of a broken time

this evening’s hands are tied
to a clock ticking away
in perpetuity,

as there are countless soil kernels,
all residing in a (p)inch of land
for me,

there are countless evenings,
all lined up in the curve-length
between

the uni-
verse & (t)here.

perhaps the clock is broken.
perhaps i am writing to a time
that never occurred.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 19
(Inter)National Poetry Month

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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

the sky is falling

it is irresistible
to let the grey matter light up
when the sky is falling into shards
of silver-sighs and golden-rushes
to achieve something, to get there,
somewhere,

without the connivance of the mind’s vault,
where my sensibilities & sincere(&saturated)
goals are locked, as if in a fragile (no ex-
posure) condition
of a lifetime that isn’t passing by,

an unintended way to know what mind
creates and subsumes is to let it be,
building palaces and sculptures out
of ruin, birthing poems without labour,
or perchance (the sky is the colour
of an ink-stained favourite shirt)
it is all already fixed,

this gamble is a faux-irony of living,
i am measuring the length of my silken-
hair with dirt clinging to the strands
that are unwashed but tidy on a rainy
day, when the sky is falling,

and moss is growing through my hair
&beard (lichen, fungi, almond cyanide)
having left the matter to the falling
(fervently dancing, finessing,
fighting without fulfillment)
sky.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 17
(Inter)National Poetry Month

interrogation

where do i look for the lost habit of believing
that the shadows may keep me safe?
what happened to the mirror i broke & crushed
to escape from my own trusted image?
why does the horizon remind me of unspeakable
truths and this nefarious need for pain?

how can i know if this is what they call living?
how do i get out of here without leaving?

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 14
(Inter)National Poetry Month

down ‘memory’ lane

some pink, some white, some dead —
all the blossoms look fine-spirited,
dangling by the warm wind & waning
words of despondency,

abridging the distance between lives
&loves, unfulfilled, coming unhinged,
undone in the suggestive colours and
cocoons of their stationary existence.

i look grim in the blues of many nights,
still-born like a survival tale,
i am wicked, and winning at this game
to know of my wherewithals (wise ones),

when the night is over and i am down
&drunk over the waters of a pious Lethe,
flowing, coursing, right through me.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 13
(Inter)National Poetry Month

the provenance of being

was i cradled by the gentle waves
of an ocean with its tricks&trinkets,
deep&dying, sleeping&waking, with
every jolt of consciousness?

did i begin at the edge of a blunt knife,
bloodied — bringing to closure&stitch,
a body, through piercing and cutting
what had to be the (w)hole of it?

was i harvested from a ripened sky,
or was it my comeuppance to fall far
from (over-done, rotten) the tree
of my pithy birth, like silent seeds?

perhaps, in truth, i was come upon
by the silver arrow of a moon or
a minuscule sun, robbed of mysteries
and inundations of a holy beginning,
thus rendered wor(l)d-less, writhing
in an unresolved frequency of life.

.
© Anmol Arora

Inspired by the challenge for Day Eleven at NaPoWriMo

Day 11
(Inter)National Poetry Month

each spring

each spring, i try to count the gossamer-
seconds of a sun-stricken day, that
is not too long or too short anymore.

each spring, i return to the same old
snapshot, which is only defined by
its heat, against my lengthy heart-
palpitation or recovery of eyesight.

each spring, i try to return where i was,
somewhere down the rainbow mile of
a memory that is now too far behind.

each spring comes with its armored-
chest & wheezing cough, and i look
for a dial on my streamlined life, that
could turn back the flow of time,
encapsulating all these springs in
a needle-hand, pointing right at
the point of my origin or perchance
the drop-dead familiarity of its end.

.
© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with my ‘Open a Book‘ challenge at With Real Toads for the 10th day of the poetry month. I opened at random a page from the Six American Poets anthology (edited by Joel Conarroe) and my sentence of inspiration was the first line from Wallace Stevens’ Anglais Mort A Florence: “A little less returned for him each spring”.

Day 10
(Inter)National Poetry Month