spring of lust

and i am tracing the spaces
your lips covered/caricatured
on my sunshine skin —

my lips blooming&bursting
this spring of lust, bereft of stars,
while i look for my own loss
in the dark.

the roads are endless in this city
of loss,
but my beginning is its own end.

where do i go to seek the poetry
of things? how can i ever
make this night last?

© Anmol Arora

Day 4
(Inter)National Poetry Month


this licentious topography

your eyes are water-channels never be-
-fore-seen by the travails of my body,

your hands are grains on a dried river-bed
that haven’t felt what it is to be dreaded
with a precipitating desire for
such soft/silken/smooth meridians — i laugh
away your hesitant touch, as if di-
-vided by a barrier of evergreen trees.

the epicenter of this tremor lies
in your heaving chest, and your soft cries
are the lingua-franca of this land,
dense with ligatures of our limbs: misaligned —

we meet at the estuary of our dreams,
our faultlines eroded by limited means.


© Anmol  Arora

A broken/battered sonnet for my prompt this week for dVerse Poetics (On Geography), where I have shared verses by Whitman, Bishop, and Ammons, to inspire the poets and prompted everyone to inculcate geographical themes in their writing. Do not forget to visit and participate. Also, I am linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

towards the separation of lips

the mauve-toned sky picks
and plucks at my love’s languid pace,
turning a shade of brinjal-blue
and carrot-red, as suns and rains
drown each other out, before
Venus’ chariot of callous-crowns —

i have seen kisses in the shapes
of a soft-pink roundness,
(a bulging sourness) of falling grapes,

i have seen lips that go up and up,
and down and down, like a loitering
lover, in search of a finicky warmth
(just to belong) in unrelenting arms,

i have eaten morsels of bodies, drank
myself to the satisfaction of projectile-
juices, (parched in deserts) of skin-types,

i have kissed thighs of another order,
and written psalms of sleep at many
arbors, (struggling) beneath a few
forgetful breaths.

let me sleep now for a second or two,
(for your sake)
before i slip through your lips
and become whole again.

© Anmol Arora

For ‘Shortcake, waffles, berries and cream .. February!‘ at With Real Toads, where Sanaa inspires us with a poem by Joseph O Legaspi