through charm-bracelet songs,

find the land of the torn,

the beings of darkness,

lost, love-lorn.

find defiance, lost faith,

tear through in mad haste.

love the gypsy-carried child,

and watch starlight go waste…

Perhaps this too, is real.

Maybe it is hard to believe

That these cold, foggy mornings

Of self-doubt and fear,

Really exist.

Maybe it is hard to hold on

To slippery hands

With slippery hands.

Mute voices of silence surround

Your screaming deaf echoes

And your mind whirls.

You cannot escape from

The web of deceit

That left you frozen

And still,

Like dewfall, lost

On a stormy night.

Perhaps, this shall never pass;

Maybe because this too, is real.

Moving

I have gone back to the packing up and moving. It's just as bad, because I didn't really want to move. To make up for it is the fact that the new place seems very nice and the new roommate, very nice too. Let's see how that works out. I'm looking forward to not ever having to live alone again (provided the one I live with is fun). Sigh... my room is a mess, I have wayyyy too much stuff than I should. What to do... such is life.

If I Write Them Words Down...

If I write them words down

Will you read them again and again?

Will the same birds fly to the same homes?

Will the same flowers bloom?

Will the same sobs haunt us?

The same tears will not fall,

Nor the same leaves.

The same waves, they shan’t break,

The same brushstroke…

If I say the same things over and over and over

Will you hold them real?

Like true hands in a glove…

Warm… like love.

The same love hurts

Like the one sun that rises,

Sets.

If I say the same thing over and over and over

Will it come true,

Like you?

Lavender Lotus

On a tremor-clad day

Of acid flashbacks,

You hear velvet footsteps

Walking down violet halls.

You follow the smell

And find rose-strewn trails,

That lead from

Room to room

And begin when they stop.

You taste laced peppermint

And lilac dreams

When you follow the sounds

And they lead you to you,

Turning into strawberry echoes.

As silver  raindrops paint

Your window panes moist

And damp mushrooms swell,

Your shadow snails up to you

From dark blue alleyways of pain...

The Months ~ Linda Pastan

 January

Contorted by wind,

mere armatures for ice or snow,

the trees resolve
to endure for now,

they will leaf out in April.
And I must be as patient
as the trees—
a winter resolution

I break all over again,
as the cold presses
its sharp blade
against my throat.

February

After endless
hibernation
on the windowsill,

the orchid blooms—

embroidered purple stitches
up and down
a slender stem.
Outside, snow

melts midair
to rain.
Abbreviated month.
Every kind of weather.

March

When the Earl King came

to steal away the child
in Goethe’s poem, the father said
don’t be afraid,

it’s just the wind. . .

As if it weren’t the wind

that blows away the tender

fragments of this world—

leftover leaves in the corners

of the garden, a Lenten Rose

that thought it safe

to bloom so early.

April

In the pastel blur

of the garden,

the cherry

and redbud

shake rain

from their delicate

shoulders, as petals

of pink

dogwood

wash down the ditches

in dreamlike

rivers of color.

May

May apple, daffodil,

hyacinth, lily,

and by the front

porch steps

every billowing

shade of purple

and lavender lilac,

my mother’s favorite flower,

sweet breath drifting through

the open windows:

perfume of memory—conduit

of spring.

June

The June bug

on the screen door

whirs like a small,

ugly machine,

and a chorus of frogs

and crickets drones like Musak

at all the windows.

What we don’t quite see

comforts us.

Blink of lightning, grumble

of thunder—just the heat

clearing its throat.

July

Tonight the fireflies

light their brief
candles
in all the trees

of summer—
color of moonflakes,
color of fluorescent
lace

where the ocean drags
its torn hem
over the dark
sand.

August

Barefoot
and sun-dazed,
I bite into this ripe peach
of a month,

gathering children
into my arms
in all their sandy
glory,

heaping
my table each night

with nothing

but corn and tomatoes.

September

Their summer romance

over, the lovers
still cling
to each other

the way the green
leaves cling
to their trees
in the strange heat

of September, as if
this time
there will be
no autumn.

October

How suddenly
the woods
have turned
again. I feel

like Daphne, standing
with my arms
outstretched
to the season,

overtaken
by color, crowned
with the hammered gold
of leaves.

November

These anonymous

leaves, their wet
bodies pressed
against the window

or falling past—
I count them
in my sleep,
absolving gravity,

absolving even death
who knows as I do
the imperatives
of the season.

December

The white dove of winter
sheds its first
fine feathers;
they melt

as they touch
the warm ground
like notes
of a once familiar

music; the earth
shivers and
turns towards
the solstice.

Sonnets on a Tabletop

Eyes reflected in dark, shadowy pools

Glistening; like yesterday’s tears.

Pensive, stubborn, swirling like those

Dumb moths around a flame.

Dreams breaking standard roads

Building new alleyways of pain;

Like smoke from the just-lit stick,

Taking different paths every time.

Will you remember, lover,

Or will you forget?

Those questions, those words,

Those sunsets, those moons-rise?

Like yesterday, like today,

Like today, so tomorrow…

To Manipal

You come to me in a wave of the sea; throwing me off-balance and filling my nose and mouth with heavy salty water. You come to me in the hot, humid air of sunsets; slapping my face like a baby’s sloppy kisses. Hot and humid, like night-time tales. You come to me in evenings of nude, lewd green; splattered so luxuriously that it seems lecherous.


You come to me when, least expecting, I await someone else. And you whisk me away, like a moth by a flame, like clichéd expressions of love, hot and sweaty.

I try and remain guarded, building walls around, building fortresses around, to bottle myself in and you out. And yet, you find me, exposed and vulnerable, and get at me with your cold, clammy fingers. You, Manipal, come and get me on sunset evenings all the time…

On Shell Scripts

In darkened rooms

With scent-laden heavy air;

Your smell, all-pervading,

Like coffee fumes of black.

Here the wizard chants,

Like goldfish showing off tails.

Lines printed in shell scripts,

Poetry from cat files.

Expressions of regularity

Strung from unwoven threads,

Songs of the sea in shells

Their echoes nullifying tidal waves.

Psychedelic swastikas in

Blue and orange, fontless;

Like silent audience,

Like the symbology of love…

Coffins for Heaven

(for innocent mistakes)

Mistakes like a virulent rash

Kohl-streaked cheeks, rimmed red eyes

Table-top conversations

Answers without replies

Bee sting wounds from troubled talk

Daytime soirees peppered with lies

Heat from unheated wounds

Questions without replies

Mayhem minded sleepless nights

Filled with voices, resounding cries

Rivulets of wandering pain

Answers without replies

Gruesome endings to fairytales

After numerous failed tries

Giving up, living on

Questions, answers without replies

Loss

My mamma’s a pretty one.

She’s pink today, wearing pink,

Her giggles like tinkling bells,

Or summer water gurgles,

She’s big around the middle,

Nana says it’s my baby sister

Or a baby brother, perhaps.

My mamma’s a pretty one.

She’s not playing with me now,

Moaning now and then...

There’s grime everywhere

And so many people too.

She doesn’t look at me

Or at them either,

I wait for my new baby friend.

My mamma’s a pretty one.

Where’s Daddy, I wonder

He’s gone, they say.

Looking at me with wondrous eyes

Daddy’s away, they tell me.

I wonder why

He must make the sick people well

Sick people are sad

Is my Mamma sick?

But she’s such a pretty one.

It was so hot in the wide open field

When they thrust fire into my hands.

And so hot now

People, so many...

Leave my Mamma alone, I wail

She’s ill, don't you see?

But they don't go...

And they don't stay...

Whispers, just whisper around me.

Mamma! Look at me!

Where’s Daddy?

I want Daddy.

They look at her.

She looks at me.

I am one.

I look.

 My colleague lost her husband in an air-ambulance crash
(http://www.dailypioneer.com/341522/He-left-home-in-haste-but-returned-dead.html)

There are no words to console her, their families, and families of others who lost their lives. A day passed, a week, a month, and slowly a year will have passed... and the little child of one will never know his father. He ended up with the worst deal because he didn't even understand he was supposed to be in pain.

This lifetime...it's unfair.

Defeat

I could rage like an ocean misplaced

And send storms your way,

Clobbering everything in my path to dust.

I could send out messages

Of winter trains,

Stories of faith and trust.

In all hard fact, I could even

Enchain you and hold you tight,

So tight that you can’t breathe.

I may wait, miserable and cold,

Like a mutt in the rain,

And wait for you to see me.

I may leave passing notes and tears astray.

I may, however small,

Even send out a prayer each day.

I would want different stars for me.

But as you lie in my arms and gaze

Into her eyes,

I’d still lose…

Elemental

My love,

My love is not blind,

Nor intangible, nor sublime.

My love is like a flame

That singes when touched,

That spreads with abandon,

All consuming, all enthralling.

My love is like a wave

With no breath underneath it,

Nor ground over it,

Shapeless as an ink-spill.

My love is like wind

Lilting at your caress,

Ravaging at your ire,

Mesmerizing in its form, its touch.

My love is like the sands

Shaped on billions of tender stories,

Slipping through your fingers,

Disappearing… shifting…

Slipping away…

Now here, now here no more…

Prayer

Come, little girl,

Let me ease your pain.

What is it that happened?

Did you fall down?

Or did the bully around the corner

Be mean to you?

Come, little girl,

Hush now, in my arms

You shan’t be weak anymore.

Did you lose your way

And were scared to not find home?

Did you shudder, little girl,

Were you lied to?

What is it,

Little girl,

Won’t you tell me now?

Won’t you rest your tired little heart

And shed those tears on my bosom?

Your bonnie curls,

With wet tear-streaked edges,

Are matted against my skin.

Hush now, little girl,

Speak to me and

I will comfort you…

Love, you say,

You fell in love?

With the blue-eyed cherub

That won’t love you back?

He doesn’t like your flowers?

Doesn’t play with you?

You love his angel voice,

His dimpled cheeks?

Oh, little girl,

What have you done?

You’ve stirred the hornet’s nest

Of life…

Oh, little girl,

I’m afraid; I can be of no help

For though your five year old self

Should turn fifty

Love shall only hurt.

Love shall only hurt.

Love shall only hurt.

So cry, little girl,

Sob your poor heart out.

And I shall pray that

He’s washed in your tears

And reborn unto you...

The Season of Potions

Stranded winter, frosted rose

Lit aflame by your breath.

My girl, you’ve left a trail

Of melted frost

That leads to your liquid womb.

Oh would I love you,

Like the sound of a sword

Slicing the cold wind.

But I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of the smoke,

The only letters form question marks.

My girl you have wounded me

With a summer afternoon

Raining towers of heat.

I have time till the smoke-stick burns out.

Sheltered spring nights,

When I could chase your naked form

Through wine tunnels.

My girl, you’ve left a trail

Of anguish and

It leads me upwards.

And I’m climbing your smoke trails,

Tracing your moonlight,

And framing you halo with kisses…

Void.

I lost a very dear friend three nights ago. Sarbatrik (known to all of college as Sabby) died on the spot of a car crash, drunk driving. Sabby was a vocalist in Anamol’s first band. The first time he was asked about me, he’d said “She seems to be a very nice girl…” and he’d never made me feel otherwise. When asked to leave the band in third year, he’d messaged Anamol… “Keep on rockin’ in the free world guys…” He’d read “One Hundred Years of Solitude”. Off the top of my head I can remember only that much…


The rest is a dull dull ache, he was a nice guy. Nice people don’t die, they mustn’t. He was a friend, how can someone die on their friends? Sabby sang “Stairway to Heaven” and he gets to go there, I’m sure… This here is his last post on FB.

He ran away… and left us all a void. Life’s a bitch, I HATE this feeling of loss.

To The Woman Who Sang To Jolene

With her flaming locks of auburn hair,
Ivory skin, and eyes of emerald green
She’s a temptress.

You, however, have dull black tresses,
Tangled on most days.
Bronze skinned and onyx eyed,
The one you think of as ‘your’ man,
Was never yours.

You do not have magic or myth,
You are normal, sometimes weird.
What does a man do with pleasant
Or courteous, when there
Is no enigma?

Jolene is a fairytale,
Every chapter a poem.
She is enticing as a breeze, with
Promises to lead to distant lands;
She’s mysterious as a veiled palanquin,
And charming like
The skies at dusk.

You’re klutzy, you drop things.
You announce hunger, fear,
And pain.
You plead with her to salvage your love.
And your dresses are boring
You do not know how to seduce…

Jolene glides in-and-out on
Tiny, pitter-patter feet.
Clothes become fables on her skin.
She doesn’t have to beg, she chooses.
When she brings men down to their knees
With a look, nothing more,
They peel off fables to find
Exquisite passion.

Your man was hers
When she was made.
You were allowed to borrow him,
Think, woman,
Has he ever told you
That you’re pretty,
The way he talks about her in his sleep?

You cannot compete with her,
You shouldn’t even exist.

Humility, Focus, Courage, Strength

There is SO much to learn...

Oblivion

In Greek mythology, Lethe was one of the five rivers of Hades. Also known as the Ameles potamos (river of unmindfulness), the Lethe flowed around the cave of Hypnos and through the Underworld, where all those who drank from it experienced complete forgetfulness. The other four rivers were Styx (the river of hate), Akheron (the river of sorrow), Cocytos (the river of lamentation) and Phlegethon (the river of fire).

The shades of the dead were required to drink the waters of the Lethe in order to forget their earthly life. In the Aeneid, Virgil writes that it is only when the dead have had their memories erased by the Lethe that they may be reincarnated.

Come, you shroud called Death,

Let us dine tonight

In my quarters.

Why don’t you bring your bride?

Melancholy, I've heard

Of her many virtues.

I may bring along my wishes,

If I could pick them up.

Once I have had my share

Of the waters of Lethe

And blissful oblivion has set in,

Let us take a walk along

The paths that Acheron traced

Down far into the nether world.

If thou should insist, I shall dip

Into the stories of Phlegethon,

But wilt thou believe my innocence

Even afterward?

When my lamentations mix with

Those of the Cocytus,

Pay heed, for a woman

Of true soul laments but once,

And in her voice, thou too Death,

And thine minions shall find salvation,

As many mortals have.

Our travels will have ended by now,

The stories told,

The waters of Styx will be

Called upon to perform the ablutions.

And when the water has dropped off me,

Oh death, what would you know!

When the water has dropped off me,

The droplets shall become

Wishes again.

In life I hath held on to him,

In you death, I shall he.

Another Blog!

For all those people who look to me for recommending books, I hope to be of help at http://cupandchaucer.wordpress.com/

I'm also trying my hand at Wordpress, hoping it goes well. So read the books I recommend. Discuss and debate, watch and learn, and stay tuned :)

Screams

I turned here,

There and all around

Built my towers

From molten wax of angels.

Acid rain spurted

From ripped gashes,

As beliefs kept drowning

Into pools of self doubt.

Were you listening then?

When I spun songs

For you, only you.

Or did you, like other strange men

Were letting the phase pass,

So acid could pour again?

Harness my thoughts,

Before ‘Dear Diary’ too

Closes its doors and

There’s only a candle to write…

Gemstone Dreams

When the pale candle flame flickers

Ever so slightly

And the shadows of water shift

To form sapphire landscapes,

Let’s meet in the dark caverns

Of perfumed grapevines.

Tell me then,

About the muse of the unfinished painting

That clings onto your collarbone.

On our way back,

We’ll follow the garnet trails

That you left to lead us back

Did you know, then,

That we’d be lost?

Leave the windows open

And I’ll show you

Through emerald leaves

The dance of the pixies.

If you stay the night

And the morning too,

Then we shall make poetry

Out of amber sunshine.

The skyline becomes a

Shifting mirage.

Black onyx eyes stare dazzled

Over the veil, through

Purple palanquin windows

With amethyst drapes.

As we wander down to the rippling

Foam on the lazy pearl coastline,

Take my hand and feel the surf on your feet

When clandestine pain shall

Leave you, I will love you again,

Even as she watches us.

When it all ends,

When you walk away.

Trails of my rubies, dripping one at a time

Shall faithful

Follow you

Into the agate night,

To the diamond stars…

In the lost town of strange maladies, dawn gardeners grow frosted roses.
Tulips bleed colour into leaf cups of desire.

Have you heard the winds howling back at wolves, naked, rugged?

Wisps of black smoke licked the orange tongues of flames.

Don’t you blame blue for your pain.

Is all this light bleeding for salvation?

Vice-peddler, did you see the green-tongued snake? It was charmed.
Were you too? Or were you faking it?