his voice has a slight tremble
i can feel in my throat, like
a hot melting tar, burning away —
a fever i could catch, a freedom
i could match, and light away
another smoke to its waste.
.
© Anmol Arora 2018
For With Real Toads Fussy Little Forms: Cherita
(by Brishti Guha)
She thinks of an evening
An evening of spring showers
When they laughed, their faces in the rain,
riding steel –
Black steel on red dust.
Their contours welded together perfectly
Muscle against muscle. Tyres against tar.
Later, their contours merged again
As the thunderstorm outside raged
It seemed created for the
express purpose
Of matching their passion.
And she thinks of his back
The broad back that she loved to hug from behind
The back that bore her nail marks
And that he turned on her one summer day
To walk away.
And she smiles, thinking
Of the rain, the storm-
Of poetry, and of her love
For life and all that it offers
This bodacious babe.
.
*Brishti is a dear friend. She is an Associate Professor of Economics at a prestigious university. Apart from her research and writing in Economics, she is an avid reader and a practiced poet as well. You can read some of her papers and articles here.
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.
.
Inspired from February by Dar Williams, written in consideration of writing prompt at With Real Toads.
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.
shimmering fireflies
into the eyes of beloved
a passionate love
~
old stream of water
soldier returns home from war
black tears, fireflies gone
~
midnight moon shines bright
hotaru glows at distance
illumination
~
a mid-summer day
young boys trot towards river
waiting for the fire
~
waters set on fire
man gazing into his soul
a soundless twilight
~
splendor of fireflies
fairy tale coming to life
spectators gather
* Written in response of Carpe Diem # 221
* Won’t be able to post for the next 8 days or so; going to miss the wonderful prompts.
HA's Place 