the narrative of a wall-hung terracotta mask

the plaster falls gradually at the bewitching hour
when the lifelines are ebbing in their flow of talks
and resurgent activities, with the rising night —

i see dust motes, i feel them and i eat them for
sustaining my displeasure to be an object (seemingly)
of permanence, in this temporal space of existence,

the shadow falls gradually at the wandering wall
where i hang my colours (gold, blood, darkness)
to dry & resemble the sorrows of this room — its
temperature fast, its time-waves going cold,

i see dreams with (always) open eyes, of the forests
deep&rich&lost, of the s(p)oils of my ancestors,
as i realize this curse of seeing and feeling (with-
out telling), despite this anguish and reproach
at my solitary (op)position, in the fabric
of the universe (four-walled, with a ceiling).

.
© Anmol Arora

2 April 2019
(Inter)National Poetry Month

Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at WRT, where I am hosting this week and I have given an optional challenge (in the spirit of the poetry month) to write from the perspective of an inanimate object.

 

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her flippant dance

the farsighted ocean calls me,
I shift my glance to take a whiff, of
new visions on the landscape
soaked with blood, of dreariness.

I am an effigy made of sand, touched
by the fingers of her sweet melodies.

her lips open up into the cavern
of the sky, dotted with planetary
orbits of my heart.

I can not see the ocean, it is away
in the gloom of the void, but I watch
her flippant dance as she clutches
her dress buttoned up for modesty
unlocking charms of my dead eye.

Image source

Inspired from Bjorn Rudberg’s poem, Nipping at the hard place. I loved the play of metaphors in his verse. It is a very artistic write.
Though, I couldn’t keep up with Bjorn’s natural flow, I still tried my hand at Catachresis, the literary device Bjorn used in his poem. I had to check what it meant and I read in detail about it here(shame on me for not knowing about it :D). And as soon as I read about it, I went on to write this piece.

A scarlet painting on the sky…

A scarlet painting on the sky

dotted with the white wisps of cloud

like the blood that taints the shroud

of the corpse with a smile so wry

 

one could hear the sound of the cry

emanating somewhere from the crowd

dotted with the white wisps of cloud

a scarlet painting on the sky

 

the corpse’s skin would wither by

but what about the promise he vowed

the seed, in the womb of his love, he sowed

towards the sky, gaze upon, her eye

a scarlet painting on the sky.