Will this night not be night if it wears a sun? Another sun that we
dare not look in the eye? This silver-lit emptiness is complicit,
conjuring a deceptive goodness , stealing eyes that would
have scratched the rough scab of unhealed flaws. How many
words have been wasted on the moon, how much love, how
many lovers? Even spilt like mercury from an alchemist’s flask,
she quivers in the lake, the wind a soft moan in the ear of her
bedevilment. It is December, the year is sinking quickly into its
grave. There are things to forget. Things the moon wants me
to remember. That is her prism, the window through which
she becomes beautiful, makes the darkness a burn of want.
I write obituaries in the moonlight. Even a two-inch horizon
presents a linearity I must refuse. Nothing is perfect. A
moment can stumble. A moment can be a waxing moon. A
moment between this year and the next could be longer than
forever. The way, once, a forever love was a waning moment.
A wall to the right of the empty bed, concrete
blocks and wood that feel the first desperation
of night. To the left a window where dawn’s
seduction begins. Does light pick a side first
or does darkness? As usual, evening is the
arbiter of arguments over illumination. It was
evening when you left. It is evening while I
wait. Evening that is neither light nor dark.
Evening that pronounces: the moon is neither
empty nor full, neither real nor imagined, the
moon both is and isn’t. Is such a moon not
borne? Is such a moon not a chant? Is the
moon first light or first dark? Why then can’t
you bear absence? When can’t you speak
of love? Are they not moon crust? Why then
can’t you forgive this infidel flicker of love?
To all you poets: Am going to be writing theme-based poetry every Tuesday starting 5th November. Do let me know if you’d like to share your poems (spoken or written), discuss and critique all things poetry. More details soon!
I feed on the cold like a beast at the water’s
edge, head bowed to an existential compulsion.
The chill traces a dark path to a primal hunger
that predates the sun. Predates skin. Predates
touch. That November mist is the shifting circle of
my want, intersecting the unmanifest moon in a
contemptuous Venn diagram — a chiaroscuro of
shivering deprivation. But, I will not switch my fealty
to fire. I need this wintry balm, the numbness that
burns inwards from the extremities. If this is dissent,
then I dare heat to make its move. If this is revolt,
then mercury will never rise again. For now, my
blood is frozen. For now, light is an unformed candle
in the guilty sky. For now, warmth is absence, warmth
is malevolent myth, warmth is icy premonition.
jet lagged moon
how distant this night
from that morning
Evening Landscape with Rising Moon -Vincent van Gogh
A couple of tanka this Friday morning!
The beauty of tanka comes from the juxtaposition of disparate images, the gentle twist, the tug of emotion.
Try a tanka or two! Share your own micropoetry using comments or Mister Linky.
candles and flowers,
an impromptu memorial
where the horror struck-
one goodbye on a page ripped
from a new school book
the moon and I
in an elevator-
trying not to look
at each other
I’m kicking off the Nov 2017-Micropoetry Month with a couple of modern haiku/senryu. If the poems or the theme or just the idea of micropoetry inspires you, then do join in by sharing your poems in the comment section or adding a link to your poem using the Mister Linky widget. Or just drop in, read and say hello!
dark monsoon night-
a drunken moon
slips on the balcony tiles
in my bed a sleeping moon
and an empty bottle of wine
For three months, the monsoon, now gone, was an
indulgent elder, pretending to listen to me while arm
wrestling with an impotent sun, the spot where we
sat on the back steps still dark, smelling of earth and
mothballs . I told him those stories about us, the ones
we have forgotten, but it grew wilder the nights the
moon tried to rise above the thick soup floating in
from the Bay of Bengal. Oh, how she dances that one,
in hysterical discord, her breast a pale watery half disc
gleaming through the tangled mass of cloud and rain and
words that had stopped rhyming. And then I recalled
the day we walked, soaked to the skin, our one umbrella
broken, the roads like rivers, laughing because the night
had fallen into a tin of cooking oil and we couldn’t even
see our hands in the greasy black and it wouldn’t let up
and it wouldn’t end and I was crying and the monsoon
stopped combing his long grey hair, eyes moist, and that
crazy moon, she finally stood still, frowning, remembering.