all our riches

a-trompe-loeil-of-paper-money-coins-french-school
i spend the exact change (i have left) of simple words,
gentle words, neurotic words, hunchbacked words,

to have the evening speak and last for some more time —
every second of the same quality and ruse as the lingering

fragrance of raat ki rani, dreaming dreadful thoughts
and foregoing them in a simple parable – “it is only a phase” –
i laugh at my own conjecture that it will perchance still
get better — normalcy lies ahead in a neo-noir paradise,
waiting around the corner.

“life is like a dubious pile of ash” — but Gulzar has already said
that the ashtray is full — no more space (maybe money) left
to fulfill the urge for another puff.

perhaps it is not, perhaps it is another currency,
unfamiliar in shape/size, when the exchange rate
is not known and sapphires already spent —
the parched mouths do not ask for another name
of the word — the spendthrift work over moments

to make sense of a cloud-befuddled mood, depicting natures
of the orange moon (lost in the haze of untarnished selves).

“there is a worm within us that turns everything into a threadbare
experience, a frayed impression of our yearnings,” you said.

it is good that i have another penny left in the pocket within the
pocket, where words do not reach, budgets do not measure
our wealth.

you can have it.

.

*raat ki rani (lit. the queen of the night; Night Blooming Jasmine; scientific name: cestrum nocturnum) — the fragrance abounds anywhere and everywhere these evenings
**Gulzar’s poem, Ashtray puri bhar gyi hai; trans. The Ashtray is Overflowing

© Anmol Arora 2018

For Midweek Motif at PU
Also linking it up with dVerse OLN
Image source (A Trompe Loeil Of Paper Money Coins by French School)

 

 

 

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sooner (than later)

il_570xn-234706267

so it was in the cold that I held
those earnest embers of your words,

you were the marble idol
when black and white mingled
to cover the deep trenches of
my heart, your singular smile
was the only thing visible, only
sight on that evening of lights.

a caress on my neck had me
drugged, I was a shore for your
rising tide, I lost myself,

oh I lost myself that night, and
I am cold yet again, those embers
have a faint glow, and I am cold again

in the brilliance of my torn skin,
shivering in shadows of your smile.

I hold the new key, so new that it
is not yet familiar by the touch, of
my fingers, and I walk through
the door of this unknown circumstance,
I want to be home.

yes, I have fallen for you.
February comes soon.

.

Image source

Inspired from February by Dar Williams, written in consideration of writing prompt at With Real Toads.

In time

Forest Terminal, oil on canvas, 122x182cm, 2007, by Mike Worrall

solitary standing on a cross way,

time ticking… tick, tick, tick, ticking,

every trice, a misery, a perplexed

epiphany, figure out, surmise, comprehend,

swift, swifter, amid the railway tracks,

trains coming, but distant, somewhere

concealed in the haze, voices of which

permeating, in the pores of air,

signal- red and green, one halting over,

the other not meant, to be attained,

tick, tick, ticking, still ticking,

solitary standing, on a cross way,

undulating assertions within,

shouting out the names of locations,

of times, past and future, of truths

and lies, of decisions and indecisions,

of memories, forgotten and alive,

move on, moving on, comprehend,

to board or not, the destinations

impassive, they do not care,

shrouded in a black apparel,

to discover the ways to endure it all,

time ticking, ticking, gone,

still standing, statued, entombed

in the instance of that moment,

stagnant, eroding pole of life,

no more ticking, but standing,

bewildered, unknowing, stopped

in the parallels of time, the time gone by,

standing still, at the cross way, ceased in time

.

The Sunday challenge features paintings by Mike Worrall at Imaginary garden with real toads. This poem is written, inspiring from the painting,  Forest Terminal.

I am tagging it as the post for 11 November for NaBloPoMo.

 

blazing nebulous visions

blazing nebulous visions

cut open,

crush every thought

once beheld,

once inhaled with every breath,

now torched,

on the sacrificial slab;

.

they bring forth confusion,

maddening the being,

leaving him to hover

in an opaque shroud

against the naked sky,

timing every such vision

touching and baring his soul.

.

Do not forget to download my first e-book and do share it around with everyone and anyone. Read the poems aloud to your dog and cat, make them go and recite them to their set of friends.

If you haven’t downloaded it yet, what are you waiting for?

Download it now, The fragrance of the pouring rain

Blue Thing

The blue expanse up above

so wide, beneath which

all our lives astray

no path, just a foggy trance

 

confusion, delusion, askance

this life does nothing but betray

teach us all the lies, this bitch

of feelings, of emotions, of love

 

there is nothing but that blue thing

under which we all suffer and sing.

 

P.s.- Another one written just like Red Lust and Violet Juice. You can suggest the name for this particular poetic form, the rules of which are- (i) Three stanzas, rhyming scheme being- ABCD/DCBA/EE, (ii) Description of some strong emotion and (iii) Prominence of a color. And it would mean a lot to me if you would also write such a poem. Don’t forget to tell me about it.

Do I want to be Depressed?

Again the confusion sets in

bringing forth the agony

I’m not so familiar with.

It is just all about that nagging

in the mind, continuous nagging,

trying to get my attention,

seeking the truth from me-

Do I want to be depressed?

The Maze of my Desires

The maze of my desires, 

All of a sudden fizzles with fires.

I don’t know why,

I smile in such a condition so wry.

Its not terrible for me,

Let the situation be,

Prevailing around,

To which I’m now bound.

The maze of my desires,

Is tangled like the many wires,

Sparking electric current at times,

And that is all I can write with my useless rhymes.