moon-less

“i am done with you,”

the moon said to the poets
and disappeared.

who will now take the shape/size/stigma
of a wiling metaphor,

for the face of the beloved,
for the lip-service of madness,
for the tongue-tied tears of memories,
for the handheld company of solitary souls,

gazing through a window-screen
at a moon-less sky?

.
© Anmol Arora

A 55-worded verse for Weekend Mini-Challenge: Strange News at WRT

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towards the separation of lips

the mauve-toned sky picks
and plucks at my love’s languid pace,
turning a shade of brinjal-blue
and carrot-red, as suns and rains
drown each other out, before
Venus’ chariot of callous-crowns —

i have seen kisses in the shapes
of a soft-pink roundness,
(a bulging sourness) of falling grapes,

i have seen lips that go up and up,
and down and down, like a loitering
lover, in search of a finicky warmth
(just to belong) in unrelenting arms,

i have eaten morsels of bodies, drank
myself to the satisfaction of projectile-
juices, (parched in deserts) of skin-types,

i have kissed thighs of another order,
and written psalms of sleep at many
arbors, (struggling) beneath a few
forgetful breaths.

let me sleep now for a second or two,
(for your sake)
before i slip through your lips
and become whole again.

.
© Anmol Arora

For ‘Shortcake, waffles, berries and cream .. February!‘ at With Real Toads, where Sanaa inspires us with a poem by Joseph O Legaspi

impasse

final_fatal_kiss_2017_100cm_x_100cm_mixed_media_on_canvas_edited_master

drinking a night’s naivety
down my throat,

my tongue seared at your lips,

in a ploy of breaths,
of tastes exchanged
in a whiskey-gulp.

i bundled my skin together
at a kiss’s knotted-end,

i let my head fall down
the vacuum of your voice.

.
© Anmol Arora

For dVerse Quadrille #73
Image source (Dean Rossiter Abstract Painting – “Final Fatal Kiss” – abstract painting)

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)

screwed (ii)

054

waking up,

riding through
a dream’s galloping pace,
i wonder

if i bypassed my need
to be touched,
strung like a kite
against the face
of a shy-sky —

his eyes an empty-colour of opportunity, my skin,
a canvas bled —
the night lingered

like a lizard, in the thrall of a fly,
hovering over my lips.

© Anmol Arora

A 55-er for Art FLASH at WRT
Read screwed

portrait of the poet

Sketch

Remember, one day,
While sitting at my table
You sketched on a cigarette box
A tiny plant

Come and see,
That plant has bloomed!

— Gulzar, tr. Pavan K. Varma

the box stayed closed as if
hiding a lost thought
from another time, when
your words would settle
like sediment
at the bottom
of my breath,

as i read you out loud,
flicking ash from one wrist,
upending the goblet in
gesticulation
from another.

you draw words
like those vessels
bursting forth in the kitchen,
strung to a high note
of despair & hope,

your love speaks to me,
even though i have barely scratched
the skin of that mischievous marauder,
and yet i feel i know, as if
from another life, another rhyme.

you free my closed thoughts,
and water seeds of my silence
as i sing you and praise you
to myself.

.
© Anmol Arora

For A Tribute to Poets of Our Time at WTR. I am paying my tribute to one of my favourite poets and lyricists, Gulzar. Gulzar is 84 now. So, whenever I talk about him and his sprawling work with anyone, I only hope that we wring it out of him — his poetic brilliance, his sensibility, his love, and all he has offered to us for decades — in this lifetime.

winter comforts

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the first drops felt like invisible threads
dangling down the sky in swift, translucent
colours, wetting the epidermis of the earth,
in the pattern of an old comforting habit,
worn-out and bare, as a cold wind against
the torn paths of my seldom-used lips.

you felt like a stolen figure of hope —
a sudden departure from white noise
in a vast welcoming gesture of your open
arms, your face flushed in a lightning
roar — your voice grew distant, and yet
your luminous eyes stayed in the dark.

i shared the softness of my limbs, loose
muscles, hollow bones, all the broken scars.

.

© Anmol Arora

Also read, devirginating desire and a twilight story

Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads, where I am hosting and paying homage to Mary Oliver and David Bowie
Image source (B. Prettau – WINTER RAIN)