Love

Brittle

4/100

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.

 

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A pinch of stars

The words called me

I rinsed them with the left-over repression

And wondered if the sneeze she let out

Was a symphony of sympathy

For me?

 

I said god bless you

For he had ruined me

When I thought my heart, my love

Was made tender through a suspicion of affection.

 

‘Suspicion of affection’ are ghosts

That make you believe in unnatural things like:

Mother who loves her child

Father who sings lullabies

And a dire Jupiter pregnant with life.

 

Things turn upon themselves

And worlds are all upside down.

I fetishise one smile then,

When its tongue is smothered by suspicion of affection,

I let him caress me, indifferently,

If only to let the warmth out.

 

Picture credits: Laura Makabresku : “self-portrait with my dear Husband (Kraków, 2015)”

Gardening 


How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer

The Imposter Syndrome

The Equation of Desire. Martin Soto Climent. Mousse Publishing.

He would always sit ahead of us

In his citric orange T-shirt

Sultry

Against the abandoned air-conditioned classrooms

Made by the Japanese and

Maintained by the miniature birds,

Who often get trapped in lecture-hall limbos.

 

I cannot write him

He’s a plant that does not germinate

Into wishful thinking

Of infatuated hearts, struck by poverty

Of lack.

A lack that begins to define you,

Your illegitimate parent.

 

But here’s a trick, 

Chance a find

you have to look.

Glance upon his quivery brow

Or

the rickety case of criss-crossed legs

That dares to announce

—If just for a second—

The same lack as you

And your

Out-of-the-league desires. 

Bloom

He slit my throat.

 

Scarlet mixed with some southern blue

Trickle down upon my neck of a

Never-ending wound.

I see you

Making me leave me

Into you

 

A phantasm

Of existing

In an un-manifested non-material space

Of an absent presence

Like the sky above the mountains

That comes to me in dilated scents;

With distance,

I’ve learned conjuring.

 

It is a dark art to enjoy a gash

Of uncertainty

And wear it like a necklace,

Tell me,

If that is poetry?

Bird House

Chirab

As if upon a manicured piano,

My fingers play upon the letters

Before I have to deliberate the symphony

That must type you out.

A half-eaten apple,

My fallen sin.

Incomplete, inside my cells

Yet a sea.

Crisp textures of sounds

That make a colourful pattern for hunting birds

Which pick at fish meat, just before

I close my eyes and see you.

Precise.

When will that be?

 

A closing ground,

Distraught by the carcass of a pretty bird.

I open.

In macabre.

A dance of pink-lipped lizards.

In the night where men disappear into other men.

Seven fold.

With crooked pretty legs.

I hunger.

You don’t see me.

 

You open me up.

You spill me out.

You seep inside my stomach.

And eat at my heart,

It is moon shaped.

Clever;

A bastard of heavy-hearted thoughts.

Will you stay?

A sublime affair

A space overcomes me

 

I was sitting beside the lemon detergents

When I slipped by my elbow

and found myself upon a cotton tree,

long killed by one milk-selling municipal lady

 

Upon the highest branch,

his hair became the dark of the clouds.

a sullen autumn around, afraid I looked.

Two hushed stars in his bottomless eyes,

and he said,

it was summer still.

 

Upon a grain of thunder, he sprawled like an ocean current

And gasping like the roar itself, gave out his steep palms

Out of which a waning lily coiled out,

a ladder escaping from his fingertips,

as if the guitarist’s chords

tied up by the hair of heaven

 

I gave my heart to this man who was no-man

But a space, that overcomes me.

 

Every rainy night,

as they say,

I forget to breathe

And in me lays the flower, finally awake.

 

After Chase

Selene by Mela Muller, 1910

What about the wishes that have a body of their own

Till they run under your sea-bed

Like wild hounds shooed away with the force of the hand,

Yet with the tread of fiction,

Sparks flying, what a relentless metaphor

For me to love you and name it in pitiful words

Of need

As if a nurse,

putting out dead men with the scent of her hair,

Called out for murder.

 

I put a face on you/ I fill you with my words

Lo, a mutt.

Of him, I made the sky/ of him, I made the earth.

 

A river I float,

I let him touch my eyes/ I let him droop to my waist.

 

And they made me the nun supreme of a dark little purgatory

With an uncertain hill-slope

‘Down I fell’, Alice murmured

Till I was both above and below

Lo, a mutt.

 

In the groves, Diana smiles at a shooting star

And traces it with her fingers.