on kindness

the full-throated cry of the sky
pierces the calm of a spring day
besotted with its capacity to go on.

unhindered —
the shrieks of the crows speak of the agony
of the air, that is carbon, ash, cacophony,
& unanswerable specks of dust and dirt.

why do we forget to be kind to what
we inhale? why do we forget to be kind
to what is ever-present?

the city gleams and glides through the complicity
of its pupils, as kindness is thwarted by the need
for immediate reach and control.

why is it the most difficult to be kind
to our own selves? why is it so difficult
to salvage all the broken pieces?

~
hold your own hand, next time you escape
to figure out the path of reconciliation
with your point of origin —
your nature is to breathe and fly,
and turn through the pages of life,
to find your own love, deep within.

.
© Anmol Arora

A rather different tone and mood for this one, when compared to my other recent verses.
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Kindness

Advertisements

resisting self-appropriation

larger

the demarcation of identities may become
concrete beyond any measure of trust,
suggesting a clear-cut boundary (line out of control)
set with laced edges for an open-field view of
all the action, where stars rupture, mind swells
and foot-long visiting lists and eager spectators
wait for an epiphany in their limited visage,
or form, or expression —

i could light my body, turn paper into a wildfire,
stone into an insolent air, and turn my named
references back to their semicircular beginning,
without the complexity of politics of my body
or desire, obstructing the moon to rise in its tiding,
leading to a vasectomy of all craft.

there are seeds that grow without the spurt,
some pollen have a similar quality of disdain
for birth,

and i know that i cannot open
the undisclosed aftermaths of attention
depleted into this sin, or the afterword of joy,
to become pen and ink and words.

i fuck up like a fucked up alarm clock
(going cuckoo has cuckooed and gone)
springing to its climax at inopportune
times, when even time cannot be shut-
off, visions silenced, and this extravagant
search for a home in the buried remains
of self-hood finally discarded off in
neural pathways and cardiac tunnels.

an individualized treachery is preferred
over  a displayed form of acceptance, with
its soft-toned and hard-knelling voice
that thinks that just the right tone would
change the facets left unexplored, deep
in the recesses, way away from light, because
that is all they are, in the eye of the storm
that won’t bring me down or go away on its own.

do not worry about me, do not worry
about my fiefdom of lust and loss,
or my faces split open one by one,
little by little, without hurt and pain,

as the death’s wagon parks at my retina,
harnessed by my sleepless eyes,
and i wake, and i wake, and i breathe,
galloping through, breaking away
from all the signs.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

I wonder if the intersection of self-appropriation and poetry suggests a kind of depravity. Nonetheless, it is for me a kind of resistance to even consider the same — it is supposed by the experience of letting it be the subject as well as the object of observation. Perhaps “my act of understanding” is flawed but it is as honest as it could be in the current struggle. Is it failing the internalized resistance or is it resisting the resistance?!

For With Real Toads’ Weekend Challenge — quite a challenge indeed;
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU as well.

Image source (id Painting 27, 2015 by Mark Wallinger)

At least, we have Chopin and Brigitte Engerer’s playing available online.

***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

id

099921ca65ea279c843fb2a5bb9b7260

I exist in the voices,
in sounds-

gentle, ricocheting against
the loud bass in the background
and speaking in hushed tones
in corridors where the tiles
are no longer bleached white.

I exist in that TV volume, defined
by the bars that identify the
intensity of my intent,

exist in the grrr grr grinding
of thoughts into an unpalatable
mush, that I got served for
dinner,

I am defined by the water striking
the s(k)in(k) surface, I am that

you no longer pay attention to, Continue reading