untitled

the moon is silent tonight.

it depends on the black river
of life (the stream of conscious
without light) to raise her voice
and tell me, why it feels as if,

my home is not my home tonight.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 20
(Inter)National Poetry Month

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the sky is falling

it is irresistible
to let the grey matter light up
when the sky is falling into shards
of silver-sighs and golden-rushes
to achieve something, to get there,
somewhere,

without the connivance of the mind’s vault,
where my sensibilities & sincere(&saturated)
goals are locked, as if in a fragile (no ex-
posure) condition
of a lifetime that isn’t passing by,

an unintended way to know what mind
creates and subsumes is to let it be,
building palaces and sculptures out
of ruin, birthing poems without labour,
or perchance (the sky is the colour
of an ink-stained favourite shirt)
it is all already fixed,

this gamble is a faux-irony of living,
i am measuring the length of my silken-
hair with dirt clinging to the strands
that are unwashed but tidy on a rainy
day, when the sky is falling,

and moss is growing through my hair
&beard (lichen, fungi, almond cyanide)
having left the matter to the falling
(fervently dancing, finessing,
fighting without fulfillment)
sky.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 17
(Inter)National Poetry Month

each spring

each spring, i try to count the gossamer-
seconds of a sun-stricken day, that
is not too long or too short anymore.

each spring, i return to the same old
snapshot, which is only defined by
its heat, against my lengthy heart-
palpitation or recovery of eyesight.

each spring, i try to return where i was,
somewhere down the rainbow mile of
a memory that is now too far behind.

each spring comes with its armored-
chest & wheezing cough, and i look
for a dial on my streamlined life, that
could turn back the flow of time,
encapsulating all these springs in
a needle-hand, pointing right at
the point of my origin or perchance
the drop-dead familiarity of its end.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with my ‘Open a Book‘ challenge at With Real Toads for the 10th day of the poetry month. I opened at random a page from the Six American Poets anthology (edited by Joel Conarroe) and my sentence of inspiration was the first line from Wallace Stevens’ Anglais Mort A Florence: “A little less returned for him each spring”.

Day 10
(Inter)National Poetry Month

rufescent dreams

the red star over there, somewhat distant,
beckons me to leave the cold hearth
and seek the supple-sphere
of my beginning —

the cellular destruction, the neat phlegm,
the eyes that are weakening in their resolve
to see the world through its painful sutures,
almost always hurt,

i have a shadow that only shows the face
behind the face, the trust that has been
doomed for so long, in my own adoption
of time and its wreckage, its subliminal
annihilation of every atomic particle
on life’s horizon,

i wonder if it is to be free that i cage
myself, for if not in captivity, how would
i ever seek, ever speak when cowardice
is at my very door step, ringing the bell?

the red is deeper in the night, like a deep gash
on my thigh, and my mouth is of dust & blood,
and my dreams are but weighed and sold for
trinkets of sorrows, just so that another breath
completes its cycle in the dying light.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at WRT, where I am hosting this week and I have shared a Kaifi Azmi ghazal for inspiration.

body of lies

i don’t have a name to call my own,
the winds have taken my echo,
erased my impression on this sand,

i am reading through the leaves
of the nature’s manuscript, infusing
a blood of green & blue in my veins,

i lie down on the broken boundaries
of a globe, while plucking at my throat-
strings (coursing through the rivers,
plains, and mountains) in search
of a lost voice, that was never mine
to begin with, in this body of lies.

.
© Anmol Arora

For Weekend Mini-Challenge: Homographic Fun at WRT

screwed (iii)

reverie

pulling and pushing
into each other,
apart from each other,

the red becomes mellow, and
pink dreams arrive in a wave
of a desert storm,

i remember my home
through your tongue,

i remember my death
at your teeth’s artistry.

like a fly, i wait at the doorstep
before seeking to enter
at the exit.

.
© Anmol Arora

Read screwed and screwed (ii)
Image source (Reverie by Richard Taddei)

on self-sabotaging

rene-milot-fall-of-icarus-illustration-painting-art-rene-milot


your voice carried the weight of your histories,
like those block prints on a century-old manuscript
that you cherish,

you seem to have lived multiple lifetimes
in a span of one (not singular),
as people often do, like a bejeweled carving
on an empty palm,

you set the reel rolling from the desolation of Mongolia
to the ruins of Pompeii, in quest of an experience
of its own volition, of its own existence,

as i recovered from the resting thought
of my own creation, the progeny of woe,
the offspring of caged freedoms (self-imposed)—

ash and want strewn between the feet (four and many)
i, a moon-monstrosity, of a magician’s curse
ignorant in my limited imagination,

and all of a sudden, i wanted to see a sunrise
unfold in its innocence of birth, and hold
my own body aloft, at the cliff of longing,
and plunge into the cold-bitter sea of despair,
with another cutting-off, of ties, with Elpis —

a ritual closing off in its burning delight,

like the Icarian wing, with its abrupt necessity
to rebel against the desire of life.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The fall of Icarus by René Milot)

Perhaps a category of confessional verses, accompanied with on loneliness.
Linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU