grave news

death lifts its shroud
but there is nothing to be found inside —

who would i mourn?— i have no
temporal recollection — childhood-
paper-cuttings are fading, news-
print almost illegible — i do not
know how to react after someone
dies —

i bring a veil of pallor on my face,
my candy-lips quiver, a heat passes
through me, as if to denote the contrast
of my temperature — blood rushing
as a reminder, but life exists within me.

so i close my eyes, &heart — let moments
pass before it all starts to seem ordinary —

unoriginal, repetitive, coming daily
unlike some newspapers.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 24
(Inter)National Poetry Month

on loneliness

depression-5859313455e7e__700
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.

 

the thing about beautiful worlds

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~
an unwarranted gloom sets in —

i tried to find a rug for my infantile,
bare room. my accessories include
doubly-pasted post-its, a yoga mat
unused for months, coffee-colored,
chocolate-textured curtains, and books
stowed in a cupboard atop each other
in prayer. i wanted something new
to add, to subtract despair from
this unmatched permanence.

i am emboldened by the monsoon
drains, how everything has peaked
into a kind of a nuisance, habituating
all my vices and sins — my world
is a beautiful place of longing, of
plastered cacophonies, of free agents
who take away from these chipping
walls, a piece of my unpleasant candor.

and all it takes to remind me of ugly
fantasies are the red lines that want to
restore my british spellings to american
ones — a hegemonic control over my
bearings. when did i start becoming
a product of capitalism? one too many
copies of me carried by bored crowds,
flipping through my innards, spitting
in my eyes to reach the end (for fuck’s
sake) already, of this half-way written
carrion story.

oblique — i resort to a redundancy of
words, and rusted thoughts — my world
is a beautiful place — vapid, stringent,
liquified to its last remains of nothing.

~

 

For Midweek Motif at PU.
Edit: Linking it up with dVerse OLN.

Image source: at the horizon of the strange world by Katja Reetz

***

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

Nothingness of Life (dVerse OLN)

the bam, the bOOm

and the statues befell,

paper puppets filled with

litters and scraps and nothing else,

.

but of those crackers

that flare up the sparkles

that massacre these tall chaps,

50 feet high and sometimes more,

.

those who epitomize evil,

but they stood for a day,

they befell with celebration

of nothing,

.

t’is said good wins over the evil,

and hence we represent,

with these smokes and noises,

we celebrate, we dance away,

.

we go zany, we find ourselves

lost in crowds, who are there

with no reason but to be a part

of a throng and nothing;

.

nothing else but a sense

that we will win because

we are good and decent, who says that,

but for you, no one and said word is,

.

nothing, this zilch that rules our lives,

evil, wicked which is brutal than evil,

.

we have espoused while we

look at those paper mounds,

burning, our eyes smoldering along

but for naught, nothing,

.

nothing that prevails,

nothing, that our lives

have become these days

*dVerse Open Link Night.

Present

The present moment is something one must not forget. But one does, because one is in the habit of not fretting over things which seem unimportant but it is not so. A moment is everything, a moment is a a part of oblivion, a moment can save lives, a moment can bring about the very end.

Now when I think of it, the present doesn’t make any sense to me but for the reason that I experience it because I am conscious. The present moment is present for me because I can feel it. I can feel the second ticking in the flow of my blood. I can feel the whirl of the needle like the pounding of my heart.

But what if I was not conscious? What if I did not have knowledge about what all exists before me and around me? Would this present be of the same significance then?

Present is present because we are present. Time is time only when we can realize it.

If I die this very moment, it all would lose significance. It holds importance because we are alive, making it alive.

Such notions seem absurd sometimes but they are not so because these aspects of the universe help us in knowing, in understanding the significance of us, as well as the nothingness that we represent in the greater of things that are alive this moment.

This moment, I can feel it.. I am alive and so is this moment for me.

Present

* For Five Minute Friday.