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.
the shifting shadow inside me
that still communes with that moon,
they were as one before the beginning,
riven by another unspoken ending,
two parts of a whole,
the finite light and dark
still waxing and waning
in perfect symmetry.
For the micropoetry prompt at Real Toads