this newness

what is with this newness that
doesn’t change anything?

the air still pricks like a year-old
thought, the water still burns and
scars the remnants of a shed-skin,
the blue stays a blue and warmth
only comes in intervals of counted
breaths, and all is fine, as fine as
it can be, on a fragile winter-sun,
still uncanny in its resemblance
with oldness and frailty, and yet
a pithy belief for rest and peace.

i pick moments from this stagnancy,
and venture for an apathetic re-
conciliation with my old selves,
drinking from the same pool of
aging and forgetting, and in mind’s
eyes, i can see that it is but the same,
the angles and frames have dearly
changed for a different, if not a better
perspective, of the dipping sky, going
beneath my window, into my words,
and quenching the need for change,
which is not in the coming today.

© Anmol Arora

Image source (Year of change at Wildwood by Andy Reisdorph)
Linking it up with this year’s first Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads

bending lights

afternoon white turns into
a scattered blue, as the river serpent
finds its way through the ivory
flowers with sun-streaked stalks

hitherto complimenting the nature
of light that dozes off at an arm’s length
of my view,

heaviness is registered in this light’s
movement through the verisimilitude
of other monochrome lights, of the changed
hues, with the galaxies of visitors, remarking
on its bathed reverence.

the marble captures
the after-fluorescent impact
in its tiled capsules as an exploration
of the history of gravity’s hold over
the dead bodies and their afterthoughts,

for that marks the beginning of the ending,
the universe that gathers many lights and holes
to fill them in,

unentangled, they curve like a day-
old bouquet of thoughts,

time shifts its melodies in the continuum
of this apprehensive physical
communication —

the lights turn the pallor
of shadow, becoming one of its own,
one not to be afraid of,

not knowing why
the grave situation
beckons their control.

.

© Anmol Arora 2018

Finally got to visit the iconic Taj yesterday — it was a less than satisfactory experience. Still, the beauty of this monolith is unparalleled, perhaps deriving so much from both its physical features as well as the sum total of its histories and legends. The above is a snapshot from the opposite bank unable to capture every changing color as the sun that was harsh all day long receded to nothingness — the singular moment when time and space became their own solace. And thus, this evening lament for all things be.

For With Real Toads’ Physics with Bjorn. Also linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.

***
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

Last Year

last year gone —
a new night shadows
the usual talk
~
barking dogs
trail my shadow
like last year
~
last year memories —
ablaze in the orange flame
of the street light

.

Linking it up with Carpe Diem # 639 and Heeding Haiku With HA: New Year(click to participate now)

Image source

It is 2015. I wish you and your loved ones a joyous and prosperous new year.
There are certain blogging resolutions, I would like to make, for this year:

1. Write at least a 100 posts this year.
2. Poetry must be the focal point but I would also like to consider writing reviews(books and music albums) and simple thoughts coursing through my mind.
3. Renew friendship with the bloggers. In 2014, I lost touch with many bloggers. I would like to renew contact with them, while at the same time, making some new friends in the blogosphere.
4. Participate exclusively in the prompts of poetry and blogging communities.
5. Reach a wider audience through my writing, with the help of other social networking sites like Twitter.

Soaking

unheeded
soaking the grass greener-
December dew

.

Linking it up with Carpe Diem Special # 122

Image source

The thoughts also become foggy just like these days sometimes. I remember such incidents which are of no significance anymore. They are smeared with the ink of the past, which one can’t change.
The dew of hope soaks the memories and dreams, making them appear brighter than they ever were or would be. This grass still grows within me, as December is passing by, and another year would soon be erased from our lifetimes.

Matargashti

source

up

up

up

round

round                        round

round

goes the ferris wheel round,

round, round, round

                bounce,                bounce,

bounce,                 bounce,

many many rides for you to bounce,

.

and thankfully, there is a crude

rod to keep us from flying around,

to keep a hold of us as we hoot,

shout, make fun of the other

behind the back and upfront

because it doesn’t matter

when you all are a little mad

and become a child, when you

arrive at the rocky ground

(hidden overall by green carpets)

and encompass in you the spirit

that shines through your eyes,

when the city fair comes oblige

you with the memories, and you

live them again, one last time

every time

.

I have had the opportunity to go for such “matargashti” only rarely. Its been about 4 years since the last time I went and enjoyed. I even mentioned it in a poem from November, All these ordinary days and this was the particular stanza:

and how to forget, the excursion to the city fair,

my reluctance, to climb onto the Ferris wheel,

all of those who accompanied me went, while

I waved to them, some had closed their eyes,

panicked, but still going on for the ride, and

the way I shivered in my bones and smiled-

.

Now we are all dispersed here and there lacking contact. I am trying to revive the communication with some of them because friends are important and you realize that only after:

• you shoo them away
• they ignore you
• misunderstanding happens
• you realize that you were never friends

And I want to realize that you are all my friends. So come on, talk to me so that I can add your name in my secret list. 😀

Matargashti: I don’t know a definite word in English to go with it. I tried searching out but I guess, it is one of those words which can not be definitely translated to English. Its meaning would be along the lines of being naughty(childish/kiddish), having fun and not doing anything of consequence.

I am linking it up with Poetry Jam, where the prompt focuses on festivities, fairs and exhibitions this week.

And tell me about your matargashtis? Or your experiences when you went to a fair or a carnival?