what is the colour of black?

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black is the sound of a phone call
through hazy lines, that keeps on
ringing — delayed response,
stopping short of despair — its greys
subdued, in the harsh daylight.

black is the smell of fresh blood, lip-
shaded hurt that keeps on aching,
rising — tendrils of lust reaching out
for a dark, dark touch — i’ve wondered
if i can rise to the height of burning.

black is the nail-paint — matte, you
said — it makes my fingers look long-
err — these short sardonic evenings
to gather at the shore, monochrome
boats returning to a long night’s door.

black is the imprint of a stranger —
shadows and sighs, desire held aloft,
succumbing to these charms — my
hurt getting wider, my lies deeper, as
hopes trickle down in half-streams.

black is the taste of your smile — sly,
shy, standards apart — white masks
falling from our eyes, to see the shape
of nothingness, its skin we wear unto
our hearts, like a hole stretched apart.

i see black remorse — no spectrum
to measure its length and width —
a world missing, where i could be singing
to the clouds, and they would pour down
all the colours, remembered and lost.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (Abstract Painting by Ad Reinhardt; © 2018 Estate of Ad Reinhardt/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York)

Written for my prompt at dVerse on Shades of Black. Don’t forget to check it out.

a long walk

of those streets — untrodden and unknown — white
blossoms hanging in shame — i tie my knots
to a sun-bedazzled horizon — rites
of passage — grey streets, umpteenth times, (un)sought:

from the beachfront to a temple’s tempest,
there is music in every step — stone-dreams
of our bodies, long dead and alive, blessed
by the lilting lights of a silent scream.

of motorcades and urine stains — these walls
reek of years and litters that have inhaled
the bequest left by the bay’s sunken souls —
plastic pools, sodium sands, holy grails:

where all did i wander through this caffeine-
daze?— not all trees that stand are evergreen.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with dVerse, where i am hosting the Poetics prompt this week. The theme is: On Wandering & Observing

uncanny lessons for children

self-portrait-on-the-operating-table-edvard-munch-oil-painting

I

close your small velveteen ears, darling,
don’t pay heed to the waste of voices
and their restful, rabid resemblance
with your callous crimes, and dither from
repentance, free every broken song
and write an equal-footed murmur
with your sagacious mouth — sewn shut —
all your comeuppance unstrung on time.

~

II

never drink from the well of knowledge,
for it heralds the end of peace, and
keep hostage, the calamity of
your condition — dreadful purple and
slated fates, furtive in a fragile
dance — a duel between demand and
need for self-effacement, bringing forth
the wreckage of woebegone endings.

~

III

fingers for eating, lips for smiling,
cheeks to be always flushed the right shade
of painted roses — pink and red and
every shade of bloom, flourishing in
the din of hollowed-out bones — tendons
that stick out in felicitation
of life — your awareness has come to
light — switch off your mind before it tries.

~

.

#8linepoems with #9syllables, originally posted on my new Insta handle (Pt. 3 would be uploaded today): @anmol.ha
Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

Disclaimer: Not really meant for children. Ha!

Image source: Self Portrait on the Operating Table by Edvard Munch

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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.