the provenance of being

was i cradled by the gentle waves
of an ocean with its tricks&trinkets,
deep&dying, sleeping&waking, with
every jolt of consciousness?

did i begin at the edge of a blunt knife,
bloodied — bringing to closure&stitch,
a body, through piercing and cutting
what had to be the (w)hole of it?

was i harvested from a ripened sky,
or was it my comeuppance to fall far
from (over-done, rotten) the tree
of my pithy birth, like silent seeds?

perhaps, in truth, i was come upon
by the silver arrow of a moon or
a minuscule sun, robbed of mysteries
and inundations of a holy beginning,
thus rendered wor(l)d-less, writhing
in an unresolved frequency of life.

.
© Anmol Arora

Inspired by the challenge for Day Eleven at NaPoWriMo

Day 11
(Inter)National Poetry Month

r.e.m.

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         “Was it a vision, or a waking dream?               
         Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”
—Ode to a Nightingale, John Keats

~

torn and subdued – acrid, violet ink
tapered at the edges, and squirming
against the onslaught of thoughts —

candles smoldering without a care,
the pale wax marooned on my palms,
i oversee the languid conciliation of

dreams, en route to an acrimonious
sleep — the undying tides are defiantly
restless in slighted visions, as i deign

to shut the doors of cognition, with
everyone aboard – sans all those lost
voices – departing from the ramparts

of my mirrored insanity —

.

Image source: Hypnagogic Monument, Salvador Dali

A slight conundrum: the title, the image, and the quoted lines refer to different stages—so I have decided to be unmindful of that.
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.