growing up

uncharted

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in this hemisphere of time
where years are lost in discoveries
of beauty,
and days spent in the reverie
of those youthful dreams —

i map out the latitudes&longitudes (of longing)
on my body, to find the passage of my thirst,
lining experiences&exigencies on the shore
of all that was, and all that could have been,

now lost.

where do i begin, if i do not know
where i need to go?

.

© Anmol Arora

1 April 2019
(Inter)National Poetry Month

coming back

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the odd-familiarity leaves a dull feeling
to compensate for all those years past —

coal and gravel need to stick to the soles
of my slippers, as a reminder of all that is
glued with the truths of an empty hearth.

the oil-paint peels down on my shoulders,
plaster sticks to my falling hair, reclaiming
the flesh that was shed at a time of loss,
a mark of the presence, of a pulverized hope
that everything can be whole once more.

the lights are cobwebbed in a frenzied display
of lives, lived in entanglements of an arachnid-
mesh, of raised voices, flippant arms, bruises
and burn-marks self-inflicted in the watershed
moments, to break free from the unified mold &
the intrinsic blockades of the wry social norms.

this coming is like the trace of a feline paw-mark
made, re-made on the veneer of this ménage —

the rust on the old photos, broken glass, wiped
tabletops and dust motes on the couch (that still
carry the shape of me), all fervent to clutch & grab
once more at my oft-broken, and remended heart.

.
© Anmol Arora

Image source (Homecoming by Kinga Ogiegło)
For Wordy Thursday with Wild Woman: Homecoming at With Real Toads

May be that was the day I grew up

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handed over to me, the manuscript to read-

the name of the historical kings and queens,

the years and locations of their reign and wars,

the politics involved, the artifacts found,

I clasped the bound, yet loose pages,

into my fist to climb over to the roof,

(some 35 feet high, and 18 feet wide)

allotted time was equivalent, to my capability to

record all the words into my eyes, onto my tongue,

(to recite for the oral test later by the tutor),

that day, I was too distracted by the fire streaks,

running through, the evening sky of dull blue,

and even though I had a task to do, I perched

on a thick wall, the boundary of the terrace,

deep in thought, of the thoughts of an 11 year old,

the colours changed, from crimson to lilac, and

in the end, to what blush could be of the embers,

my ears dumb, to the hollering of other kids, who

played beneath my standing, on the street-

hide and seek, iron-wood, i-spy, but I knew little

of them, my conscious aware of those lives,

of the kids, liberated to bawl and call, while

I was captivated, by the free thinking of my own mind,

and I wonder if that was the very moment, when

I grew up and left away, storing the childish things

into the bubbles of memory, and moved ahead

to realize all what is life, who I am, the questions

that would have appeared, so heightened for

my lanky body, I was a little chubby… now I smile

at what came to pass that day, that twilight,

because I am still that same child, who couldn’t

be like others of my age, I am a single player,

just me, as I am with myself, amusing myself,

within my own framework and knowledge,

the act of thinking, that day, had become my new game

.

This is tagged as the post for 10 November for NaBloPoMo. If you want to read the previous 9 poems of this month… just drag your icon to the drop-down menu named Home, within which you would find poetry, within which you would find a category by the name of NaBloPoMo.

Image source