untitled

lust, when cajoled & converted,
from the thing it was, becomes
a lascivious ghost, whispering
into your cherry-blossom-ear.

how easy it can be
to drown
in each and every
syllable of that voice,

how difficult it can be
to come out
of a well, where you’ve
bled & emptied yourself.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 27
(Inter)National Poetry Month

 

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how we hug

 

he hugs me with a gap of two and a half meters,
as if to keep us both from hurting each other —
the slight embrace becomes a star-filled cleft
where we have shared eggshell dreams & thick-
hard seeds of pain, that have seen many trees
shed their leaves in the last(first) circuitous seal
of the earth in an all-evasive-expanding space.

she hugs me in a sudden jerk of the arms that
connect in prompt patterns, overcompensating
for the years we did not care to know the other —
this proximate touch is a meteor hurtling towards
the ground but disintegrating on the way, we have
held those sweaty hands as an adhesive for our
obvious choice to find peace in this orb-like space.

i have hugged them with a mark of disobedience
towards the yields of my isolation, with a rigorous
demand to perform the proverbial need for human-
connection, as if an entanglement of network-wires,
i have figured out that the way to my consolation
&satisfaction is to suggest&seek all i desire, to know
sums of my matter, the auguries of my life-space.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 26
(Inter)National Poetry Month

grave news

death lifts its shroud
but there is nothing to be found inside —

who would i mourn?— i have no
temporal recollection — childhood-
paper-cuttings are fading, news-
print almost illegible — i do not
know how to react after someone
dies —

i bring a veil of pallor on my face,
my candy-lips quiver, a heat passes
through me, as if to denote the contrast
of my temperature — blood rushing
as a reminder, but life exists within me.

so i close my eyes, &heart — let moments
pass before it all starts to seem ordinary —

unoriginal, repetitive, coming daily
unlike some newspapers.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 24
(Inter)National Poetry Month

Medea’s testimony at her trial

“the children are dead”:—

they were called desire and love.
it wasn’t revenge. it was freedom.

the alchemy of golden fleece is such
that all that turns into gold (&blood),
can also become a bitter, battering
concoction of carbon and sulphate
that are coated on my bosom, that
nourished the progeny of my sacrifice.

i am not spiteful. i am enraged like eyes
of a broken china doll, like the spit in
the fire, like the fever that has banished
you to bed. i am a scarlet red, a sorceress,
a demanding muse of open seams, stitches
&sudden seizures. how can i ever handle
this juggernaut of social relations?—
media monsters, movie marauders,
these Colchian dragons and fruits of
crimes of passion, my need for rebellion.

my serpentine journey back to my start
should not be taken as my loss or suicide,
i reach back into my psyche (foxglove
memories, apple armories, dreams of Circe)
to seek what is my own — i look for a home
to live, where my solitude can be permanent,
and my shoes big enough to carry my swollen
fates. i do not believe in sun-derived faiths.

the heliocentric space cannot accommodate me.

Medea — this is the coronet of a life, non-binary,
non-conforming, non-resisting, reticent, regent,
relapsing to the rosary of nocturne herbs&remedies.

i am godly, i am ghastly, a gargantuan figure of
your vile disgrace — fuck Euripides — i do not
need your malaise, none of your magnanimity.

.
© Anmol Arora

For my prompt, ‘On Myths & Legends‘, at dVerse, where I have asked the poets to reimagine popular myths & legends and write a poem about the same through a new tangent or perspective. Do come and participate!
Also linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at WRT, where Sanaa is hosting this week while also posing an optional challenge for the Poetry Month.

Day 23
(Inter)National Poetry Month

metro delay

the air-conditioning keeps the temper in check,
when the refrain goes on —

“there will be a short delay to this service,
we apologize for the inconvenience.”

the convenience is not a matter of concern
for empty faces that only think of pocket-sized
dreams, the delay is but a pause to this pau-
city of time, the one so accommodating of high
-rises as well as the debris of urban dreams,

there is a silence in the noise, the quizzical
faces look at each other, to the wrists, to find
out a kernel of truth, a certain wonderment
at being out of place and time, disenfranchised
in intervals from lifelines, and the tepid train-
journeys. there is a marked departure from
routine and no one knows what to do with it.

it doesn’t require much charge of reverie or
luminescence of this compartment to diffuse,
before the doors close & everything moves on.

the city is ingrained deep inside all of us, as
we all jolt awake to the further announcement,

this time, of the next station and what it means.
life hangs like an unbalanced question-mark
before it dissipates and feet rush out like faith.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 22
(Inter)National Poetry Month

about a hot day

today, the heat chronicles
the tale of years past,

            cracking streets into scars
that seek and speak the tongue
of our collective ignorance.

my body is wet in the brittle wind,
malleable to the textures of carbon
and sawmill dust, as if in a charred
photograph (going monochrome).

how do i picture a paradise of
poetic plenitude, when i find
the earth splitting open (cracks/
whips/holes), on this sweat-laden,
blue-spotted, anticlimactic day?

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 21
(Inter)National Poetry Month
Edit: Unfortunately, I didn’t find the time to write a new poem. Linking it up for my Poetics prompt at dVerse, where I have asked the poets to explore the theme of climate crisis in their written word and provided some reading material including poems and significant new research reports for further information.

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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