all set in place and position

talking-to-myself-diane-liberty

pen-pencil- cutting down, building up
measures in the case of live streaming —

the ceiling comes way too low and
brushes against my head, a speck
of dust on my stooped shoulders,
a particular movement of the tongue
held against the unvarnished lips,

as the thought takes
the form and shape
and size and surety
of words —

piercing sounds within the skull,
talking to myself,

my low desk lower in its intimacy,
my balcony door uncertain of its certainty,
the floor and cushion bearing the weight
of my spaced legs, thighs afloat in
their own ceremony of discomfort —

the click-clacking lights pander to
my need for a gas-light expression,
a silent explosion, a runaway poem,

or the jostling of sounds and storms on
a new page of an old notebook (received
for there are other things to be given)

as hand-woven, fingerpainted pictures
emerge, inch by inch/pixel by pixel,

and a poem becomes its own poetry
in 300 seconds, 35 minutes, 3.5 hours,
3 days and a matter of a sacrifice
of all that it creates — a side-effect
of death for things that take birth
in any case.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (by Diane Liberty)
For With Real Toads’ Don’t Touch My Meez. Also linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU.

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the undertaking that a poem is

who saw that slithering liaison in the bushes?
it creeps forth as the moonlit sky grows dubious
of the possibility of its own virtue,
slyly, the sun peeks from the edges of a sight’s view,

a cuckolding cockerel rises and crows, an arrival
of a distant beam breaking the sweat of a dark cloud,
and a nice plumage hovers in the air
brightened by the prospect of that tantalizing warmth,

the stomach heaves, the chest sinks, and the velvet
dimension vibrates with that noise yet again,
there’s movement, there’s a curtain swaying
desperate now to be flung apart, and show the scene

of this instant, this momentary lapse of that beastly
no-man, clawing across the white that pervades
on my page, small prints emerge, the purity fades
and from nothingness, a poem springs forth, clinging

to the nature’s call, go on, go on, ask again, see again,
die again, but for a word that memorizes the soul,
and there’s light, and there’s lethargy in the voice
of that fiend, perhaps it’s the end with a final dot.

.

Linking it up with Weekend Mini Challenge at With Real Toads and Poets United.