in death as in life

how would my carcass look?—
empty or full,

or apathetic or scornful to all those who pass
by my unwavering blank eyes, with the archaic
virtues of respect for the dead — no, i do not
need that. i would want to hear the music of
flies and maggots on my beautiful blue skin,
like an adornment to horrify, a sacrilege to
the ritual of burning and burying secrets,

like a gruesome display of life and all that
it comes to when you take a longer than expected
pause from breathing, and seeing through fairy-
light eyes,

or would my limbs point at them without reproach
with my breath holding the remnants of smoke,
my skin translucent, and eyes closed, as i keep
on looking, and looking, for something.

perhaps the strangeness of my stillness (coursing through
my lifeless body) would be becoming on me.

perhaps i would look wanted and loved, the way i could not
feel when alive.

perhaps being organic refuse, i would be eaten from within
and out, and thus would discover who i am beneath all
these unknown persons i borrow myself from every day.

what a terrible tragedy it would be if it is not so,
if death like life would abandon me?—

a broken boy with silver trinkets gleaming
at the end
of sunlight.

.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Pablo Picasso, La mort de Casagemas, 1901, Paris, musée Picasso)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

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a starry-eyed dalliance

Image by Mark Basarab

silhouette — eyes draped
to forget the view of
that touch,

stars wave their flesh,
hang together in
an unreliable
reminiscence,

of what it was, in its night-
time sagacity —

the landmark of my body
rose and fell, began, so to come
to an end,

every breath became star-dust,
haloed in the light of its own
remembrance —

can i be trusted with the s-shaped
curves of that juncture?—

a rendezvous
of halved lusts – biting, igniting,
believing – of a brazen luck,
or a chance companionship
or a calcifying causality
of a lost need for love —

broken beds, filigreed facts,
in the topsy-turvy, much-forgotten
tremors of a memory,

with hidden traces of what remained
and has to be returned.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Originally written for and featured on Visual Verse. Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

***
Now that I am back in the thick of things, I am thinking of reviving the old concept of Guest Post here. So, this is an invitation to anyone out there willing to share their words, prose, poetry, rambling, ideas, crafts, arts, publications, et al. to use this space for sharing and promoting their personal/professional work. I have a very humble readership (in quantitative terms, despite the rather larger figure of the total number of followers) but I am sure that the ones who read and visit me will love to hear from you. If interested, you can write to me (with a short pitch for the guest post) at hamusesanewtune@gmail.com or on my Instagram. To get an idea of what has been done before, visit this section called Guest Post (the scope can vary from Oloriel’s poem with the story and inspiration behind her piece to Jen’s short lesson on the World of WordPress and blogging etiquette).

october harvest

full — filling
almost,

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 —

individual,
irrational,
institutionalized.

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.