Author: Afya




       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Samy Charnine surrealism


I woke up one morning
and my heart was a fish
out of the water,
up on a weathered road with dying water.

A vapid fume of tiredness
and, guilt
of not letting my guilt stay.

I have a habit of taking love seriously,
gifting reassurance like a shawl
covering their ears
till their eyes are full of milk sleep–
I would often sing in long paragraphs
and could even take back
a mumble hum,
but what when
the seasons are upon them for a change?

Of loved ones without antidotes
and no water for a fish.





       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Bitcoin: Will "Halving" Be Good or Bad for the Value?

I stop my music
I’ll catch them words.
I stop the feeling
I’ll catch them words.

Of having written to you so much
“Who am I?”
Body past body
Veins past shame;
Thoughts pervasive
and awfully slam-poetry-like.

Of beings pulling me from me
and poor me, trying to hold onto
a cosmos unsolved
but breezy
in its attitude.

I slam the bottom of the jar.
I want nobody but me
and the sky
in my mind
and co.


Spring Mushrooms


       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

jai ma

It is bloom
and in my dreams,
I have started appearing in a village
on the mountains.

I have laid down my embellishments
and picked up my poetry,
and remorseless, I wander
in pettiness and small ideas
of how you gave me your hand,
in the silk of
damp valleys and noodle aromas.

There was a singing in your hands
and on the railroads
there was love in your teeth
of noon-light
‘what a benign monster’
I laughed and let you take me away.

It was a narrative of a homegrown potted plant
and closed rooms with translucent windows
in a wild forest of sun
and still I romped about
in whatever boy-bike empire
you called your home.

You had biting eyes when I made the window blind
and I waited for you
in mad laughter
of a free playschool of heart
with no suitcases of mind.

Of all signals chopped like an onion
and all the people crying in the world
that I have eloped
in my transgressions,
but still I rise
in whimsicality.

वो शौक है रंग बदलता है मैं रंगरूप का सौदाई

Author Notes: My heart is a genius of utopia. 



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Chaos by the artist, Elliana Esquivel.

Chaos of mind,
I sit with you at a chess table
and you gamble like a pirate king.

The negotiations are let out,
and it is a dance of seduction
of an exoticized Spain
where bleeding roses are championed
because they fight against the brutality of white noise.

But I have to sleep
and the mattress seduces no allegory,
for my reader who traverse these words
and so I wake,
allowing you to condense my peace,
all in the name of poetry.

Chaos of my mind,
lend me demons of an emotional excess
that may sprout into a poem
of exorcism rites.

Author Notes: This one is to refer Wordsworth, with my own finishes.



       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

           Faeries by a rocky stream by Francis Danby

“In poetry,
I learn honesty.”

There is a certain group of unknown creatures
that sit fishing
over my heart,
like faeries.

These are my mind.

I wheel out my supermarket trolley
and ask them
‘what are we feeling today?’
and when empty,
They dive inside and appear in the nerves of my forehead.

My mother says
‘it is because you are not drinking enough water’
and it must be true
for the pond where they fish
has terrors inside
and we must not let it dry up.

Sea Horses


100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

The Rising Tide by Jason deCaires Taylor

Prompt: “The last river on earth writes a poem. What does it say?”

I met a man once,
after my mother snuck me out
and lapsed across time and space
to become a dark space
of cloudless sky.

He told me
there was a river inside his head
‘If you could talk to her?’
and so I ate his mind
like those before him,
their memories my bedrock
I, an odyssey.

The sky is purple through his eyes today
and an another smell his child’s crayons
I tell them to sleep,
I stir them like honey in warm water
but they come up like adolescent rocks
trembling across the pond
as if thrown away by teenagers.

I tell them to sleep,
the world falls in my lap like freshly-washed clothes
and it is my last job
to open a cellar of salt
and fold them under its whirlpool.

The last man,
buoyant by all the salt of the sea
that sits like stones under eyelashes,
stirs for the last time
and asks me of ‘what of your end?’
and I fish some babble
and wave
‘Oh, but the end is me.’

            Author Notes: Yes, I can make puns.

In the sculptures, the head of the horses are replaced by oil pumps to critique pollution. I found this picture after I wrote the poem and I find it delightful that it is almost a soulmate to it. The horses here, refer to the horses of apocalypse in Christian mythology and are the central theme of poem as well.







100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


I had intuition around things.
My hands would fall recklessly around me
And they knew of
The world that touched them
And clucked like
Scattered mothballs.

At a pool table,
I knew my game
And when I thought I was writing to you,
I had already written my hundred poems
Long before this page.

Where is this place?
Where the things have already happened

One morning though,
I did not know why there was a heavy fog
My windows all
In depth
Of improbability—
I cried
And could not contain me so,
From hallucinating a reality which cannot be predicted
Because it simply
Does not exist.



100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018


“La Pausa” by Kelly Borsheim

For many days,
I sat upon the swing of my mind
and played with word-games
till my mouth was full.

I told people
I am gentle,
You have to chew my ambition
and twirl me a little bit to–
But wait.
I am suffering an interruption.
A rather vivid eruption,
of a heart that was supposed to stay quiet
throughout the course of this poem.

There is a figure that stands in the room
and slips under my eyelids every-time I sleep
And every morning when I wake up,
I am always afraid
I am still dreaming
and then I go out and really see You,
the figure,
playing word-games
as if reminiscing the cloud that was last night.

I am afraid.

I am pleased.

Author Notes: As a surreal poet, form is my greatest play. But sometimes
my heart does not obey me and that is potent. Unifying.