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.

the silent shadow

Age 32: The Year of an Authentic Me

 

In a complete and serene silence

we’d walk,

and through our scrutinizing eyes

we’d talk.

Maybe we’d walk for miles,

reciprocating each other’s smiles;

caring not to look at the judging eyes,

pretending to be deep in thoughts,

pretending to be wise.

Or maybe,

it’ll be just a stroll in a park,

caring not if there’s still light or if it’s dark.

 

In complete and calming silence we’d sit,

ignoring the eyes calling us misfits.

Maybe we’d sit on the freshly mowed grass,

staring into each other’s soul in a trance.

Or maybe,

it’ll be in a luxurious restaurant seat,

where slowly will our hands crave to meet.

 

In a complete and pious silence we’d live,

where full trust will we swear to give.

Maybe it’ll be near a city,

where the people surrounding us will be witty.

Or maybe,

it’ll be far away in a melancholy house,

where one day we’d be enthusiastic,

and another, we’d lose.

 

And through this silence,

we’d get to know each other’s strengths and fears,

and give contagious laughs, while wiping the dripping tears.

 

Within this silence,

one day,

will echo your screams filled with pain and agony,

while the sharp knife in my hand will twist unhappily.

“For speaking lies here is a crime”,

My shadow will whisper to you all covered in grime.

 

And then will I wake,

feeling as though through my heart is a stake.

“It’s just a dream”

I’ll convince myself, I’m sure,

but the shadow,

the shadow will lurk there and lure.

 

And now,

as you open your mouth and let the meaningless words dart,

I realize,

how much I want to shove the sharp knife straight into your heart.

 

A nightmare it has now become,

and slyly my shadow whispers,

“Darling, they have just begun.”

(By Anjali Sharma.)

 

Anjali Sharma: She’s 20, lives in New Delhi, India. Currently, a history honors student, who’s also a content writer at Withered Weedy Writers.

Kairos

@the_wylde on Instagram: “Aruba with Lucette wearing The Mama Earth Kimono, back in stock soon in white • Only one piece left in honey  #thewylde #wyldewoman”

Dunking a cookie,
O, sweet Fika!
I realize
You happened to possess perfect timing.
You came at the right time
And vanished at the right time too.

I thank the gods we didn’t meet earlier,
The consequences would have been disastrous.
I simply wasn’t ready for someone like you,
Back in the days.
Dunking a second biscuit,
You left all of a sudden
We didn’t even argue.
Darling Reeya,
I wish to thank you.
In ghosting me, you left me with my new best friend
Scilicet my loneliness.
The one I embrace
Who constantly reminds me that besides you,
The rest has always been a waste of time and energy.
I tend to cling to everything we talked about
Diving in a cathexis of you,
My main drive towards my goals…
I dunked the biscuit for too long,
Half of it sunk to the bottom of my cuppa
Let it be, it is still a Fika!

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.

A tree as a protest Art

 

Breathtaking Moody and Mysterious Forest Photography by Dylan Furst #photography #forest #nature #travel #instagram

 

we talk in circles and to anyone
they shout, ‘just get to the point already’
when none of them studied geometry
or physics or Wordsworth or expectation
you expect poetry to greet you like an old friend
so, i will be friendly for the sake of the words we are spilling
you ask me how the research is going
i reply i am learning to code
which is not just a defense mechanism
but also, boxes i bought from target
for all the things that refused to burn
men were never given journals
a sacred place to whisper
secrets into
diaries with little locks and little keys
maybe that is why this is so hard for you
to speak coherently, so the words drip down your face instead
i’ve learned so many new languages
strange to speak this one again
you are not scientist but can you at least appreciate
how unlikely and precious our meeting is
the stars still have tricks up their sleeves
are they trying to make a fool out of me?
of course, i had a plan for this recurrence
but now my axis are so out of sync i forget
you tell me volcanic soil is the most fertile
so then
why did you leave?
//
let’s plant a tree, here at our common ground
it will grow and lay roots deeper than we could
it will protest the distance, the hatred, the resentment
as we hurtle away
one day a young girl will lay under its shade and listen
to our traditional stories and laugh
at how simple a morning could be
let us make sure there will still be trees
let us make sure there will still be air to breathe
let us be absolutely sure in the incomplete
we could dance through life knowing we left a battleground clean
let us welcome flowers and animals to choose this place to retreat
our bitterness will only make the fruit that much more sweet
let us have one last conversation please please, please

Adeline Fecker

Adeline Fecker is a biology student at the University of Oregon Clark Honors College. She has previously been published in the Journal of Wild Culture and Ephemera Literary Magazine. When she is not writing, she can be found dissecting zebrafish brains in the Oregon Institute of Neuroscience or tutoring undergraduate chemistry. Currently, she is working towards her thesis on the influence of sensory conditions on Autism related social behavior and neurophysiology. She lives in Portland, Oregon.

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!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Head, Island, time and wave

1.

Camp Collection Nostalgic Summer Camp Holiday LookBook

It is here we keep hands.

Can you squash the honeybees

on this table?

My head bronzes the idea of faking islands,

for our home. To save

it. My head is the sun, islands;

a wave.

I hold your head and move it.

to the sight of dwellers.

I feel close to an idea I don’t hold.

A persimmon seems orange

from our reeded home.

from here.

I remember walking away in the middle of

the supper.

And watch you all from the attic’s floorboard.

There’s a hole, you don’t know of.

You smell of a marsh. The sweat filled up in the

depression of your collarbone is a part of something

bigger. You break it. It does not exist. Now.

But one knows it had been,

there. You stick.

You should lose an arm

and I, an eye.

I think.

To know what other ways,

are.

To wave and watch.

My mother after

an Eye operation

told me

she would have loved to see everything.

before losing sight for an hour.

An obvious fear of incapabilities.

I have it. I know you have it.

You do not have to hurtle away.

You pack mangoes. The green mangoes.

Because,

you know it takes four days to reach back.

The woman knows you’d be home.

The wind is softer.

Dwellers stop

to dwell.

You travel and reach home.

The water in your belly hurts when you sleep

facing floor. Everything about leaving our place

would hurt, I knew.

For a month. Or four, maybe?

Not any longer. It shouldn’t be.

You work and live good.

My head bronzed the picture in mind;

One I imagine you to have become.

by now.

Good, in every way.

I write. I need to think of you.

You don’t have to think of

me.

You couldn’t squash the honeybees.

You loved them

and you loved your skin.

My island isreal. Your city too.

very different.

2.

By the time

We ate the sun and tried to become.

Everything. Anything, we could.

The land looks swollen.

We return the sun to the place the other day.

After flood. Everything about it is sadly red.

You ask

a sinking loon, if it needs to be pulled.

It cries for mother.

It’ll be late.

I remember you want to sit on the top of that oak.

You reach. You’d fall anytime. I know

You’re falling.

I ask you, if you’d like me to catch.

You shut eyes.

A bit too late.

I talk about things for hours. Sing a few poems

to them.

By the end, they wanted to know

if I wanted them to listen. They were ready now.

I lost the power to redo things.

On an empty beach. While two people make love

An orange dog with sunken belly,

vomits in the background.

They loved dogs.  But they couldn’t see.

An hour later they reach it.

The orange of its body goes blue.

Nothing beautiful left. Anymore.

The short woman behind the fat sunflower,

I talked about. Hasn’t lamented

since morning. She touches

everything beside her.

Like touching is the only way left

to realize how unusual the detachment

felt in the sides of her head.

It ached, often.

It ends. All of it.

before time.

Everybody knows her now. ~the end of a day.

3.

Untitled

The dark of the little ship against the whitest

table in one of the rooms. It has the right sun

falling on it, from the window.

I allow myself to venture back

into the time where I found out-

to love is easier.

Erroneous methods where you went mechanical.

I do not look forward

to talk about sadness.

So I’d talk about the ship.

I never played with it.

It reminds one of the turquoise.

Losing its life. Popular voyages we never

even had time to listen.

A long time that it takes to reach any bay.

The luncheon.

The pretty women

A group of people with bitterness-

dead of dissipation

Men with long

beards.

An old head of them.

The prayers for

bounty. The tale of pitcairners of the Norfolk.

Small boats feeling nothing

ahead of the ship.

They think they’re small with no big Islands to head

for.

It’s 3:00.

The afternoon passes like that.

With still beautiful sun

on the ship, kissing it “It is a memory of the big boat that disappeared.

Before time.

My father brought this little ship,

telling me about the many who

did not survive.

They hadn’t known the ship, the people.

Some even jumped off.

They needed to be free.

There were men and women who wanted to live.

But the ship couldn’t.” He kept it on the white table

few months back.

And, it’s been there.

So Ivory.

Beautiful, like

what love sounded and felt.

Priyanshi is a seventeen years old girl from Kashi. She studies humanities. She has been writing for past
two years. She likes to write about anything that involves details, mixed feelings, nature and experiment
in poetry.
Her words haven’t been published before. Hope you’d enjoy reading.
For better connectivity, you can find her on Instagram: @abeautifulturtle_

© Priyanshi