woody Guthrie. What I love the most about his songs are the simplicity of rhymes and the gentle words flowing one after another. Therefore, that has been my inspiration for writing this poem. Please do share your feedback.

This is tagged as the poem for 25 November for NaBloPoMo.

We wait…

7/12/71 it is heard, the siren of the night

.

we rush back into our burrows,

hollow compartments dug into the streets,

and sometimes an unclassified basement

made, in the otherwise grounded houses,

a little light lamp is all we have as

we wait, waiting to know what

is conspiring, pondering over

the question, whether there is

going to be a war in our region,

I have clenched my mother’s saree,

it is plain cotton, no embroidery,

as she has her eyes shut, and her hands folded,

invoking the blessings of gods to keep them safe,

and to hurry the sun-lord to rise,

and make it seem right in the brightness of day,

the men gossip their trades, still important

to be discussed, and sometimes I could catch

their hesitation, of talking about

the war, spreading through every border,

marked by silence, more shrill than

the temple bell… kids cry, as the illumination

of the lamp dims, due to lack of kerosene,

and we wait… we wait in our bunker,

shadowed by our unaware selves

 .

we are waiting in quarters in candle lights,

waiting for the order from high command,

pondering whether we would also face the war,

a new package has arrived of artilleries, there

is a rumour, that the enemy would try to seize

the territory nearby soon, but we have to wait

and think, muse within our minds, I wonder

what my new born is doing back at home,

she would be nursing him… may be and

that brings a smile across my eyes,

I should, I must write a letter but what

would I write, my mind is frozen,

it is getting cold and colder, December

winds are piercing… ruddy thorns into

the skin and, that has made me thinking

of those hiding in the city, below the ground,

unknowing, blind to the action-less night,

may be there would occur nothing, and may be

things will be normal soon, I can hear my

comrades scratching their unshaven face,

and that gives me an itch in my coarse beard,

and I wait as others are waiting, the siren has

ceased its solemn tune, and someone switches

on the light… flickers and then is switched on,

.

and we wait…

 .

years have passed, calendars have changed,

there was that war of 65 and 71 and also of 99,

and I wonder how many more wars would be waged,

there has been trouble at the borders this year,

the cease fire was compromised and I wait… wait,

with a hope that it would not happen again,

and just think of the stories told to me… and

in this black room, at this moment, I reflect

her expression as she had shared her tale, while

chewing over her tongue, the bell for the period had rung

.

A little explanation required for the ending… the tale of girl told from the beginning is inspired from the experiences shared by one of my teachers about 8 years back. She had told of her war story, of the underground compartments and that has paved the way for the poem… so the end marks the time when she had narrated it to her students. The wars are real but the narration is fictional… rather I would consider it imaginary because I have imagined the setting during the war of 1971 because of course, I was not even born then. If you are confused about something or if you have any questions, please do ask.

I was thinking of writing something about it but then, I was also inspired by dVerse Poetics prompt of Calendars today. I haven’t used the theme explicitly but of course, the time and calendar has a lot to do with it.

This is tagged as the post for 24 November for NaBloPoMo.

And before I forget, I wrote a guest post for Yeah Write, dated 23 November, which you can read here.

*The date in the first line is written in the format of dd/mm/yyyy.

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