Optimism
At the end of the season,
here’s subtractive serendipity, the morning bursts into splashes of the tulips.
What makes our togetherness monochromatic? Don’t we long for a prolonged
reclamation? In a standstill elusive frame after the excavation of our
galvanized journey we halt the time and watch hearts’ pulse oscillate like
dandelions’ fur. I’m deep-neck alongside the distrusted apathy, some around me
are engaged in lynching they coin it as floriculture and a tradition of
seismology; we wait for other times and other people; by chance the intense
frustration exhibits its optimism. How come you accommodate the fathomless
Pacific? Heaven is a few feet away from our dense sins, and you measure a
vacuum envelope under the skin to disturb the condescension. Some lumps of
disproportionate pathology are cranberries; the two-thirds of times chest-thump
in a traumatic quilt beyond hope you blossom like the diamond lily. Then we
patiently walk in a long march and accidentally befriend those deprived
boulevards. A misty baby sun crawls sweetly into the cleavage of the
narrow-mindedness in the vicissitude our oldest pang gives birth to a premature
dharma with a window of geography and
Greenland. In the middle that old acrimony is oblivious the pain in us doesn’t
wish to waltz in the territory of our divinity, yet, we long for a prolonged
life even after death.
How far is pain from
laughter?
Let the life measure the
fathom of pain
No issue if we’re a in
between!
The Artery Gland of Frustration
In a dark cell
of earthworms’ valley, white lilies have a poetry meet. And a density of
saffron debate on the lanes of the artery gland peeps with frustration; though
that’s a diversion in the axis of alluvial sunscreen; where an oval-shaped
anxiety plays board game in deep shock just as the worn out shadow of your
postnatal delirium. Bones of some bygone souls chant from the Book of Isaiah;
the back of a green meadow lying prostrate your shadow is unconscious for
centuries. It’s little shibboleth with little crumbles of the Cro-Magnons in
your long absence what accompanies the blue moon. Twice you talk, thrice you
abandon the quadrilateral sacrifice looks like soft greediness a bit
humid-laced, bitter cold smitten raucous with the womb of a half married sea. In
the biting of the fossilized thirst a conclusive metaphor converses. Who chimes
like the tickling of the flute at the end of the day? A swarm of angels
descends to watch the concert; theirs is a world of soft efficacies; elation
and its extract from a distance. Out of their vicinity a glossy spa, a shiny
casino and a posh civility cook pun; in fidelity those eels are like premature
chrysanthemums; probably they’re on the verge of a renaissance of topology.
Dashrath Manjhi’s is an indigenous monogram; a prolonged sigh exhumes the real
taxidermy of his dream.
Shadow of your
inhalation
I prop unto
your embroidery of coziness
A transverse
meadow sways in summersault.
The Civilization is a Pint Full of Bourbon
A broken mirror
of crypto currency shrouds its spasm. Rather aloofly, with all intricacies
haphazardly your sister’s 3rd bridal makeup lurks in the drawing
room and your feminine silhouette positions for a photo session in the farthest
display of the vintage cerulean wall. Nights are like the Arabian folk music
blended with jingle bells and pensive classical songs of the ghumura; in the nearest metro station
the replica of the white moon dabs lipstick in maroon responding to your
suggestive quaint eyes and the civilization froths with pint full of bourbon. A
half-baked fantasy hangs astride little farther like the lone pendulum in your
granny’s bedroom; seven mornings together, seven nights in total and seven
weeks as a whole posthumously your fortune greets you. Do you expect anything
of those disconnected antiquities? The century-old angst in them licks the
familiar pain; after whom, before whom who goes on a sabbatical in between is
that a hiatus, how your secret affair remains secret? Those storks which once
went vegans woefully in Benares are a sort of disguised empathy, can you trust?
The sinless archetypal intimacy behind us is in a shadowy fissure with a
sandwich of love letters; maybe like disillusionment or a slick conversation
with the intimacy of Phurlijharan. For a while, let’s shroud ourselves in the
crude cadence just walk past the tense vulnerability; the prime-time news on TV
even spreads elusiveness. And the civilization we’re in watches a soap opera of
curse.
In a typical
antediluvian normalcy
You keep
honeybees with butterflies
I sing
anticlockwise forgetting my sustenance.
Glossary:
Ghumura- a clay pot musical
instrument of Kalahandi
Phurlijharan is
a water fall in Kalahandi district in Odisha in India.
That you Hardly Explore on Google
Banavasi
Dhangadamajhi is a geographic ambiguity; his name has a cultural-bipolar
hash-tag that you can hardly explore on Google. He’s anonymously addressed
almost every occasion his identity is wrapped in history’s arcane chapters. He
is little bent to shy away to pull the dress of any season ever since he
started wobbling as a baby there’s a civilisational anathema. His story never
becomes a Netflix saga; and Bollywood
blockbuster never ever. Of course a dream ceaselessly swings every season like
the nests of a weaver bird between teeth of wildness and wobbles in the rhythm
of honey and nudity. Every evening the folk songs spiral the tapestry of the
snowy nights and drink coconut water in CHIKUNGUNYA; dear ones happily sit
around the hearth place as to knit stories bead by bead like the Eucharist of
love even in pain that includes 2 mm of rain falls, 3 bags of millet, full
truth of separation and certainly bitter longing of d├йj├а vu. There is exodus of
exodus of exodus of exodus across the Chhattisgarh borders and across the Kalahandi
borders; grimace of vicious hunger shockingly sucks the frail husk little above
the sky of Dangadamajhi’s ageing eyes. A bald mountain with no vestibule of
tender clothing and an old model of Boeing jet of famine scampers in the sky;
life waits like a refugee for a new climax in the fogy horizon. The century is
a decaying dusk there on an anvil the drape of each dawn remains flat;
Dhangadamajhi’s resume is a deprived yawn of several shrieking pendulums.
In a crawling
road, hope is a hexagon
He crisscrosses
the heartbeats of amoebae
Every
inhalation is an exchange of d├йj├а vu!
Voices Within - Complete List of Poets :: Setu, January 2019
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