Unhealed

sitting by the window,
making dark deals with the shallow twilight,
venomous promises,
that sear purple welts upon my naked arms;
while the half-light rustles Rumi’s clove scented words;
I will the wind to open a page,
a random vial of bitter antidote,
his robes whirl white against the glowing slate,
drunk on the wine of an ingrown truth;

but mystic water cannot drown
the endless thirst of a ripped out throat;
so he pours it into fifteen bronze bowls,
his feet skimming their tones,
a jal-tarang of buoyant rapture;
I stare at his wing tipped soles,
waiting for the bruises
where his toes turn over the silent waves;

he can’t negotiate with a dim hour
that is devouring the last of the sun,
cueing the ungracious night,
that lacerates those wounds
with its purple tongue,
its five-edged crystal teeth,
drawing chimeras
with granite eyes and blue poisoned veins
and scaly pink legs
dangling in circular swamps of wine;

perhaps only the new day can heal,
grinding its jaundiced sunshine
into a turmeric poultice,
scratching into my burning eyes,
the camouflaged mediocrity
of an unreal morning;
filling shapeless bags of shade
with secret talismans-
the sigh of a poem,
the lilt of a wave,
the arch of a spotless foot;
venomous deals
to haggle with
yet another toxic night.

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48 thoughts on “Unhealed

  1. With such an uncompromising embrace of night, Rumi’s clove scented words will be as unconvincing as Deepak Chopra attempting to soothe the wounds of post-colonial alienation. Your longer, un-formulaic renditions continue to probe honest, dark depths brilliantly.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Different leagues..different leagues those two!!! Thank you Huzaifa but.. I wonder if anything one writes is truly honest though… at some point between instinct and keyboard I think things are reshaped or there are no words..so maybe it is all formulaic in the end. Maybe. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      1. 🙂 The comparison is unfair, yes, but deliberate, if only for the sake of iconoclasm.
        Regarding honesty and formula, it is always about the degree: both Picasso and painting by numbers follow certain forms and rules (or if you like, formulas), but to equate the two would be dishonest 🙂

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Hmm….I can how you feel a strict form constrains the truth, but I’d say the Jisei I posted a couple of days ago has more layers of truth in a sense…perhaps a poem’s truth is a function of the reader’s mind after all 😀 😀

          Liked by 1 person

  2. This was a painting, Rajani, that I want to explore again and again. As I study it, new details emerge, rounding out something I can’t quite understand but can only feel. Hope you are well, my friend…

    And thank you so much for the intro to jal-tarang. I looked it up on Youtube and fell in love with it immediately. Such a beautiful sound! The earth’s marimba…

    Peace
    Michael

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Toxic nights are often more painful than the purple welts themselves…and yet we must always hope that the next day brings light..possibility…a powerful poem that really resonated – may all be healed in time

    Like

  4. Sounds like a pretty brutal night.
    I guess if you make morning, even if it burns your eyes
    you know you made it. And making perhaps
    has a bit of hope that you will out last them.

    Like

  5. This is powerful writing. So many amazing lines, especially “I will the wind to open a page”, and “drunk on the wine of an ingrown truth”. WOW!!!!! The mystic water and fifteen bronze bowls is an amazing image…..this poem needs reading more than once. A really brilliant piece.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Heck, if Rumi can not be the antidote, it’s a toxic night indeed. I like the suggestion that we contain our own cure in poetry that results from our own experience/suffering. Powerful sounds. Tight!

    Like

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