Union of our solitude

vintage love

The first time I met her,
I met her eyes instead of her
and the sweating palm
that didn’t go with her charm.
Oh, how she managed to remain calm.
But as I stood among the audience,
each trapped in their worlds
with stories and histories
and hysterics that filled the air
they kept breathing,
I listened to the million voices
raging in my ears, each demanding attention
each pushing me a little to the edge,
petrified, I stood in the crowd, misplaced.
…when you think you can’t take it anymore,
she was reciting,
as if saying what I dared not speak,
but beyond the strength and the zing
I could see in her eyes,
the makings of the same cliff.
This cliff that demands my fall,
enticing me with its heavenly call,
to take me to a place that will be mine,
without a soul to judge, without anything divine.
And I knew I could hold on to her and stayed,
but to succumb, to lose myself clinging to her,
meant both of us that I would have betrayed.
It has been years and many such recitals
till she gave up and started to fade away.
But I remember that first afternoon after the event,
when among the dust motes
the sun-kissed air smelling of spent love,
lying next to her, I didn’t take the offered hand,
thinking it was me who had to take the leap.
And every time the thought fills me with a pang,
a slap on my soul it strikes me with a bang,
if she was instead the one
who was stretching her hand for me to pull her back,
yearning for me,
in her poetic interludes,
maybe she wanted to hold on
and I let her slip away,
so that instead of us, our cliffs stood together,
but finally defeated as they faced
the union of our towering solitudes.

At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

2 poems- Sameera Mansuri

A prayer God won’t hear.

Vietnam Memorial architect Maya Lin with her cat in her New York studio, 1986. Photo: Michalel Katakis
The rain is suffocating inside the clouds
The leaves are burning in agony
I pluck flowers often
and place them in my books
wondering anything beautiful needs to be preserved.
My eyes have begun resembling a museum
because every time I close them
death falls like an art.
Sometimes it hangs above my eyelids
and researchers introspect in awe.
Everything that was once alive
has touched the sand or wood
before embracing death.
Everything we love is protected by touchwood.
The skin I carry isn't dark
but a fair shade of brown.
Maa never told me to apply cream
until I was down with fever
and started looking like a wilted flower
a lover holds my hand often
and memorizes the marks on my skin.
He says it looks like a fallen autumn leaf.
We both smile at the connection
and weep at the metaphor.

Maa tells me to apply cream
the fever hasn’t left me yet.
eyes/skin
I have nothing to show you more than these two things,
I have nothing to carry on my spine.
My back is a coffin
where flowers bloom sometimes.
A graveyard isn't dead
but full of life that embraced
peace too early.
Life is a great job until it starts to underpay,
We regret what we don't choose,
we cry for what we often choose.
The rain has begun to fall
I hear Azaan mixed with splashes of water
petrichor diffuses in the air along with
the camphor from the temple next door.
I close my eyes when I hear the Gurbaani
and wish for the brother who works in the Church.
My skin is a brown country
My eyes a forgotten history
The steps that lead to the prayer
are often heavy and lost
God was last found in a dead fetus.

2-Losing voices like blood

mother stitches wounds into poems
her words buried deep under the sky
sometimes when it rains
I hear metaphors knocking on my door
a faint petrichor diffuses in my room
choking the paper flowers I made yesterday.
the origami sheets lay like autumn leaves
this marble floor beneath my feet
is no less than a graveyard
I often pluck flowers,
one by one.
this summer appears like monsoon
taking its first breath,
my arms almost shed the pain
but winter is all about aches
and that's all I await.
If mother ever comes back to the earth
to take her pride
she will encounter it hiding in a closet
behind the collection of summer dresses
the floral ones she once stitched.
I would allow her to take everything
she loves
in the hope that she will take me away too.
But the walls of elegy have already started
building up grief around my house
my room,
her garden of words
are forbidden territory.
we often write about loss as again
but no one cares to look beyond the clouds
that brings rain
no one knows that at midnight
they often weep and wail
but thunder falls like a judgment
and silence spreads itself.
in this way or another

there’s always a loss
we never express.
tonight
I am wearing her floral dress
the last one she could stitch
her words hang like a necklace
around my turtle neck
her poems adore my waist
no one cares to touch my skin
I am her poetry
and at this hour
the world will never get metaphor
the sky outside is bleeding
I remember mother's silence
over the last phone call
when I confessed that I am not happy
her sobs hid themselves
behind the sound of thunder in my ears.
tonight
I am slowly becoming a poet
she would have fallen in love with
but you should not search for the spark in my eyes
A poet always burns her muse alive.
mother stitches wounds into poetry
while rain falls as a metaphor in my palms
silence echoes in the paper flowers
and unstitched wounds lose their voice
like a blood,
like a memory.

Sameera Mansuri

A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant lookout for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favorite
pastime.

Grieving the grief

 

Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.

grief,

a shout in the void

where birds chirp and sing

meaningless songs of love

and heaven swings

to it’s highest position in prayers

but nothing is left,

at least it looks like this.

 

my mouth is an empty vessel

with a porous bottom

agony slips swiftly

bleeding the red of anger

from my chapped lips,

grief is too thick to slip

still.

 

my fingers are needles

of my mother’s tailoring toolbox,

I weave threats into poems,

and make sweaters out of pain,

it’s a comforting effort

for a dying soul,

grief can’t be woven,

it’s fibers are delicate.

 

my legs are nocturnal,

I take night walks

talking to the merciless moon,

I count dead bodies on stars.

sometimes the sky smiles at my strength,

sometimes it weeps heavily,

but grief doesn’t leave my eyes,

it’s too frozen to melt.

 

grief,

is a poem burning on my lips,

is an intricate thread scarring my fingers,

is a suffocated tear crawling inside my eyes,

is an aglet that keeps pain from unraveling

is a loss you kept coming back to.

 

grief,

is an epiphany,

too divine to be rejected as the present

and

too earthly to be asked in a prayer.

A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant look out for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favourite
pastime. She blogs at https://poetryblog320.wordpress.com/

Cannibals Of love

- - #lesbian #dyke #sapphic #lgbt #girlswholikegirls #girlswhokissgirls #girls #women #aesthetic #cyberpunk #vaporwave #vintage #retro

 

Darling, you look like
you’ve never washed the hair
of someone
who hurt you
I’ve always been
a Good Samaritan
when it comes to
aiding strangers
but I can’t go on
pretending I’m doing this
for you
the airport lies abandoned
as I check in my luggage
air sealed hearts
and finger food
we’re cannibals of love
eating farewells
until our next tragedy
takes flight

 

 

Henna is a novelist and a poet from Finland, interested in surrealism, science fiction and making people around her uncomfortable. She  blogs on WordPress as HJD writes. Visit her there.

Live to die or die to live?

 

Jane Birking 1960, behind her Serge Gainsbourg

Rolling the skin deeply

In the waters, rusting my bones

cold moisture seeps the pores

hits spine, undercurrents discharged

pupil widens, nostrils expand

I breathe in the black smoke

hair rise stiffens the nerves

muscles inflamed; cortisol infused

bloodstream rages like rivers in monsoon

myths dissolve in the violet rain

crumpled boats of paper, sink in puddles

the sky is a stone, grey & opaque

prayers bouncing back

no man in the sky, In seas

tiptoed to the edge

of a slippery rooftop

frictionless, I ask

Do I fall & live?

or do I hold on and die?

 

 

Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).