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)

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on panic

i am running
from this fever, from this chase,

i am wringing cold hands that have shriveled
in the non-appearance of a lofty moon
that i have envied from the beginning,

i am lighting, lighting another difficult breath
before the mist sets in all the spaces, and take
it away, leaving me aching for sun & rain.

i think that the laugh is often the loudest,
after an early intake of poison —

the dark sky is not my friend, the passing steps
are not my enemy, the half-mast heads do not
look at me — a new stranger in a strange world
with a side-glanced smile, a fine-frosted figure,
fearing fire, blue in its soft touch on my skin.

the evening races through this course of fright
as i keep rehearsing the lines, repeating ritualistic
words and intonations to control the panic,
plural and passive in its grip on my chest,

still trying to run, from you, from all of you,
from the shadows of these days,

and saving a little of madness in my tiny fist,
and a little more of kismet where perchance
none exists.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (No more than thoughts and Pain by Oscar Orellana)
An accompaniment to on loneliness and on self-sabotaging
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

Had a conversation with the ever-wonderful Sherry at PU, wherein I share a bit about my life, interests, inspirations, believes, et al. I guess I shared more than I intended to do. Ha! You can give it a read here. If you would like to communicate or exchange ideas with me, you can reach out to me on Gmail or Instagram.

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

on self-sabotaging

rene-milot-fall-of-icarus-illustration-painting-art-rene-milot


your voice carried the weight of your histories,
like those block prints on a century-old manuscript
that you cherish,

you seem to have lived multiple lifetimes
in a span of one (not singular),
as people often do, like a bejeweled carving
on an empty palm,

you set the reel rolling from the desolation of Mongolia
to the ruins of Pompeii, in quest of an experience
of its own volition, of its own existence,

as i recovered from the resting thought
of my own creation, the progeny of woe,
the offspring of caged freedoms (self-imposed)—

ash and want strewn between the feet (four and many)
i, a moon-monstrosity, of a magician’s curse
ignorant in my limited imagination,

and all of a sudden, i wanted to see a sunrise
unfold in its innocence of birth, and hold
my own body aloft, at the cliff of longing,
and plunge into the cold-bitter sea of despair,
with another cutting-off, of ties, with Elpis —

a ritual closing off in its burning delight,

like the Icarian wing, with its abrupt necessity
to rebel against the desire of life.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (The fall of Icarus by René Milot)

Perhaps a category of confessional verses, accompanied with on loneliness.
Linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU

a nocturnal refuge

as the night furrows the deep-entrenched skepticism
i carry within and out, like an extra piece of clothing
(on my nudity that does not embarrass me anymore),

i try to anchor myself to the moon — my mother, my
sister, my friend in insanity, my trusted comrade of
a bloodless birthright (rite)—& play with the strings

of a star-invisible sky, little-by-little, a tune attunes
itself to my grief, my being heavier as if the mass of
a black sun, and i put my mind to lines and words,

the gaps between my bones and silent sobs, rising in
the thought of my own betrayed blessings, healing
there on for an elemental recovery, imbued in an orb-

like feature, surrounding me, and i wait for things to
turn themselves right, to fulfill another night its end
of destiny, the despondency, the relief, the lonesome

levity, the tree-memory, the earth-bound-eventuality.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Night city by Svetlana Tikhonova)
For With Real Toads’ The Places That Heal Us — it is not a place but a moment, a juncture where time meets the customary requirement/need — a display of emotion for healing, for keeping on

Also to be linked with the Poetry Pantry at PU

on loneliness

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can i believe my own empty sighs
when they appear too far and too little
between my symptomatic need for
despair and disrepair?

“be strong,” they say, “exercise your
agency over your adust remains,”

i wonder if wisdom lies in being aware
or being a practitioner of that awareness —

i, for one, seek redemption in verifying and living
the knowledge of destruction, holding it like
a cosseted corolla of memory,
that is becoming of me — a spoiled sepia-
sequestered detail in the possibility of
existence — a fierce idea without a fulcrum
to safeguard harmony.

“you are not lonely,” i say to myself,
but i do not know where it becomes me
and when i become an evidence to
breaking, and a splintered sensation
of nothing.

i am the last inhalation of smoke,
a testament to the fallacy
of my name.

after all,
where did loneliness surge & stage its act
if not at the juncture where my words trigger
an acid reflux, and transmogrify into aphanitic ash?

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Falling by Clara Lieu)
For “How Does the Story End?” at With Real Toads.

 

absolution

hurt-masako-simmons

the damage that i have done —

shards of glass – precautions –
objects that instill confidence,
blade-sharp, plied twice-soft,
images of white-red before
my eyes, i think the only
way in is perhaps the way out,
to hurt and wound all that
is concrete and replacable,
foregoing the safety of soul
that has taken the beating,

i think of the innocent faces/
phases that belonged to me
once, distorted, in shambles
now, looking like a cold wind’s
harm on a hyphenated pause,

the pause lasting longer than
its due requirement, the pain
drinking its potion to bear itself,
leaving a scar of undefined,
carefully created proportions.

it’s not in satisfaction derived from plucking tears
that do not appear
but in the reacquisition of their absence
that i achieve my comforts —
material, magnanimous, marauding trusts
levied on a wretched man’s broken self.

the hurt that i have caused is my own
if not the rest.
and i figure that my unbecoming is
something that i have left,
as the youth creeps towards
its deep end.

.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Hurt by Masako Simmons)