a jazzin’ kind of night

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© Anmol Arora

free-handed percussions — nightly detours
into amatory affairs — touch and wiggle —

the ambient smell of stale booze, fresh-smokes
on their breaths, a chandelier dripping with light,
bursting and blooming into the eyes,

sax and guitar, reverberating desires, up and loud —
the head nods that leave no room for improvisation.

the fingers find their way to the sequestered spots,
recognizing the rising heat in the night-time breeze,

my nips attentive to words grazed against my neck
along the sternocleidomastoids (the tumescence and
detumescence palpable in a cloth traveled melody) —

the blues rise in a leaf-like cadence, my heart palpitates
to the response of my thighs (shuttered, caving all within) —

freehanded percussions, nightly detours that settle
all that rises, as the lights expand in a cross-rhythm,
chaotic, high-rising, groping, grabbing, pulling, spilling,

tinkling down my spine.

 

© Anmol Arora 2018

For With Real Toads’ Notebook Poetry: I do not know if my writing is even comprehensible — I do write in my notebook at times but mostly it’s when there is a rush of a particular thought or experience and I have to jot it down — so my pen glides all over the page in its need to capture all of it in a jiffy before it extinguishes to nothing — I have taken my time in penning this one down after typing it primarily with a few non-intrusive edits. Ha! As for the poem, I have used the precise terms for a particular reason which delves into the biological aspect, to distance it from desire or want. Hope it doesn’t hinder the experience.
Also linking it with the Poetry Pantry at PU.

***
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.

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a nightly soirée

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Night Fishing at Antibes, 1939 by Pablo Picasso

words enveloping a slight breeze,
igniting curious forms – electric flowers,
dilapidated furnishings –
in this white expanse of high-
rises, and low lying lives (living lies),

words holding aloft meaningless
outlines to my structure, night
breathing its sonorous sounds
of cackling, ravishing through me –

i see gyrating epiphanies
of dahlias and pigeons mating,
of rain falling on the clouds,
bursting spectacles on the ground,
the predators prancing in a loss
of the timidity, of their own flesh.

dreams dreaming themselves
in a dreamscape verse – white doves
fluttering like paper, striking sun,
deepening gashes, of scarlet-violet
thickening into crystal lies (one disguise),

dreams holding fictions apart
from an unlikely truth-like reverie,
and drinking evening dews made of
spider silk, cactuses, subservient me –

i feel the voices of the dead
in my brown breast, thumping
steps of journeys, bound by
ringlets of faith, on the bodies
singled out in their own ecstasy,
of a rigidity, of their own levity.

~

it is a nightly soirée of handsome faces –

dark mouths,
darker eyes,
light dreams,
lighter skies.

.

For With Real Toads’ Weekend Challenge; also linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU

Contact me: InstagramFacebookGmail

sooner (than later)

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so it was in the cold that I held
those earnest embers of your words,

you were the marble idol
when black and white mingled
to cover the deep trenches of
my heart, your singular smile
was the only thing visible, only
sight on that evening of lights.

a caress on my neck had me
drugged, I was a shore for your
rising tide, I lost myself,

oh I lost myself that night, and
I am cold yet again, those embers
have a faint glow, and I am cold again

in the brilliance of my torn skin,
shivering in shadows of your smile.

I hold the new key, so new that it
is not yet familiar by the touch, of
my fingers, and I walk through
the door of this unknown circumstance,
I want to be home.

yes, I have fallen for you.
February comes soon.

.

Image source

Inspired from February by Dar Williams, written in consideration of writing prompt at With Real Toads.

frozen

snow like petals
line the path to twilight-
a crystal like sky

~

polished-
the mirror reflects again
the moon at night’s door

.

Image source

Written in consideration of Carpe Diem Encore # 15

This is to be counted as Poem # 6 for my 30 Days, 30 Poems Challenge. I am really tired and sleep deprived; I am thus not able to write a verse poem. Though these two haiku took a lot of my energy as well.

this is a communion of mockery

and it is bestiality that sucks
blood from my passion,

pin me down by your gaze, subdued,
I cry out, bite my spirit into chunks
of my broken armor, burn me alive

this instant, plunge my back with
the sword of impudence, against
my wish, but my wish is held true

in the recesses of this panorama
where nothing is seen, and everything
is naked.

punch my chest to make me numb,
your nails piercing me through
and through, till nothing is left
unterritorized. I’m no longer alive.

dead, I am, to the shadows that fall
on your naked back, I plunge my hatred
inside you with a power of resurgence,

of

this treachery of an evening, that lives
beyond the realm of an everlasting night.

let me be the trickster, let me
be the one to wrench open your arms
and embrace you with my lethal dance.

let me wrestle around the sky where
the sun has been plundered, disgraced.

let me eat the flavorless fruit
of this mockery of life, of passion.

let this night line my shores again.
let this night never touch me again.

.

The year before last, I took up a challenge to write and publish 30 poems in 30 days of November. And I finished it. This year, I am going to try and imitate it. This is Poem # 1.
Linking it up with Poets United Poetry Pantry.

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not to be the night when I lick my fingers

it was not to be the night when I lick my fingers,
you laughed at me, chortled at the way I spilled
everything on the canvas of the sky. a roundlet
of onion stuck in our conversation, our poetry.

I remind you of a pie you were to make for me,
and I worry today if I am an irksome ingredient,
like those peppercorns in your vadas that you
spit away saying you find them ground better,

but I am this whole, not a powder of intimacy,
I am a dripping stick-kulfi that coats desires,
I am the extra spice that burns your words,
I am just not a bullet in the index of the menu

that you skip over and come back to, because
I am affordable and easily available today, even
if I come out to be not what you really wanted.

after all,

it is not to to be the night when I lick my fingers,
invisible tears emerge on downtrodden cheeks,
painting colorless sky grey and blue. a julienne
of a fantasy is shattered, to become my poetry.

.

For dVerse Poetics.

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