not to be the night when I lick my fingers

it was not to be the night when I lick my fingers,
you laughed at me, chortled at the way I spilled
everything on the canvas of the sky. a roundlet
of onion stuck in our conversation, our poetry.

I remind you of a pie you were to make for me,
and I worry today if I am an irksome ingredient,
like those peppercorns in your vadas that you
spit away saying you find them ground better,

but I am this whole, not a powder of intimacy,
I am a dripping stick-kulfi that coats desires,
I am the extra spice that burns your words,
I am just not a bullet in the index of the menu

that you skip over and come back to, because
I am affordable and easily available today, even
if I come out to be not what you really wanted.

after all,

it is not to to be the night when I lick my fingers,
invisible tears emerge on downtrodden cheeks,
painting colorless sky grey and blue. a julienne
of a fantasy is shattered, to become my poetry.

.

For dVerse Poetics.

Image source

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19 thoughts on “not to be the night when I lick my fingers

  1. X says:

    Sad that it is all a fantasy. Nice blend of foods though. Would love to try that fritter sometime, even with peppercorns. Ha. And Indian ice cream – I am def intrigued. There is a story beyond the food play though that is quite emotional. Open, affordable – and yet, it is not to be.

    Like

  2. It’s great to see you. You have been missed. No, being on the affordable easy menu is not always the place to be. I like how you mixed all the food and emotions together. And how we do so want to be special to that person we desire…not just another bullet on the index as you say. Very honest and true this is.

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  3. The ending is sad when the fantasy is shattered but I specially like this part (including native food) :

    but I am this whole, not a powder of intimacy,
    I am a dripping stick-kulfi that coats desires,
    I am the extra spice that burns your words,
    I am just not a bullet in the index of the menu

    Like

  4. I enjoyed the mentions of foods which are unfamiliar to me. To me their mention is beautiful as well as a bit mysterious. It is quite sad though to learn that the fantasy is shattered to become poetry.

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  5. it is not to to be the night when I lick my fingers,
    invisible tears emerge on downtrodden cheeks,
    painting colorless sky grey and blue. a julienne
    of a fantasy is shattered, to become my poetry.

    Such moving and heartfelt lines.. beautifully written 🙂

    Like

  6. Glenn Buttkus says:

    Anmol, this is excellent work, layered like a metaphoric casserole, dipping deep into emotional taste buds. Love can be a lying larcenous bitch until you get it right; & then it snaps all your chromosomes into alignment, unclogs the heart chambers, lightens both your load & your step. One day you might write about that peach with gossamer wings.

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  7. I remind you of a pie you were to make for me,
    and I worry today if I am an irksome ingredient,
    like those peppercorns in your vadas that you
    spit away saying you find them ground better,

    that verse especially got me pretty blown away…
    such a flawless mix of emotion and food. well done

    Like

  8. Nicely penned, it recalls me of a time when I visited some Indian friends and they served the food – and I said – “there’s no silverware… how do I eat ? “

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  9. to me that sounds a bit like being in love with someone who doesn’t allow you to be who you are – who wants to have bits and pieces of you but not the whole package… painful

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  10. Quite a painful emotion there, that feeling of being ‘disposable’ to somebody else, or of them not accepting certain incovenient parts of you. But for others, this kind of ‘snacks’ are the best of all…

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  11. From an early age people tell me i am trash.. not even trash.. as at least trash is given careful attention.. to go to a secure place.. i suppose with all that hate i could be a serial killer now.. after all.. i can look like the devil as well as an angel with an instant expression of this or that.. but NO.. Love is more powerful than bullies seeing thin little ugly boys.. with only eyes of feminine love and lashes.. LOVE IS inside me growing more powerful and powerful by the now.. then.. until it blinds the bullies with more light than they can stand
    or fall so
    they crawl
    away in
    darkness
    and
    i shine
    in
    dance
    like
    a frigging
    ‘Arnold’
    ballet dancer
    on the DRUG
    OF
    LOVE..
    IT IS NOT often that
    a poem brings tears to my
    eyes but if people could see
    the places i have been to they
    will see more of what makes me
    what i am.. the haters make me more
    loving than anyone else.. the lesson of love
    is tough
    UNCONDITIONAL
    LOVE FOR ME..:)

    I AM AN ONION WITH EMPATHY PEELS
    SO STRONG THAT NO ONE CAN UNRAVEL
    THIS
    ONION
    OF
    LOVE..:)

    Like

  12. Beautifully written. The food was a great metaphor. A lovely expression of a broken heart. It is a deflating dehumanising feeling when you are being used. It means you are worthless to that person.You deserve someone who appreciates and cherishes you !

    Like

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