in the wake of a life’s end

a kind of gloom sets in the body,
that you can feel lying underneath
your breath,

your words careful, so that they do not
harm the light, your silence loud
enough to make your presence known,

not to counter the void left behind
but to embellish it with your steps
as you move here and there, and
speak solemnly in the shimmer of
another pain that may always stay
within, like a story’s sudden end —

death always leaves one astounded,
even if it is writ in the sky, and on
our fingers, as we touch and hold
each other, we know it is there in
our very blood, and yet it shocks &
deprives us of our effort to under-
stand its proximity when it slithers
inside the room like a voice caught
from miles away to prick our ear,
and say what was not awaited but
known, visible just as the stars are,

until they disappear in a blank fog
and the eyes don’t want to see or
be seen any more.

© Anmol Arora

Something I wrote yesterday after we got to know of my uncle’s passing.

Image source (MOURNING CHANT OF A WHALE, 2014, by Hari Beierl)
Linking it up with the
Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

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at the quarter of a life

as skin sheds for another skin
and lips curl in a rueful smile
and veins stand in a soft sight
of green and black and blue,

i understand that blood thickens with
years that pass by through the organism
of a body, beginning to feel its own death.

as winter transfuses with the cold of
big bones, the elasticity of meek muscles
beckon a certain warmth of touch for
life, in the always prevailing lack of time.

i have seen the concentric circles on
my limbs change in half a decade,
and my eyes bloom in hues of hibiscus
and rising-rose, like a lamp, left with
a slight glimmer when the light has been
dimmed with the passing act of another day.

i wonder if my aging is my decline
(the wild image of calm & turmoil),

or is it the other way round?

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Shedding Skin Painting by Newel Hunter)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

death of a faerie

abstract_trans_nvbqzqnjv4bqeo_i_u9apj8ruoebjoaht0k9u7hhrjvuo-zlengruma

the ancient faerie, with her
golden wings coming off
the hinges,

flicks away the sheath of
rich-grey hair
that have fallen (in love) over
her strong, stooped shoulders.

she puts away the dust-
pan and awakens through
her rusted iron-ore wand-
hand (single-spaced, spelled,
sustained),

an apparition of her
youth, her dark-eyed
energy of yesteryears

— the pneuma that always finds its
return, inwards,
outwards,
back to its source —

a golden woman, a silver lifeline,
and the womb of death,

the midnight carriage moving
towards
an unflinching,
hundred-wrinkled,
time-bound
end.

© Anmol Arora

For With Real Toads’ Un-Fairy Tales
Image source (Willem De Kooning’s Woman II (1952))

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

a semblance of sanity

unbound,
a fanged sun appears in the sky,
spewing light that digs into the skin,
forming crevices of an uninhibited tomorrow.

it’s an initiation, a baptism from the past
as little kid fingers hold you apart
from the lethal essence of your own myth.

I bite my own tail, unbound, I see faith
in spontaneity raveling from its burrow,
I hear the rustle of the grass beneath my feet.

hunched back, I stand for the venomous kiss,
light draws caricatures on my face,
waiting, I stand, hunched back

for all that comes when the blood freezes over,
and the lips turn blue,

I beget death so that I can live.
I beget chaos so that life fulfills.

unbound,
the fanged sun pierces the scales
of my existence.

.
Linking it up with With Real Toads.
The legends of America describe the snake totem with following terms: “Impulsive, primal energy, shrewdness, rebirth, transformation, initiation, and wisdom”.

I made a post today particularly because of this :

blog

lash me by your wind

convergence-of-the-four-winds-michelle-vynConvergence Of The Four Winds by Michelle Vyn

be the wind of lost thought
seeking redemption of ideas

that burn

inside the hollow eyes,

have you ever thought of that pink scarf,
bleached, tattered, zooming through the sky
like a fake smile on your lips?

have you ever heeded the power of a blow
of air on the birthday candles, how it
erases the years lived?

be the wind that you can’t be,
be a smelly fart if need be,
be an ode to nature, or
a quatrain that seeks nothing.

do you know of the neck
that was adorned atop the light
house, where I stood, the wind:
my body, my sheath, my life,

and how it felt to be suspended
with nothing else to spare
but for a breath of air,
hair ruffled,
silences bespoken;

do you know that neck
belonged to me?

I died that second,
and I have been dying
thenceforth.

I am the wind, I am
the power,

and I am invariably caught
in this struggle.

.

Image source
Linking it up with Poets United Midweek Motif.

backup now, the blue screen of death

eyes clad with kohl, a kid
walks, every step downloaded
with a faint trace of innocence,
a cache of life, wonder and
bright colors.

/a stack of thoughts, a queue of memories
looping in an array of careless composure/

I read about the hacking away of life
of a kid, of the school where I spent
almost years of five, in an emulation
of deeds, as the school bus met with
an accident, tender hands clutching
wane seats, as we did back in the day,
when the driver took a reckless turn,
as if communicating in bauds: a wish
or an anguish, a sign but of a nybble.

/clusters on a disk are we, bugs winding down,
a chip of a life booting characters, low bandwidth/

.

*Using a bit of computer jargon…

When I’m just a passerby

his head bleeds rivulets of flowers

on the street with few passerby

but there is still naught, not

a worrier, we are all sons of this soil

which has imbued in us the shield

of defense against pain, poverty,

wound and death, we are all idols

of this soil with our open eyes

that see but never could comprehend.

.

we are solemn in our expressions

but only if it could turn into actions

that we have long forgot the story of,

there is pain in every glance, and

that is all there is to it, our hands

clutching our breasts as we pass by,

our eyes squinted with the soil kernels

touched by his blood, fainted of life,

(of alcohol may be) and of lifeless visions.

.

his toes are half hidden beneath a car

(is he just asleep, my eyes ask me,

I have no answer, I pass by: a passerby)

a turbaned man sees through his shield

while speaking on his phone, the lips

next to me tell of the blood I failed

to see or sniff and him being passed out

by alcoholism, those lips wonder if he’d die,

may be he would, we’re all dead, when alive.

.

There is a story to it. May be it is not worth discussion because “what it is” is “what it is”. Words yield power but they do not change things/situations always for that man or for me and for the other passerby.

Image source