Wet Season For Writing

Emotion congeals into grey clouds that hide the
light. The poem feels ink falling like warm rain.

As if there is a wet season for writing. You used
to say only Illusions are spun from light- love

and gods and dawn and the paleness around
my finger where your ring used to be. You used

to say darkness is the primordial truth. The poem
swallows its vowels. There are things that should

not be said. After the rain, there must still be sky.
Alone wasn’t a thing, till we made it up. Till a

storm forced it into the poem. Till hyphens gave
up the things they held together. The poem lies

beside me and touches the wound of absence.
We learn to feed our solitude with consonants.

42 thoughts on “Wet Season For Writing

  1. I like the couplets….and how this poem holds together (without its hyphens!) Especially poignant: “the paleness around my finger where your ring used to be”
    Sigh….

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  2. Beautiful..Emotions can storm or settle in as a weather front that won’t leave. “The poem swallows its vowels.” Wow! incredible writing…

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  3. Wow love it and this part is stunning “The poem feels ink falling like warm rain.

    As if there is a wet season for writing. You used
    to say only Illusions are spun from light- love

    and gods and dawn and the paleness around
    my finger where your ring used to be.

    Like

  4. I love all the lines here–immensely quotable in parts and whole. This image, though, touches my heart today: “storm forced it into the poem.” Oh the moans, inarticulate “wet season” and, out of need to move, “We learn to feed our solitude with consonants.” Is pain such food as poems are made of?

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  5. I like the pathway made of darkness, solitude and ineffable moments that a poem walks on. Beautiful, Rajani. My favorite lines: ” The poem / swallows its vowels.” & “We learn to feed our solitude with consonants”.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I love the thought of emotion congealing into grey clouds, Rajani, and then raining a poem, and the idea of a ‘wet season for writing’, which has me imagining you sitting at a desk or table with poems showering down outside your window. I also love the lines:
    ‘Alone wasn’t a thing, till we made it up. Till a

    storm forced it into the poem. Till hyphens gave
    up the things they held together.’

    Like

  7. Oh this is incredibly passionate! I love “After the rain, there must still be sky,” and “Alone wasn’t a thing, till we made it up.”

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  8. Suppressed words need an outlet, and cracks in a relationship provide the space for them to come flooding out.

    Like

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