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

personal history

a structure, well-worn & outdated,
knows only of its cracks, broken
tiles and pigeon shit, now a feature
of its scaffolding, defining its undying
form (always under repairs) beneath
a piquant-sunlight —

there is something about the grooves
&shapes rising on/from ancient stone
that matches with the listless lines/signs
on my palm, as if comp(l)eting some
of its shadow, an unfinished myth
bypassing&becoming a history that
i could only carry&know in dreams.

.
© Anmol Arora

Day 9
(Inter)National Poetry Month

the rabbit life

the hairline fractures of this hare-bound life —

a sunny rebuke is all that you need to keep moving
when the skin turns liquid (charcoal&stardust),
at the eagerness of a hopping day’s rest,

your redwood eyes in the dark cannot close
their own need for stimulus,
you see to see the cobwebs mined from your brow,
spiders crawling through the neural networks
of your (hop-hop-) hopping brain.

you need to sleep to stitch&stick the tapestry
of the rabbit life that you’ve lived,
for when you’re awake, you’re still
(hop-hop-) dreaming.

.
© Anmol Arora

Inspired by Art FLASH! at WRT

Day 6
(Inter)National Poetry Month

a late-night song

“It is Death which consoles men, alas, and keeps them alive.”
— The Death of the Poor, Charles Baudelaire

when the discordant music of late-night
drops its deep-pitch
of sleep&numbness,

i speak to Death, sitting in her unavailing
darkness, filled with wreaths&dreams,
her crown shattered by the treachery
of man. singular and silent, she sits,

letting time discontinue itself
before settling in.

this night, i cannot see her.
knowing that she is, is enough.

.
© Anmol  Arora

Day 3
(Inter)National Poetry Month

Linking it up with Poems in April ~ Late night conversations with the muse at WRT