a paean to pain

have you seen the festering wound
with maggots and flea eggs, defining
the scope of pain and hurt as just
a preoccupation? did you pour liqueur
and salt on the scraped skin that has
covered the scissors with a ritualistic
charity, to part with your sadness?

unless there is a scar, no one would
know how carefully you have figured
a way to wound without wanton dis-
charge of pus and blood-filled nerves
that define your convoluted desire
for all this pain and hurt. catharsis is
the name of a tiny hair sprig sprouting
from an open contusion, like growth
in decay. they have restored cellular
activity (godly) in the porcine brains of
the dead. so what are you going to do,
if not pulling it all out with a tweezer
for a microscopic study of metabolic
activity that denotes that life reverses
and re(as)sembles itself, and applying
a gauze to move out, and hide and smile
till it looks becoming on your face?

grief is the name of your eyes that
refuse to cry. loss is the truth of your
lips that cannot remember the sparse
touch of all that you did not say, and
all that was injured by your mistakes.

.
© Anmol Arora

Inspired by the Day 18 prompt at NaPoWriMo

Day 18
(Inter)National Poetry Month

personal history

a structure, well-worn & outdated,
knows only of its cracks, broken
tiles and pigeon shit, now a feature
of its scaffolding, defining its undying
form (always under repairs) beneath
a piquant-sunlight —

there is something about the grooves
&shapes rising on/from ancient stone
that matches with the listless lines/signs
on my palm, as if comp(l)eting some
of its shadow, an unfinished myth
bypassing&becoming a history that
i could only carry&know in dreams.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 9
(Inter)National Poetry Month

broken sleep

when you are still clutching at
the last few strands of sleep, and
the air is grim with envy for
the shape of your belief,

i want to entomb your fragility
in a mausoleum, made of
that first smile, the last kiss, the dread
of a heart, breaking into wet dirt,

that we scrap from our weary old souls,
after a half-digested need (breath-like)
for the other.

i want to be a tearful-sight, a shadow-
sign of your unfulfilled sleep. i want
to rest against the ghosts of your lies,
till wakefulness pushes me towards
the exit of your dire dreams.

do not rise yet, do not put me down yet.
i want to want once more, before the end.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 8
(Inter)National Poetry Month

the rabbit life

the hairline fractures of this hare-bound life —

a sunny rebuke is all that you need to keep moving
when the skin turns liquid (charcoal&stardust),
at the eagerness of a hopping day’s rest,

your redwood eyes in the dark cannot close
their own need for stimulus,
you see to see the cobwebs mined from your brow,
spiders crawling through the neural networks
of your (hop-hop-) hopping brain.

you need to sleep to stitch&stick the tapestry
of the rabbit life that you’ve lived,
for when you’re awake, you’re still
(hop-hop-) dreaming.

.
© Anmol Arora

Inspired by Art FLASH! at WRT

Day 6
(Inter)National Poetry Month

a late-night song

“It is Death which consoles men, alas, and keeps them alive.”
— The Death of the Poor, Charles Baudelaire

when the discordant music of late-night
drops its deep-pitch
of sleep&numbness,

i speak to Death, sitting in her unavailing
darkness, filled with wreaths&dreams,
her crown shattered by the treachery
of man. singular and silent, she sits,

letting time discontinue itself
before settling in.

this night, i cannot see her.
knowing that she is, is enough.

.
© Anmol  Arora

Day 3
(Inter)National Poetry Month

Linking it up with Poems in April ~ Late night conversations with the muse at WRT

rufescent dreams

the red star over there, somewhat distant,
beckons me to leave the cold hearth
and seek the supple-sphere
of my beginning —

the cellular destruction, the neat phlegm,
the eyes that are weakening in their resolve
to see the world through its painful sutures,
almost always hurt,

i have a shadow that only shows the face
behind the face, the trust that has been
doomed for so long, in my own adoption
of time and its wreckage, its subliminal
annihilation of every atomic particle
on life’s horizon,

i wonder if it is to be free that i cage
myself, for if not in captivity, how would
i ever seek, ever speak when cowardice
is at my very door step, ringing the bell?

the red is deeper in the night, like a deep gash
on my thigh, and my mouth is of dust & blood,
and my dreams are but weighed and sold for
trinkets of sorrows, just so that another breath
completes its cycle in the dying light.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at WRT, where I am hosting this week and I have shared a Kaifi Azmi ghazal for inspiration.

devirginating desire

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a grey sky is like a page resting in
a solution of redundancy and restraint,

i have filed my complaints, nailed them
on the doors of my assailants, their bite
marks still fresh on my wood-picked skin,
their claws bright-white where they once
etched a mark of this impunity
that they call desire.

no one ever told me that i wielded an agency
over the brownness of my skin, or utility
of my innards, or roundness of my ass,
or the thought of my throat,
well riddled in the ecstasy of wants,

so i began to write my loss of agency without
knowing what it ever meant, so i reclused myself
to a departed space of pain when i never
knew that it is but to be salvaged.

my tiredness is my reprieve, in my restless
lies and stigmatized submission,

of a hundred torn-pieces of this tapestry.
the white falls slowly. the red fills
the myth of my own charity.

erased — i write when there is nothing
to be known, reversed to the birth
of a sky, with a broken scaffolding.

picture me when i have yielded to
this vile wantonness of freedom,
and the stubbornness of my disease.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

For my upcoming prompt at dVerse Poetics (The Art of Confession in Poetry) later this evening, wherein I am invoking the likes of Lowell, Plath, Sexton, and Das to understand the nature of confessional poetry. Also linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at WTR.
Image source (Charles Francois Mouthon, Academic Study, 1892)