Starry night

8/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

I hated nostalgia,
for I was still a child
and what of child and the past,
and what of child and the future?

In my starry night,
I lapped in the moonlit sea
where wise turtles swam
and a bright meadow of stars spake,
of a vibrating universe
and secrets that evaded men,
but I like to think–they came close,
oh so close to me.

And when I came out of the sea
all drenched,
they thought it was the water-broke
and I was still a baby,
for I could not tell them what the stars said
and thus language, you’ve again
betrayed me.

I make words
they unmake me,
when I am told that I am only them.

It is a terrible thing to live without language
and to be told,
it is the way of life.

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Dosage

17/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Grahan

Image Credits: Grahan by Pulkit Kamal 

In the city of heart,
cold weather like an honest storm,
wrenching your face like
an old lady rowing a boat full of
people peopled by
forlorn eyes.

An irritant in the eye
and a knife in the navel
the curtains on the window
and dust in the mouth of the dead,
land, oh land, you Eliot’s maze.

To be doomed upon the platter of friends;
As soon as the starving ghosts sat to eat in the graveyard,
their food turned into the stones of sea,
my food, a pen.
Hunger is endless.

Another cold day of May,
a tree oiled by the witch under the Peepal
knocks
rocks
like a girl possessed by the devil,
and I am sleeping,
but not “sleeping”,
I simply can’t open my eyes.

But sometimes an odd spark in the wind,
brims me up
burns the fallow lands of my mirthless men
and for a moment,
just for a moment,
I can remember again.

Memory is a pill
One must take every night before bed.

The Gaze

16/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for tree of eyes

Image, “The Trees Have Eyes” by Wim Lanclus

 

Close the doors
lay under the blankets,
and even under the eye lids,
O the,
O the,
eye follows.

It is not about people prying
It is about people prying about people prying.

One day I could not breathe
as I found a tree embryo
upon my navel,
an eye-tree
an I-tree;
It was nodes of thoughts that people could have on me.

Narcissus a rose
drowned in mirrors
of other minds
before it can ever love himself.

And so mirrors are bad-luck.

The Gaze remains,
it is un-human to be completely rid of it,
often more so un-lady-like
but sometimes when I sit alone
and listen to the birds,
I am just me
and no other words
for a tree of eyes to scrutinize.

Perhaps in such sweet music of nature,
we can return
like an elegy from a churchyard grey
and so we revive–
you may call it the “true self” if you will.

 

The Crocodile

15/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for crocodile surreal

Image by Vitogoni 

Dear words,
make me
me again.

There is a river in the jungle,
in it,
men floated like water
and animals bowed their head
to drink in life
even when death muddied their beds.

I keep having horrible dreams,
of children and swimming pools
water, for death
as in womb.

Dishonesty or Way of life?
Predators drinking at the bank,
Oh, what an uncanny space.

You think you have stopped watching the news,
but have you?

Mockingbird

14/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for party monster weeknd

Into the dark end of the lake
all the faces shining in red
and water lapping like the end of the knife,
some presence of music
and soft lips.

Bird sang
Bird bled

Why do men with strenuous sweet hearts
must sit upon a grave
and only sing of shape of roses
but not the soil of death.

Why do men with vivid tongues
must sing of sweet love
but only in discreet
like a crime of gender distortion.

Once a raven took a shot,
the rasp
burnt over my lungs like smoke
and I had my heart begging,
I told it
‘it is just a song’,
but it wouldn’t listen–
New Obsession.

It is make-believe.
now
people do not sing of love,
only on silver screens
and when they do,
sometimes they are lies
but I eat them,
there is a squalid space in my heart
for all men who can sing on love.

[Dedicated to one of my favorite singers.]

Sisyphus

13/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

SURREAL STUDIES II

By Elizaveta Porodina

I imagine us carrying
a rock on our back
up above the blue-bell mountain.

For me,
my bones are cracked
and only the scent of the horizon
soothe my nerves
to carry on.

I remember
I did not always knew
there was a rock on my back
and so only after a storm,
when rain fell upon,
I knew there had been scabs
thirsty to heal.

My hands shook
and there began to germinate
love on my collarbone,
I moved on,
I was okay.

Then I found people on the way
with their slippers
from a childhood puddle;
I was not sure if they were playing
or dying.

I had no pity
but I had anger,
that how could they let their pebbles
be circus balls
of no destiny but death.
Then I had no anger
but I had guilt,
that their pebbles felt heavier than my rock
and then there were those,
who carried mountains.

I came in the world
full of help
but that was when I could not see
my back
But what now?

There was a gentle poet on the phone
she told me
my love, all your life,
what of your hurt–
no stretched out hands for your drowning.

But I carry on,
I tell her
people don’t try
but I receive
the love they could not give to me
and because I can save myself,
I shall save them too.

Paper Towels from the Moon

12/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Super cool wolves and snow covered trees painting with starry night and moon. Yule by ullakko

Ulla Thynell

I felt something so exquisite,
my stomach walls
brewed
and calm
on one snow evening of the moon. Dreamy.

I lived in a licensed sea,
Always afraid
of being everyone
Always afraid
of being the only one,
but oh well,
I still remain relative.

I called in for help
but some friends mumbled,
the rest slid down the slippery pipe
Others had distorted tongues:
One was lascivious
Another was too innocent to speak.

I clutched on my feet in a tap dance
and headed out in a moon-loon,
I felt something so exquisite
like sleep with the word ‘boudoir’.

There were paper towels all over the floor
where there had been a flood
and I said,
Universe, you have a funny notion of size
and yet it works.

Interesting uncanny of the day: When I was looking for pictures for this poem, I came across my own poem that had been published as a picture one time. All this on Google search. So shook! The poem is Gardening.

 

Antidote

11/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Samy Charnine surrealism

 

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

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.