the infinitesimal possibility of an idea

always expanding — the universe
coils itself around my little finger
in an unending loop
of space and time —

the suns are the stars, are the moons are the planets,
are the galaxy clusters,

certain to begin & end,

like an idea as a progeny of human-
ness, that binds itself to its own creation,

teeming with myths&legends or a lightyear-weary
compulsion, to mean something in the meanings
derived, in a big bite-sized hole at the center,


from a distant blue spot //just a lonesome ghost.

© Anmol Arora

For Physics with Björn – Cosmology and expanding horizons at WRT


october harvest


full — filling

the kettle boils over, steam
wafts over the pressure cooker,
lights blooming against
an old, knowing darkness,

i pick the depth of my bones,
figure the way around this garden
— a home – complete – almost —

cornucopia days and directions
bursting free, the breaking of an abundant
repository of tradition and belief —


so i pick the other half —
a bottomless vessel, pitless fruit,
spilled over milk,
dried-up leaves,
and a toothpick-sized
awareness, of all that is.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Image source (Cornucopia#1 by Lidia Kaminski)
For Midweek Motif at PU
Edit: Also linking it up with dVerse OLN

I have been working on a new Insta handle for about 2 months now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.


struck down by willingness,
he seeks repugnance of character, a butchering
to purge passions, a dream
to negate perception,

living behind/beyond the secure abode of knowledge,
inside the pool of not thoughtless but less thought of

invalid – but to be sure of submission –
the world takes a deep sigh
with every second bellied
by the man,

Linking it up with Word Count at With Real Toads
Instagram: mypeculiarself
Facebook: @aaha12345

Sylvia Plath- her voice still echoes around…

Here is my tribute to Sylvia Plath; a villanelle-

her voice still echoes around

the lone bird, lost in the mirrors of time

faded, yet there with a fluttering sound


hear, take it in, let it be found

moaning in pain, narrating the crime

her voice still echoes around


her body decaying in the burial ground

she is gone, leaving behind her life’s dime

faded, yet there with a fluttering sound


the years she spent but being bound

a prisoner to her own mind’s rime

her voice still echoes around


leaving nothing behind her, no expound

just her work, her prayers, so sublime

faded, yet there with a fluttering sound


oh Sylvia Plath, you are indeed crowned

the queen, amid the humanity’s grime 

your voice still echoes around

faded, yet there with a fluttering sound