Love

Dollhouse

11/100

       100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Photographed by Tim Walker

Spark
on spinning wheels
and the factory of smiles,
half-a-doll of infatuation
half-a-doll of love,
oh perhaps, of Bovarian dreams.

I would have absolutely despised writing on
“smile”,
but ordinary things contain cosmic affairs,
and now my heart,
is merely a misspelled smile.

A gentleman sitting on the stairs
kind eyes,
the wind rattling behind the palace gate
that surrounds his soldier-shoulders,
kind eyes.

I say,
do fall upon “looks”,
for you can read
eyes, brows, and tips of woolen hair falling over the forehead,
and not
the words that often betray the book.

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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.]

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.

 

Spring Mushrooms

9/100

       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. 

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.

 

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.