in death as in life

picasso-la-mort-de-casagemas

how would my carcass look?—
empty or full,

or apathetic or scornful to all those who pass
by my unwavering blank eyes, with the archaic
virtues of respect for the dead — no, i do not
need that. i would want to hear the music of
flies and maggots on my beautiful blue skin,
like an adornment to horrify, a sacrilege to
the ritual of burning and burying secrets,

like a gruesome display of life and all that
it comes to when you take a longer than expected
pause from breathing, and seeing through fairy-
light eyes,

or would my limbs point at them without reproach
with my breath holding the remnants of smoke,
my skin translucent, and eyes closed, as i keep
on looking, and looking, for something.

perhaps the strangeness of my stillness (coursing through
my lifeless body) would be becoming on me.

perhaps i would look wanted and loved, the way i could not
feel when alive.

perhaps being organic refuse, i would be eaten from within
and out, and thus would discover who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day.

what a terrible tragedy it would be if it is not so,
if death like life would abandon me?—

a broken boy with silver trinkets gleaming
at the end
of sunlight.

.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Pablo Picasso, La mort de Casagemas, 1901, Paris, musée Picasso)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

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all that I left with you

drops, a photograph by Totomai Martinez

I left a losing thing in the shadow
of leaves of the lone standing teak,
it was a pond of reminiscence that
snatched it from me, that losing
thing, now submerged, lost from me.

an ant answered the call when I
arrived at the wooden frame prop-
-ed as an entryway to your soul, and
I knocked a repeated knock, but
there was no opening, no close.

will you return all that I left?
can you walk on the ice of my hand,
which pulsates like venom in cold?
I neither expect nor prod, I am
a hermit walking by and away from you.

I remind you all of me that still is
with you, to ask you to return
those drops I left, that smile I
left in the lightness of your arms,
return to me that tempest of my eyes.

return back to me all I left, or not,
I’ll be asleep in the end, and aware
of all that I have left in this valley
nuzzling the horizon, rearing the
river of a memory in its womb.

.

I began to write keeping some other image in mind, but my muse took me somewhere else. After scrutinizing carefully through the wondrous collection of Totomai Martinez, I came across this photograph.

Maybe, the muse responded to the song I was humming a few minutes back. It is one of my favorites; it is in Hindi but English subtitles are added in this video:

And I ended up watching the entire movie. 😉

For dverse Poetics.

Night-Time Wonderings

There are those moments when you realize that you do not suit the standards set to be followed by you. You are yourself, but not someone who would take the step forth to conquer all the odds. Some people are just meant to be living in a world created within and not that which comes in contact with the many other worlds conjured by the lives of all.

I am an entity like any other. I am no more significant than an ant trampled beneath my feet. To realize the insignificance of things and of your life, you come to accept yourself, even if your understanding is embedded in darkness and isolation. Is it bad to let the days go by with limbs measuring the length and breadth of bed? Does inactivity exist when the mind continues to whirl images of memories, of desires unfulfilled, of unreachable dreams?

Every thought is contradictory, because there is not a basic idea or emotion or feeling to guide a life. We are humans and thus, we are entangled in the branches of the ideas and emotions and feelings. There is no right answer because there is no right question. Everything is the same, everything is different: Life just can’t be understood.

Who is to measure the worth of a life lived in play? Who is to measure the waste of a life lived in inactivity? What needs to be done? Which direction of the contradictions to cling to?

I am drifting to sleep, I am singing to myself, I am thinking. What needs to be done? What should I do? Where am I? Where am I to go from here?

.

Image source

Lips’ Conundrum

 

the lips mumble and go silent

when the bricks fall apart,

one by one: a pile of a life,

striking each other to

demolish some and let

the rest create a conundrum

 .

he has been a mook, a chancer

scavenging for gold in garbage

none do understand, none will know

that his is a life lived tomorrow,

present is a hive of expectations,

past is what has been escaped

 .

that has lighted up the bulb:

a 50 watts power, gleaming

when it goes dark, haranguing

to itself, none to listen, none would,

the bricks keep falling, the eyes

drop out, and the lips now mum

to let the story reach its end

.

(Art by Gabriel Neffke)

Written in consideration of Photo Challenge #16 at Mind Love Misery’s Menagerie.

Anm

Sometimes I forget my name

sometimes I forget my name

in the thrust of the wind

and thirst of the mind,

I am hanging along the lines

of identities, in crisis of

life, in need of a clarity

.

sometimes I forget my name

to find me on streets, walking

as if I am aware where they go

they do not end by my

illusion of identity, in haze of

the light, in worlds unreal

.

sometimes I forget my name

when I explore on the map-

a dimension where I could

find the portal to bring me

back, I am a solid mass in

weightless sky, in words untrue

.

sometimes I forget my name

because I have embraced so much

that is beyond me, I fly above

ground, while my tethers are

still rooted within the soil, in

need of me to come back to me

.

sometimes I forget my name

and I think that is alright

as long as I do not rule myself

out of me, as long as I am there

to see, to feel, to touch, in lands

of this reality, I may still find me

.

Image source

A Summer Day, A Righteous Right

loudspeakers laughing as the electricity is cut off

and the door to be thrust away from its hinges

to allow a wisp of the wind to course through, and

warm the already sticking skin, bewildered with

tears coursing down (I am drowning, in puddles of

sweat and noise and dust, this confusing love)

.

beep– beep– beep: I mimic the vehicles, I

can be a ventriloquist, or better a mime

copying actions in a frenzy of seconds to

sew myself away from boredom that which would

eventually turn the story upside down, how fun

to read words not meant for you, it is juicy

like the gossip among the clouds who are

on a strike against relief, against mercy

.

I am a hunchback, a monkey(a ta(i)l(e) is missing)

perusing the benefits of food and drink,

to shoo away the flies of action, ants of

angular articulations,

.

let me rise… up, up, up,

let me be with the space, that ceiling

which we gawk at from the land, so to loot

some respite from this heat burning within me

and out, shriveling the aspects of this day

I have yet to explore… all these days

I have yet to explore…

.

Image source