the fallacy of self

Sun Behind Clouds – Burnham Overy Staithe by Stephen Martyn

the sun bears the weight
(of a culmination of clouds)
trying to break through,
trying to hang on
to a clear sky
that has abandoned
any thought of light —

i see the silk-green texture of people
through my spring-leaf glasses
and everything seems distant
in the tunnel vision of my truths,

i wish to see, i wish i would not see
at times, when the daylight lifts its robe
to the hues of darkness within,
to the stories that I have kept in check
for long,

i am the fading away of a date, of a month,
of a year, spent in madness & confusion,
writing paeans to a sky devoid of any blue,
for the colours have kept me apparent
to the one who is no longer mine,
to the one, i wish to undo.

.

© Anmol Arora

Linking it up with the Poetry Pantry at PU

redemption

made of bare bones
and sticks,

clay-modeled diagrams,
chips of a china doll —

the earth-buoyed body cricks,
cracks, like the door,
seldom opened.

i wait to be explored,
i seek redemption,
in

the thickets,
calls of
a cuckoo,

the arms of
my
chthonic god.

~

 

Intermingling psychology and symbolism with my current state of mind, a little something for dVerse Quadrille #63

Image source: Vincent Van Skelly (a parody of Van Gogh’s Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear) by Marie Marfia

And here’s something moody for you:

***

I have been working on a new Insta handle for over a month now, for literary and creative posts: @anmol.ha.
For contact, you can reach out to me through my multiple profiles, enlisted here.

planet earth is blue and there’s nothing I can do

an infidel runs out to the street
to gaze at the five planets which aren’t there,
the whore ties her hair in a bun
to sing to the moon draped behind the clouds,
and the starving mutt barks

creating a collapsing sense of reality,
where sound & vision are marred by
the man who sold the world,

the goblin king wreathing gold coins
enumerating the faces in pain, and
the pain in faces.

how odd is that space of un-belonging,
how dust from stars fall into my eyes
to let me see and let me think, and burn
from ashes to ashes, from skin to skin,

I did relinquish the desire of faith and fate,
I stole the diamonds from his eyes
but they were just buttons with no life,

so in the end, there are only dreams
and that tiny whimsy bit of hope
that has to be quashed, in order
to live.

the whore’s song has died.
the infidel castrated,
the starving has starved,
and I,
I, done with the world.

.
Image source

A Farewell to David Bowie. Linking it up with With Real Toads.

endings

“okay then, goodbye”:

stories have a tendency to end in the
most

cliched manner, as if they just can’t find some-
thinkg different, perhaps a hello at the end,

a promise of something that begins and goes
on still, but endings are supposed to be sad
all the time, many a time. Perhaps all I need

to do
is
to
never
let
stories
end,

and that’d give to me my choice of an ending
or no ending, a discrepancy of sorts in the end.

.

This is Poem # 9 for my 30 Days, 30 Poems Challenge.

Image source

Repository

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, there exist such wide and glorious fields of understanding and clarity, which are but a product of a resounding confusion clouding the eyes, shattering the peace of the mind, almost killing normalcy. Almost.

You feel most alive when you are nearest to death. Similarly, you are most sane when you are close to insanity.

tilting sideways
the glorious fields of gold-
like his mind

I remember standing close to a mustard field, inhaling pollen and exhaling my last attempt at keeping myself sane. I had this desire to fish. To capture a fish from somewhere in that river of yellow and gold. The sun burnt my left cheek and I kept on waiting for someone to bring me a fishing rod.

No one ever came. I am still waiting. In some alternative world. I know that I am still waiting there after these four long years. Because I still want that fish in this world. I lost everything because I never captured that fish. And thus, things can never be right.

I caress the burnt mark on my left cheek.

remembering-
calm of mustard fields before
the onslaught of frost

Within the twisted lanes of insanity, I exist. I am a smiling figure atop that beautiful building you see from afar and you miss out on the spectacle as your line of sight changes. You miss out on the spectacle of how that smiling figure takes a leap from that beautiful building, burdening the air with all his weight.

You do feel that weight with every breath you take.

small buds protrude
out of the damp, heavy soil-
the cold wind picks up speed

~

taking in a whiff
of the remnants of warmth-
I feel cold in my bones

.

Inspired from Bjorn’s Haibun Monday prompt at dVerse. I have molded it in my own way.
This is Poem # 2 for my goal/challenge to write and post a poem every day of this month. The painting depicts the wide, sprawling fields of wheat, but somehow, the yellow/gold reminded me of a mustard field sparkling in the winter sunshine.
Image source: View of the Church of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole by Vincent van Gogh.