to the bitter end

right at the beginning, it seemed
perfectly natural in that light.

with your wine-breath on my skin,
i wondered of the likelihood that
staying is perhaps not so difficult,
that my withered skin could regrow.

it’s been a year since i have dared
to think of love or its urgent utility.
it’s been two decades, only it did be-
-come a compulsion to be caressed
after the teenage-thunderstorm
of desires and obtuse obsessions.

you saw it through and still turned
it empty, whipping my senses into
(dis)belief. at my breaking point,
all that i had to do began&ended
without due rancour or reason.

i cannot begin to trust or bequeath
my faith to another, i do not need
to languish in the arms of dead love.

it’s done&dusted, dusted&done,
after having cut open a chest with
its gum residue and dried blood.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 12
(Inter)National Poetry Month

don’t stay

dionbefore-the-dusk-e1386273531465
the lights go off in the section where
dusk meets the dark tidings of time
– limitless, engorged, stagnant –
whites to become whole at
this juncture of hope,
where no one stays
when shutters
have closed
down.

don’t
stay now
either, since
my unslept dreams
resound in emptied-
out hollows of the mind —
all that was sought, to be lost,
has been found at a decried end,
where staying is no longer in need.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

For With Real Toads’ Fussy Little Forms, where Nonets are the order of the day
Image source (Before the Dusk by Dana Dion)

***

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.

moving on

 

1916870-elefxdli-7
you are lost, as i lost
in your loss.

the seas of time have come ashore,
flooding and taking away all that
remains —

you were once there, drinking
the moon wine (it is you who
brought me the white for a late
dinner), and addled potions of
a lone star at my lone window,

it’s at the end, that it all began,
the turbulence of words (said
and unsaid) created voids, built
of a few nights’ fantasized storms,

you made me see the fire-glass
that only showed your visage,
your eyes growing pit-wise, you,
yours only – form and facsimile –

and i knew that i did not have to
leave, because you were not there,
never meant to be, and so it was —

a singular bulb fuse that flickered
out, into the emptiness of the room.

~

© Anmol Arora 2018

More of a frustration than a heartbreak — For dVerse Poetics
Also linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

And I somehow found something to go with it. Ha! Image source (Light Headed 3 by Leah Saulnier)

***

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.

affaire de coeur

hidden − alone − like a heart
come asunder − palash
drinks the heat of this sultry
day, painting the white into
reds, and a soft orange flame,
like a petal drying, on
a non-existent shore,

i pluck a new memory to be unveiled −
kaagaz ke phool −
lying awake, and hiding my trace
beneath the bed, of the previous dusk’s
reckoning − i smell of you,
and i smell of the night −

chameli drying on my chest
leaving aside all pretense,

hidden − i inhale, as
you come awake − your fingers riddled
in my hyacinth hair, my lips
blooming like a torn tulip bulb,

at least for this day.

.

Flowers and their symbolism:
Palash (Butea monosperma): Arrival of spring, blooming of love
Kaagaz ke Phool (colloquial tr. paper flowers) (Bougainvillea): Beauty, welcoming
Chameli (Jasmine): Love, romance
Hyacinth: Sincerity, constancy
Tulip: Love, cheerfulness, royalty

Bringing together lovemaking with the hint of its end, for dVerse Poetics, where the flowers are speaking in their beautiful tongue.

Edit: Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

Contact me: InstagramFacebookGmail

this vulgar handiwork of time

 

the cigarette butt gets charred in his fist,
his belt sneaks out of a loop
penetrating the orifices of the wind.

she complains of the food not cooked well,
to hell with the homie, since the mad uncle of
KFC is so hypnotic, handing out lollipops,
but not to the random connoisseur sitting
at the roadside, muttering abuses of
disproportionate shapes and sizes.

where there is sanity, there are decapitated
fingers tapping on lurid screens, lapping to
the other side 5 kms away, 100 meters are
too desperate, after all.

who wouldn’t want to suck the lactating nipples
of this evening, and
bite into the rhetoric flesh of silence that
encloses this open-to-all soirée.

we are not indelible, nor are we buttressing unsaid
fetishes in our guts, so why bother about it,
shadows won’t question, lights would, but for that
we are left clinging to these lampooned lamp posts.

there is always another evening, let’s keep our end
of the bargain after all,
there is always another evening, let’s stay desolate
once more.

.
Linking it up with Poets United

(de)compose(d)

decomposing-
I see her face through
a veil of clouds, I touch
her eyes, against
my heaving chest,

tear after another, lining
my heart with the grievous
tendency of the dying tree,
left battered, uninhibited,
surrendered, to be guillotined

by the vivacity of this shore
where dead footprints walk the night.

decomposed-
she is a chance encounter in my memories.

decomposed-
I walk along the shore
once again. I see her,
in the sand between
my toes.

decomposing,
my body is bare,
bathing in the rain of
subsistence, that wrinkles
my skin into a tangible
thought.

decomposed-
she never was. I was.

.

Image Credits: “Decompose” by Zaldy Icaonapo

Linking it up with Photo Challenge # 85 at MLM Menagerie and The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

This is Poem # 3 for my 30 Days, 30 Poems challenge.