Night

Natal

There walked the light into the mist. Intruding. A deep mustard shade—they put hatching babies under those. They glint every night in the nurse’s eyes. Behind her, a dark window. The windows are most silent and the nights always darker in a hospital. It is a night like this. It must be getting weaker, the streetlight under which I walked. The mist nestles around it. It looks like a phantom beehive. An old man’s beard. I walk into the violet color of the night that has dropped to the road. I am under it. I am above it. And if I turn my head back, there it will be again, the light being smothered. Am I a moth?

I am most certainly not. I am a curious girl and there are very busy men in front of me. These are the photographers. Sure they wear Paparazzi hats and raincoats, but they are not your regular ones. These are disciplined. They respect the night; they are the simple stars with twinkling flashlights. An elaborate machine, a pyramid. Each man with a camera covering his face. Anonymous. Inhuman. They face a cardboard door. One they put up at school annual days. I always wanted to go to an annual-day. Can I?

‘No. No women allowed.’

It is not an annual day. They have men inside the hall being not-men. Did you know that French used to have a grand carnival where they let out criminals and madmen and prostitutes. What does a carnival for men without their male society will look like? Nothing they would let me see.

I circle around. Waiting.

It begins. The photographers collapse. There is chaos. There are other people like me, circling around. I see my friend and she has to shout to make herself audible. How does it feel to be not behind your eyes? She makes me feel that way. Her hand is heavy on my neck. And the carnival inside is getting louder. There are all emotions present inside. Hysterical laughter, wailing, wrathful voices. But she must not let me see. There is blood inside. A pool of ketchup maybe, diluted with water. They are throwing it beyond the walls. It is flying in the air. She is saving me. Pushing me away. I want to fall it on me though. To wipe off the afternoon from me. It’s crashing. How can it crash? The spillage is heavy on our heads, as if from the sky. What are they doing? I scream.

‘They are enacting the womb’, someone says.

I stand in the night, no longer silent.

It is done.

There is only mirth inside the hall now. For the first time I can even see the barrier. They’ve dropped their curtains. They look like doctors after delivering a baby of a giant. There comes a man with blood dripping off like sweat, tailing under his hair. He is exceptionally charming. Awash. My friend knows him. They smile at each other in congratulations and stare at me. There are papers in his hand. He’s asking me for the toll. What toll I say?

‘For watching’

I am proud of understanding most things in my life. This was certainly not one. My friend accuses me of something I can no longer hear.

How do they win?

Through confusion.

 

I had to go. I had to go.

 

[Based on an actual dream]

Northern Winds

Jakub Schikaneder’s Snow (Twilight in Winter) 1899

Then

happened a soft autumn day

where I let my untamed foot fall

off the silk edge of my ordinary bed,

to let it fight with the tarnished wooden door

hunch-backed by a snoring inverter

when past the dust-coughing jail-skins,

there came a ruffle from the

dark of tall surmounting trees

necromanced

nodding outside,

breathing on my ankles,

in all oddity of the oncoming winter.

 

Then I had dug under the culture’s paws

Asked them, of what of the Winter gloom—

That gentleman

So languid upon my prickling skin,

In me,

He had protected life.

 

 

Now

There rests a diabolical caress

Of sandpaper bed-sheets

Till my feet are sore

From the coaling livers of the winter-verse.

Oh, to look for light switches in the dreadful dead-dark,

Paranoid chants that the curtains must not move—

All my sacred pathos intruded

Into the

Red demonstration of corpse-like darkness.

 

Do the old—as the Laker Poet once cried—must only lament what can no longer be felt?

 

Again

In my heart, I invite

The night

I had shut down my famished words

Again, a prayer

To be fertilized with meaning, I ink

I conjure up my sprite:

In the hearth of a breathing cold

The tepid haunt of a sea nymph

Misplaced

Upon one changing breeze of the earth

Colluding with mist,

Into a body of unknown

That I uncloak, even though I am dressed

In great perspiration

I try

Once again

to reclaim the night.

 

Author Notes

I had an epiphany just now. I actually had a dream about different models of ceiling fans today–funny that I must write a poem dictated by the winds.

‘Something watches and stirs in the dark, it is alive.’

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.

 

Abandoned Planet

Pack me up in a suitcase

I can’t stand standing still

 

But you see, it is because we went off to this faraway place

Where these curious people plug themselves to white boards,

And are always sleeping

Into small cold suitcases.

 

A warm breeze flows along the twilight moon

And the streets gleam with fresh-rain floods

The crackling fires of passion is burning away the town

But people find it clumsy to wake up.

 

So I am a lone traveller

Wondering the tales they spin inside the boxes

Are they travelling to Jupiter,

Or perhaps a neighbouring barn?

 

Now

What is it?

A river flowing above my ears

My eyes

My nose

And suppose I am too to travel by suitcases.

 

Pack me up in a suitcase

I can’t stand standing still.

 

After sunset

 

A car that would remind you of its colour

Just by its

Sneaking into the night

Into which, people actually switch off their Tvs

Before they try to escape into the gaps

Found between the plump old cushions

Of a couch that will hug you better than a bed

Usually peach (by the effort).

It sounds as if an ever-sleeping road

Would wipe off its lingering drool

And would dive back again in the man-territory

Exhaling a deep long excruciating sigh

–This sound is the—

Car that reminds us of its colour

Smoothly passing by.

My left foot is then suddenly aware

It twitches at the vibration of this fire-less exhale

And I think I am falling for the ninth time in the night

From a trolley car girdling down a

Roller coaster,

Whose driver unfortunately slept on

Sherry.

Photo credits: www.inspirefirst.com

The After-Midnight Conflicts.

Can you imagine being terrorized by the idea of being productive and profitable for the human race under the bower of dead silence, which is usually felt around 2 a.m.(s).

Well, welcome to my life.

Fact: Humans are more productive at night.

 

Not reproductive. Jeez. Calm yourself.

Now basically, you’ll be reading these excellent poetic essays and maybe political debates. But I am here to offer you none (in this post). And I will only talk about some random shit that people think around 2 a.m. (It is 2 a.m. in here)

So here is my crazy to do list which I suffer every night and which I forget to do the very next day. Plus some Random thought sessions that I undergo.

1. Karaoke

2. Attending an inactive twitter account in order to  reply-stalk  a favorite celebrity.

3. Going over the most embarrassing stuff , I’ve ever done in my life

 

4. Thinking about my next blog post.

5. How did dinosaurs got extinct? 

6. Philosophically going through my own redundancy and vain-ness.

7. Practicing British accent.

8. Musing about the bland social life.

9. WHO IS THAT?

10. Wishing that my favorite celebrity would marry the other favorite celebrity.

11.  WATER LEAK? 

12. Sudden wave of all the horror movies that I have made fun off, all my life.

13. Trying Lucid Dreaming

14. Trying to predict the plot for the next episode in my favorite series.

15. Wondering if , Osama bin Laden is still alive.

16. And lastly, coming towards the eventually art of arguing with one’s own self. ( I think I need a cat.)

GREAT! Now I’ll think about this post while I’ll try to sleep.

No…

wait…

Its a loop…

I’ll think about thinking about this post…

And then I’ll think about thinking about this post while I think about this post and then I’ll…

NOOOOOOOOOO…

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Wanderer

The chariot is a hungry beast
Like the last ghost of Dickens
Assembling itself like a platoon
Growling out, muffled air.

The ravages upon a beaten road
If the havoc of rain was any less
To match the grave thunders
Mourning the unknowns, he treads.

Myth of worm-eaten parchments
or the spine-chiller of campfire nights
Haunting the hour of 4 a.m.
but never a legend to be revived.

You remind me of a ghost sailor, I say
or perhaps, the myth of one headless rider
And while the freedom came to these,
You became that never-ceasing dream.

His prey is a dimension and not personas,
For they say he thaws all the glass as he treads
It is curious for now my heart skipped a thump
when I noticed all our panes, Dangling but in,
shreds…

Author notes

Myth I created on my own- The chariot of a spirit that is cursed to travel around whole earth, sharp at 4 a.m.

 

  • © Priyanka, All rights reserved.