testimony of march

as the days turn longer, all the silent moments are now punctuated with a realization that the darkness is receding. things are all the more apparent in the lasting light. on a brief walk through the nearly empty streets of an upscale neighborhood, i ponder over the sight of the golden trumpet vine on an expansive property that has taken over the metal handrails and old red bricks, seemingly growing even further with every passing second, as if it is going to consume the entire form and structure of this house. i wonder what its occupants would think of it. this March, i am not going to look for answers.

March comes like madness —
the bright golden flowers glare
at the passerby

~

 March’s mad weather —
a frail little bud drops down
by a sudden breeze

.
© Anmol Arora

For Haibun Monday: March Madness at dVerse

a spring evening

spring evenings are cold like the ghostly feeling left after you’ve taken your hand back from my hand. they’re as if a thing gone amiss, a loss that can’t be mapped or measured in its tragedy. the spring skies are as violet as the mark you left on my neck, painful and gratifying at once. as i walk the path towards home, i pick a tattered leaf and place it as a keepsake in my thoughts. i have a few more steps to go.

the spring moon appears —
a worm-eaten leaf still clings
to the old peepal

.
© Anmol Arora

For Season Your Poetry Part II at WRT
Also read a dawn song and day-breaking

a dawn song

3498431-cqrfxptm-32

as dawn breaks and starts spreading its blush through the dark eyes of a distant cloud-riddled sky, i pick at my skin and hair, trying to be at ease with the chill penetrating me, in more ways than one. the music of early morning routine starts flourishing — the shrill of the water motor, the flush of the sink, the naivety of the kitchen song, the singular bark of the street mutt — gradually the night becomes one with the day, the day becoming one with my insomniac breaths. the bristly winds carry the taste and touch and sound of an impending cold, a sulfur-infused smog, a trilling bird’s sorrow. it is unlike any other wind, any other gust of air that passes through the seasons, through the reverberations of living. i am still pinching myself conscious, the wind is still playing its solemn instrument.

picking at my grief —
the early winds of raw cold
raise the sky in red

~

dawn arrives singing
notes of a known winter’s song —
lights seen through the haze

.

© Anmol Arora

For Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille at MLM Menagerie
Image source (City at dawn Painting by Barbara Pastorino)

vicissitudes of the moon

rachel-fenner-windy-landscape-with-waning-moon

it’s funny how the half-bitten moon takes me back to those cold winter nights when i would stand outside, my arms shivering, trying to get a glimpse of the celestial body through the fog — a kind of restive peace descending all over me, blood in my hands, seemingly more blue than red. i was a witness to the change of every breath and every distant sound that would make its presence known to me.

now as i stand outside looking at the same half-bitten moon, i am not shivering and i am not under the spell of the quiet and peace, that may prevail elsewhere. but it is not the same moon; i am not the same eye or arm or form. every change received and given courses through me, through my blood that is in and not out, the night in me deeper, the music a darker hue of blue. this transition is alright. i am alright tonight.

a waning moon —
memories of lonely nights
flowing through me
~
a change in the backdrop —
the milk-white moon sturdier
in the lasting cold

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Windy Landscape With Waning Moon by Rachel Fenner)
For dVerse Haibun Monday

 

Repository

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, there exist such wide and glorious fields of understanding and clarity, which are but a product of a resounding confusion clouding the eyes, shattering the peace of the mind, almost killing normalcy. Almost.

You feel most alive when you are nearest to death. Similarly, you are most sane when you are close to insanity.

tilting sideways
the glorious fields of gold-
like his mind

I remember standing close to a mustard field, inhaling pollen and exhaling my last attempt at keeping myself sane. I had this desire to fish. To capture a fish from somewhere in that river of yellow and gold. The sun burnt my left cheek and I kept on waiting for someone to bring me a fishing rod.

No one ever came. I am still waiting. In some alternative world. I know that I am still waiting there after these four long years. Because I still want that fish in this world. I lost everything because I never captured that fish. And thus, things can never be right.

I caress the burnt mark on my left cheek.

remembering-
calm of mustard fields before
the onslaught of frost

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, I exist. I am a smiling figure atop that beautiful building you see from afar and you miss out on the spectacle as your line of sight changes. You miss out on the spectacle of how that smiling figure takes a leap from that beautiful building, burdening the air with all his weight.

You do feel that weight with every breath you take.

small buds protrude
out of the damp, heavy soil-
the cold wind picks up speed

~

taking in a whiff
of the remnants of warmth-
I feel cold in my bones

.

Inspired from Bjorn’s Haibun Monday prompt at dVerse. I have molded it in my own way.
This is Poem # 2 for my goal/challenge to write and post a poem every day of this month. The painting depicts the wide, sprawling fields of wheat, but somehow, the yellow/gold reminded me of a mustard field sparkling in the winter sunshine.
Image source: View of the Church of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole by Vincent van Gogh.

Wind’s fault

Imagine me on one side of the division by a steel wire(originally meant for hanging clothes to dry, of course no net for home players) hanging a little crooked between the two walls and my sister on the other side of it. I am waving my racket, playing shots at the empty air and she is looking at me with a zealous fire in her eyes. She serves.

The shuttle cock lifts high and high and flies over the top of me. I thrust my hand upward to make my racket reach and hit it back but I miss because of the loftiness. It befalls and I bow down to pick it up. She shouts, “1-0”.

“But it was way too high.”

She doesn’t reply and I serve(we do not play by traditional rules. Anyone can serve anytime) while saying, “That is blatantly wrong.” And before my words reach her, the shuttle falls down… on my side. A fault in my serve. “I was distracted. I was talking to you.”

She doesn’t reply. And I pick it up once again to serve. Thankfully, it goes right. After a good rally, I gain my first point. The match continues.

“3-1”

“4-3”

“5-5”

Then, it happens. “10-6” “12-8” Shot after shot, she makes the winning points because I can’t match the height of her shots. I complain. Sometimes, she obliges by agreeing to giving no one any point but other times, I myself reward her with the increasing numbers because after all, my strokes are not good enough. And as she well puts it, “It is the wind’s fault. It is blowing in your direction and when I strike my racket and make a shot, the shuttle goes way too up than the height it is intended to reach while on your side.”

I know it to be quite true.

After I gain some momentum, the score reaches, 15-15.

“17-15”

“17-19”

“Game-19”

She plays the winning shot.

I say, “It was the wind’s fault. I could have won it.”

“Hmm. I won it from you for the first time.” She just nods but forgets to mention that it is the wind’s fault.

We play some more but eventually stop because of the fast blowing wind. See, it is actually the wind’s fault.

it is the wind’s fault

aiming at the height of it

shuttle cock befalls

~

shuttle cock befalls

eyes follow its passage down

palms freeze by wind’s fault

~

losing the high aim

I grunt and wipe my cold sweat

it is the wind’s fault

.

By the way, I won today. Yay! You did yay as well, right? End score: 21-17, 21-18. 🙂 I will be linking it up with the Poetry Pantry today. I will be here and there… somewhere but I will eventually visit you to read the poetic confluence of your words.

A Hot Dare

My father dared me to eat raw green chilli and my mother encouraged me. I playfully took a bite. It wasn’t bad but then, my tongue began to tingle. Ignoring it, I consumed it whole to find my mouth burning by the hotness of the ironically named chill-i. Hiccups followed. I ran to the kitchen to find something sweet to balance the act while at the same time, I kept on gasping for more and more air to soothe the tongue that was painfully revolting against my senses at the time. I eventually found some jaggery and thrust it into my mouth, hurriedly melting it by the combined efforts of my saliva and teeth so that the sweetness could rush forth to procure the territory taken away by the sharp and hostile madness that had made me do what I did.

bit into the veins

ordeals caused by chilli

relieved by sweet gur*

~

playful dare

chilli eaten whole-

a hi-cc-cc-up

.

*Gud or gur: Punjabi word for jaggery. It also reminds me of a Punjabi saying, “mar jawan gur kha ke”, which is said when some one comes to know of a grand event/happening, meaning to say that the person is willing to die by eating something as trivial as jaggery(he/she will die off eating jaggery). The jaggery may well be representative of happiness. I will confirm it from my mother.

Image source