100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Samy Charnine surrealism


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

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.





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.


Ostrich eggs


100 poems in 52 weeks poetry challenge


Ostrich egg: Blue bird on a cherry blossom


This is not a poem
This is a moon journey
to return to a CPU heartbeat
of my rainy day poetry,
with words that I pour in your drink,
popping in your mouth like a tongue-cracker candy.

The trees move in shadows
and I am standing under a small grasshopper
over the ceiling
when I fall into me
and soften you all out.

You all,
give a caress soft against my cheek
but it came too late,
but it came too blind,
I cannot feel it
I have eaten me alive,
in ecstasy
of a wild child with her head inside a burrow.


Author Notes: This was an ode to my good old nostalgia. Also, I am referring to my ‘Little Wild child’ poem. Do check it out!

The tree inside my forehead

100 poems/52 weeks challenge

Poem 1:

Prompt: “Without warning, you lose your eyesight. You don’t feel any physical pain. The world around you goes dark, but all your other senses become sharp. Write a poem about how you react in the immediate aftermath.”

There was a tree
that spoke in thought-clouds,
when the lights went out
when the lights went out.

In the simmer of his afternoon heat,
I half-boiled like a sleeping frog
kissing a lady under the sea
where sands crept in shape
of abstract time
of neither noon nor night.

I gave up
then, to think of old dreams I would usually forget
when I had to tie-up
collars that were graves;
an old theme.

I gave in
to the fall that was in my mind
and even though, only blind I was,
I also stopped speaking.

Of pictures and no words
Of trees and no birds
I weaved a world
of mornings lit with moon
under the old willow above my eyelids.

Author Notes: Dear reader, most of my poems have deep metaphors and often happen to refer to literature, psychology and even popular events. For example, a reoccurring symbol of an egg which I have partially mentioned in this poem, is a signature of  a surrealist writer and refers to the unconscious mind. In this poem, I am particularly referring to ‘Mentalese’ that means concepts inside your mind which can exist without words. If you happen to have your own opinions and references that you would like to share with me, do write back! 


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

Law of attraction 

Of a neon glow

Traveling throug a space-tunneled gullet

Into a bloated starry sky

Where to each eye

Her own reality.
Billions of stars looking down from the sky.

Billions of eyes looking up to the sky.


Because she is never stationary

And always moving about like Van Gogh’s winds

Whenever I stretch out my finger into the cold dark night

She stretches in a great cosmic yawn

To caress my arms

Until we melt in our atomic marriage

Of neither star

Nor human.



There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               


I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 


Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon

As I must grow old 

And wilt

With the laws of gravity;

The horror is surreal

Of balding the moon off her throne

Into the sterile. 

How is that they must define us as a lack 

And in the same breath

Call the lands which could not bear the life

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass.