an evening reverie (iii)

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bricks, mortar, dull-white paint shedding
down the wall — the iron rods sticking out
like the full flush of loneliness — pennies
stuck to my palate — empty eyes stinging

with an evening demand for staying, clay
pots scattered, broken melon lips linking
skies with mouthed words, those unsaid
are never too dull – fuchsia pink – boiling

tricks, sweating armpits, a pulsing heat —
smoking, sweltering, steaming —

.

Image source

That kind of an evening — linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

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of lovely things

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rise and flow, reach out and billow —
the caress of star-bedecked cheeks, of
coffee-skins resplendent with flavors
of earth, slings, of two-days old sweat,

encounter the mirth of every golden
brow – never else would be any but
for a poem lovely as a full-throated
ease of a desire – the divine delights

of souls quivering to the lip-service
of lust, one-two-inches deep – glassy
wounds – eager, ephemeral feelings
rising, flowing, deluging, dazzling –

.

Image source: Getting Rid of My Desire by Brooke David

For With Real Toads’ Micro Poetry

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RIP, Queen of Soul

national pride

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i only see the saffron – slogans,
sticks, iron rods, crimson canvas –
sheathing the green and whites
with curdled screams and cow
motifs, hoisted in shameless ink –
ring-ring- stand up for the forced
bling of pride, pious and stuck
to a dominant lie, of a citizenry –

i only see the next bullet-ridden
gauri, or a broken-bodied pehlu,
amid the uproar of mob-guided
patriotic pleasantries – trishuls
overcoming law, smiles baked
in a clay cauldron of disorder –

i only see you and your voice-
less pathos, the spokes of dharma
tangling dashed freedoms, and
zealot jingoism – blood is the color
of my flag, bone is the color of
my future – another one is hanging
by the rope – green and white,
in an asphyxiating, state-sponsored,

moderately-stylized saffron tide —

.

Image source (Illustration: Cleon Dsouza)

For Poets United Mid-Week Motif. I took a more radical route, but that is intended in the world that we live in — nationalism or patriotism of any kind, be it associated with a particular ethnicity or religion, should never take precedence over the basic tenets of humanity.
The tricolor (Indian flag) denotes renunciation (saffron), the path of truth (white), relationship with the earth and nature (green) and the law of dharma (Ashok Chakra in the middle). In the contemporary context, the meanings have evolved or rather have emerged to build up an atmosphere of cultural and national jingoism, as can be seen in many nations around the world today. I talk about the saffron because that is also the color used by Hindutva outfits, thereby referring to the violence perpetrated in the name of religion in the last four years particularly. Certain links have been embedded wherever a few other references have been made.

small comforts

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.

small comforts are the packages of distrust
in my bulging shirt-pocket, hanging by
its last threads —

i am a tea kettle, stationary as a decor,
another plaything of the gentry — ideas
pushed into my gut like a day-old
pastry — stringent, decadent, slightly off,

i am a damp kitchen towel of moderate
temperatures — calescent on the fore-
head, dizzy with the worry of a fresh
lack of sickness — rich, sweet, a little off,

i am a window curtain kneeling on
the tartan floor — the warm breeze sets in
and moves around in its obvious rhythm of
convalescence — swift, heavy, switched off,

— i take small comforts through the nights,
carry them along the crooked lines, one
inclined thread hanging by the other.

.

Image source: Ragina Bogat, This Way That, 1990

For MLM Menagerie’s Wordle. Also linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

setting

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the centerpiece —

pvc ceiling, lilac. honey-
mustard edging across daft
corners, hibiscus’ death of
colors, trimmings of desire
into drunk deals ~

~ wait it out. it turns blade-grey
and coughdrop-red, sequent-
ially, hear that song of bro-
ken lines & fickle curves
of the gluteal

 — enfold,
when it turns bloody
and swift – breaks,
blues, gallows, dies –

.

Image source: Dutch Interior IIJoan Miro

Linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

opinion

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.
downward and low,
an opinion hanging

by the whiskers of their mouth, they all have
to say and demonstrate this or/and that,
keeping in store lopsided voices to
commemorate their oh so mighty wisdom,

i am giggling to myself, humble in
my own obtrusive opinion, filling
circles with cascading blue ink, drawing
eurythmic patterns of scutoids that form
the epithelium of this marriage —

the lofty union of art with garb-age,
a tirade of the song against poetry,

and i am still giggling, misguided in my
undernourished appetite for newness,
a well-rounded change for the worse, if not
on a revitalized road to salvation.

my locomotive-like scattered brain goo
gone off the tracks of an atemporal
listing, and i am giggling and giggling,
and they are oh-opinionating,
all for a single prose,

i am no screenwriter drawing storyboards,
i am a single founded, mutually admired myth
posturing for a life figure —

the so-called youth gone wayward, loosening
the coils of their and my very own time,
in a self-congratulatory realm of
opinions.

.

Image source: Screwfizzer Painting by Simon Birch
For MLM Menagerie’s Wordle # 206. Also linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

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dear, you…

back there, lights must have dimmed
to sorrow  –
have you, too?
~
dear, you…

i am okay  – all is as blue as it can be
quenching the brown of my eyes,

i love the red-white lighthouse,
bereft of tourists, amid the green,
i come here often
to find the pain of my solace,
of one kind  – the other kind
is left with you  –

sweet salt fumes linger on my lips,
the sea looks deep like loss, grains
of sand end up everywhere, like
the thought of you,

i am holding reins over
the beach or i will drown,
and building castles, and collecting
conch shells, and stark-white pebbles,

i will gather some for you, too.

 

.

For With Real Toads’ At the Seaside Challenge. The last sea I encountered was ruined by the urban mess of a metropolitan. That is not what I wrote about.
I instead remember the seas of Port Blair (2013) as I go about it – I went up that lighthouse on an island nearby only once and still, it left an impression on me. I was on my own, but for the blue expanse ahead and the green on all other sides.  The poem is fictional but that memory stirs these emotions in me – the palate of my thoughts turn to blue, grey and blood. Otherwise, I have no recollection of having written a postcard or a letter of this kind. What I had to write stayed within, brown and forlorn like my skin, not turned into the coherency of lines. If it were, it would have been something like this. And as fiction goes, it is never completely so. *winks*

*Also linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

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