Love

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

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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.

Head of gold

 

I forget poetry.

The lover in the sky consumed by the city fumes,

I forget poetry and then I forget myself.

 

Why do their faces fill up with boring operas

Announced like an airport flight, I fly

Like a man inside a coral,

There is no end to how we will feel,

For how many we will feel.

 

In his face a mirror,

There you will see a self, performed—a mere body of naught

Strangled with wish-locks of what I want to be.

Nude him of desires, can you love a skull?

To love not to be loved.

 

Once upon a gentle day,

There blows the breeze sweeping away false candour

And I am here lying awake upon the moon,

Once again throwing out poetry for you to catch, revived,

As if all their workers paid, the union sigh,

In me lay tipped, several glasses full.

 

I see a face.

I see a bony man when the night is full.

 

Stepping out in the Stormy

image

There is a tunnel inside my heart
Without a lover with a clock;
I cast upon it
the glue of sedimentation
Here, nothing is unsettled
Here, words are perfume from
Clanking wooden doorways
Magnetic with presence of
a vast entity from beyond.

He lays upon my skin,
Tendrils sharp,
Laborious with love
Of a self disclosed
Of the Vast
To the miniscule.

There is a tunnel inside my heart
With a lover without a clock;
There, all divisions take a truce
There, I am your reader
And you are my poet.