Sometimes I forget my name

sometimes I forget my name

in the thrust of the wind

and thirst of the mind,

I am hanging along the lines

of identities, in crisis of

life, in need of a clarity


sometimes I forget my name

to find me on streets, walking

as if I am aware where they go

they do not end by my

illusion of identity, in haze of

the light, in worlds unreal


sometimes I forget my name

when I explore on the map-

a dimension where I could

find the portal to bring me

back, I am a solid mass in

weightless sky, in words untrue


sometimes I forget my name

because I have embraced so much

that is beyond me, I fly above

ground, while my tethers are

still rooted within the soil, in

need of me to come back to me


sometimes I forget my name

and I think that is alright

as long as I do not rule myself

out of me, as long as I am there

to see, to feel, to touch, in lands

of this reality, I may still find me


Image source

Unseeable Identities

you are that unseeable identity, that

if I could touch you, I’d have to believe

that the stars have convulsed my destiny,

into a deep dense breath that passed

through your lips the last, which if I

could, I would store in my thought and

cling to you, stopping in your tracks,


but never did I know that I am helpless

and you were as well, and the story did end

the way it started, in anonymity of self,

by the destructive divulge, that dearth of

the flower of empathy that never sprouted,


its seed lost, smashed under the wheels

of your car, and your words did it all,

they hit my face with a blunt force and

I do not bleed, I am just left with shapes

of your anger, painful to sweetening while

the tears sting them with my obsession

over what was there, so trivial once,


now buried in mounds where a cactus grows up

surrounded by hills, it, you, everyone is still

alone and I am alone cherishing droplets

of blood that sprout out of my palms as

I longed to touch your identity and did,


still left without knowing what is that

treacherous triviality which made it so

that I ache to hear you in the dark so

that you can pull me to where you are

and make me a cup of tea and we talk

throughout the day, through the night

sitting on jute mattresses, I yearn to

hear you tell your tale and I hold your hand

as you guide me back to this time, your time

long gone, your name scratched by nameless

bystanders who still wait to spit once again

where there your bones lay dead, and I sing

a song of solitary sentence that not only

ceases the breath, but also erases a life

and a fate, and I sing, to continue, I sing


© Anmol Arora 2014

Image source: Painting © Arnaud Demol

I appreciate constructive criticism.

Consuming the illumination | Now I patiently wait

I tenderly move the tendons,

acrimoniously supporting the crackling bones,

of my left arm, directing my index finger,

towards the flickering flare, of a lit candle,


I enclose it… pinch it within my thumb, and

the aforementioned finger,

it percolates inside me, and I feel light,

having consumed this illumination

for my dire heart,


but I am patient

for it to make a semblance, and smolder the walls,

of the dilapidated yore, thawing me throughout,

into the wax heaps, of a rejuvenated identity,


though it would be malformed, yet welcomed,

because there is splendor in normalcy,

but our true nature relies at

what turns out to be the end of things


Image source

The prompt today at dVerse(the last of this year) features the candles, light and winter solstice as its theme.

the many sides of me

tumbling down, to the bottom of the hollow,

where nothing is such that can distract

me, finding myself surrounded by

my many sides: polar, dual, multilingual,


I meet up, with all my fragments at once,

so many, diverse, contradicting, insane,

and I discern, how complicated I am,

the whole lot I do, comes from them


acting it out for me, all these different traits,

dwelling in the same flesh, blood and bones,

combating for and against each other,

in a conflict of their impeccability and worth,


wanting to be an effective voice in my deeds,

I can not sprint away from them, from

these apparitions brought up within me,

sustaining inside me, being a part of me,


something I could do is assemble them,

into a single piece: befuddled, messed up,

ridiculous, dumb, strangled by the knots

of the properties tied of each into a bundle,


or I could arrange them in a queue,

beckoning the one I need at a moment,

restraining others, by my craft, from disrupting,

and invading the progressions of my mind,


but I doubt it would work out, for I am but

a slave to my instincts, and not the ruler,

and that is why it happens, that I get entombed

into doubts, fighting off with my identity, with myself


Well, this is the poem for 5 November for NaBloPoMo. I have also joined up with Rarasaur‘s team, Nano Poblano, as I venture into posting thirty poems in thirty days.

Also, I am linking it up with the Trifecta challenge, where we have been asked to use the word, craft, referring to the skill in deceiving to gain an end.

Image source