in this hemisphere of time
where years are lost in discoveries
of beauty,
and days spent in the reverie
of those youthful dreams —
i map out the latitudes&longitudes (of longing)
on my body, to find the passage of my thirst,
lining experiences&exigencies on the shore
of all that was, and all that could have been,
now lost.
where do i begin, if i do not know
where i need to go?
.
© Anmol Arora
1 April 2019
(Inter)National Poetry Month
orange-tiled huts,
an embankment with an ice-cold
touch,
like the swish of air
beneath the door,
taking hold
over the ankles,
in the grip
of
a tightening resolve —
the scene of this stillness
is unsuitable
for my silver-
spooned, steel-proofed
bathroom,
adrift with
the violence of
hair-falls, slippery soaps,
and the languid heat of
a late summer’s threatening tone
in a lonely play.
.
© Anmol Arora 2018
Image source (Bathroom Windowsill by Una Sealy)
Linking it up with the Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads
***
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.
bricks, mortar, dull-white paint shedding
down the wall — the iron rods sticking out
like the full flush of loneliness — pennies
stuck to my palate — empty eyes stinging
with an evening demand for staying, clay
pots scattered, broken melon lips linking
skies with mouthed words, those unsaid
are never too dull – fuchsia pink – boiling
tricks, sweating armpits, a pulsing heat —
smoking, sweltering, steaming —
.
That kind of an evening — linking it up with Poetry Pantry at PU.
signaling the day-end is a light
soft to touch, sweet in its flavor, dark
in its attire, wiping smiles and words
from my ramshackle lips – empty eyes
carrying in its hold wry remembrance,
it tricks me by wind-woven fingers,
playing with a velvet shadow, blue-green
in color, smooth dew-leaves in temper.
.
Image source
(Anticipation of the evening coolness by Nikolai Taidakov)
Edit: Linking it up with Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads
what I shall make out in green and concrete –
the milk of this evening has gone rancid
in its own boiling heat – white blossoms curled
into their wombs – colored winds in this play.
what I shall discern of you, in your want –
an iris dusk shedding silken-haired light,
hung at the mere hint of one last goodbye.
.
For dVerse MTB
Image source (Arizona Dusk by Erin Hanson)
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