the plaster falls gradually at the bewitching hour
when the lifelines are ebbing in their flow of talks
and resurgent activities, with the rising night —
i see dust motes, i feel them and i eat them for
sustaining my displeasure to be an object (seemingly)
of permanence, in this temporal space of existence,
the shadow falls gradually at the wandering wall
where i hang my colours (gold, blood, darkness)
to dry & resemble the sorrows of this room — its
temperature fast, its time-waves going cold,
i see dreams with (always) open eyes, of the forests
deep&rich&lost, of the s(p)oils of my ancestors,
as i realize this curse of seeing and feeling (with-
out telling), despite this anguish and reproach
at my solitary (op)position, in the fabric
of the universe (four-walled, with a ceiling).
.
© Anmol Arora
2 April 2019
(Inter)National Poetry Month
Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at WRT, where I am hosting this week and I have given an optional challenge (in the spirit of the poetry month) to write from the perspective of an inanimate object.
HA's Place 
Those hanging colors are vivid. I wonder if all masks carry them.
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i see dust motes, i feel them and i eat them for
sustaining my displeasure
These lines really speak to me.. I get where the mask is coming from.
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“the shadow falls gradually at the wandering wall where i hang my colours (gold, blood, darkness) to dry & resemble the sorrows of this room,” this is incredibly deep and heartfelt, Anmol! ❤️ I was reminded of Faiz and his words;
“Jism par qaid hai jazbaat pe zanjiren hain
fikr mahbus hai guftar pe taziren hain
apni himmat hai ki hum phir bhi jiye jaate hain
zindagi kya kisi muflis ki qaba hai jis main
har ghari dard ke paivand lage jaate hain.”
Your poetry grows more lovely and unparalleled as the days go by 🙂
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(seemingly)
of permanence, in this temporal space of existence… seemingly… so much rests on that!
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Such an eloquent piece, HA, the dichotomy of the object is very fluid and descriptive, it makes me feel sure that whatever we have hanging on our walls does must have a personality of its own.
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The walls have eyes and ears! I love the idea of seeing things through an inanimate object’s eyes. I’m just not good at prompts on cue and have to think more about it.
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The frustion and slow simmering resentment is nicely deliniated here. I could only imagine the torment of being able to see and feel things, even the dream of others, while being confined to the same spot, unable to speak.
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If only walls could talk
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Vividly imagined, to make it something quite haunting and fascinating.
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Starting with the falling plaster puts the reader right there on the wall, Anmol – time and place – seeing, feeling and eating the dust motes, and I felt overwhelmed with unhappy stasis, being trapped and only able to watch shadows, when plagued by dreams.
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The life of a mask.. love it. It sees and lives with what it’s given. If only it could speak.
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To me it seems like our mind in which we sometimes get trapped.
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Great write, Anmol!
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