where silence stays

on stilts, I walk through the haze where silence stays,
there’s a trail of blood I follow towards the night, where
words are without sound and only the shrieks are heard,
another one is hunted, another one is sighing in arms
of death which comforts better than the living can do,

a body is found in the swamp of ignorance, indifference,
his lips are sealed with a long needle of fear, a remnant
of a thread hanging by his lower lip, in an eternal wisp
of a smile, I tug at it to open, hear the words of the dead.

I ache to know what is in silence, amid the numbing noise
of an inhumane blow, of a machete, of a piercing bullet.

.

I wrote a piece for the prompt at dVerse last night but careless that I am, I forgot to save it and ended up losing it. It was oddly melancholic for me because I was satisfied with my words for the first time in months. Today, I tried writing again(in long hand to minimize the risk of losing my words yet again) to raise my voice with all others at dVerse Poetics, in favour of freedom of speech and expression, and against all forms of censorship and forced silence. This piece is not a political commentary; just based on the idea of how I feel for those who dare to speak.

Image source: Low Haze at Dusk by Elaine Jones

only tall lines

as I do in the dawn of a dream
grabbing a scene to grieve, to see
the pathos of straight buildings
ready to eat sky, already stroking
the clouds like a cloth against
a rosy cheek, hurting sultry skin.

and every day gets straighter in
my eyes, every curve becomes line
that goes on with no end in sight,
there is nothing that is revealed
in the confounding arms of dusk.

an artist doth sketch the river
of a life, pebbled, pricked, blood-
ied, stabbed, soaking all stories,
like a sponge submerged into
intricacies, that are no longer
there, there are only tall lines.

Image source: Art by Paul Klee

For With Real Toads.

but I am wicked

“but I am wicked”: I tell him and he roars
in laughter, the sky sheds silver lights
and marigolds sweep away the stench
of my embarrassing gait, I see through
the hysterical haze, to miss the worlds
of yesterday, a remiss creeper binding
me into the shrubbery devoid of sight.

to be able to speak or to be mum, to
file a memory into my eyes like a rich
embroidery woven, or to defile desires
that have a demurring allure to them,
I, he can not feel my pulse, metrical to
the sound of his voice, I repulse him
by the veracity of this hollow heart.

he is the me of days gone, yet to come.

*For With Real Toads.

Image source (“The Good Fight” by Scott Saw)

a moment of detachment

i stopped having tea last month but have had
a lapse only once, I am cutting down on caffeine,
on sugar, on white carbs, on the world I see,

a capricious mood is hanging on my window,
dry flowers stuck to the shade, coloring the sun
that makes its way in, I don’t feel but smell warmth
tingling my nostrils, I sneeze out despair and
set up a guest room for the spring to rest and stay.

flames flicker on my skin, I don’t mind being burnt
by the season that lasts but as long as I close my
dry, lifeless palms, a few rhetoric seconds of delay.

i stopped being stopped for a day, and it felt strange
and yet not in a positive way, the birds shall fly
to the lands new, talk to strangers familiar, I stay.

.

For dVerse Poetics, where we are writing to the art of Danny Gregory.

I am on Instagram. You can find me at mypeculiarself.

caved in, I burrow to find a connection

I burrow through the snow to wake my senses
in the flurry of warmth pervading out, I am in
the eye of the hurricane, my skin frosted, it
peels into papier-mâché, rising trees out of
sinew, it is comforting to see a new life form
from the dead extravagance I carry forth.

the chill does not affect the mind of a hermit
cross-legged standing for centuries, the fire
of tapas burns within his heart, and I see it
aglow in my third eye, I shake myself as fog
sheds its feathers, ice thaws in puddles of
a hope, murky and shallow, but rippling yet.

I found someone I do not know ahead of me
he is out, yet in, I am alone, yet I’m not.

.

I am so conflicted about the last line. When I wrote it, I was completely fine with it but after when I came back to edit it, my mood was completely transformed. It irks me to see it there.

For dVerse Poetics.

Image source

humor me

humor me
by tying me up good
when we pass the sirens’ lair,
awaken me by your clairvoyance
as night ends.

a morning
begins with smile on
her illumined face as she
drinks the sunshine to become a star
going away.

laughing moon
glares at me again
to warn of the deep silence
that has broken down glass mirrors of
deception.

she has left
a note of goodbye
which invites the noise inside
where my bones lay fragmented into
naive splinters.

gloom sees me
and I see people
leading lives of dead humor,
they see me too when she uncloses
her dark eyes.

.

Written in consideration of dVerse where Mr. Tony Maude has prompted everyone to write modified cinquains, by adding one more syllable to every line.

Image source

all that I left with you

drops, a photograph by Totomai Martinez

I left a losing thing in the shadow
of leaves of the lone standing teak,
it was a pond of reminiscence that
snatched it from me, that losing
thing, now submerged, lost from me.

an ant answered the call when I
arrived at the wooden frame prop-
-ed as entry way to your soul, and
I knocked a repeated knock, but
there was no opening, no close.

will you return that what I left?
can you walk on the ice of my hand,
which pulsates like venom in cold?
I neither expect nor prod, I am
a hermit walking by and from you.

I remind all of me that still is with
you, so to ask you to return to
me that drops I left, that smile I
left in the lightness of your arms,
return to me that tempest of my eyes.

return back to me all I left, or not,
I’ll be asleep in the end, and aware
of all that I have left in this valley
nuzzling the horizon, rearing the
river of a memory(me) in its womb.

.

I began to write keeping some other image in mind, but my muse took me somewhere else. After scrutinizing carefully through the wondrous collection of Totomai Martinez, I came across this photograph.

May be, the muse responded to the song I was humming a few minutes back. It is one of my favorites; it is in Hindi but English subtitles are added in this video:

And I ended up watching the entire movie. ;)

For dverse Poetics.