Soothed by the mole just below your operated heart, asthma a pain in the communiqué; the hamlet is shrouded with a pile of geraniums. I trusted even the alienation and thought as goodwill of a microscopic glee. A canvas disowns its acrylic: blasphemy. Listening to the whisper of those demy gods, living with the packed asymmetry, the charm of the streets dwindles. Often life is minus flesh and veins; it’s ceramic—a heart with no blood and beats. How a wild river flirts, can someone map? A million shadows in a bad weather their bodies are see-through; the premature suspicion smells of an etymology of kisses. You’re damn panicked; like the landslides that define the trauma of insulin to spill over the emotions of the perfect breasts. A wildfire tries to devour a fragile bliss of the day and my forefathers were like vanishing stars of another kind. Others are calmly enjoying palmistry, bigotry and tapestry.
I refused the time, the hands of the pendulum
stopped for a cup of tea and jalebi
the quarry of fate, the frozen grits, somewhere
the terracotta of hunger was the telescope of artifacts.
I was not tired of father’s pampering
I was not tired of lover’s dissatisfaction
I was not tired of mother’s microbiological trust
I was not compromising at any point
I was not approaching the green light of chemotherapy.
Smile, simile, sensory, sensitivity of a kiss heals
a schooner of shimmering glee in the niche
psychic medicine even a pandemic disappears: malady
an old piece of advice with an adrenaline promise
stands at the threshold to collect the flotsams
evening comes to caress blackberries.
At about 59 and plus a health insurance
makes a big difference in a faulty life
a canoe in the stormy current makes a nest
whereas a black drongo bird stings a tender glee
in the mid sky can’t you see a baby star goes hungry?
What not, what not, what not? Everything
you think and outthink, you do and undo
you plan and out plan, yet, you’re not a chameleon.
Experience, how the clouds travel to meet the disguise
they’re fighting the pandemic, to shape life
lose not your heart, bite on a few almonds
forget the accident, prepare for the next hurricane.
In the edge there, a curvy road but that’s not a threat
they say time is the big boss and the real taskmaster
anyway you may not be ready for a good road-raze
the coffee is getting cooler, fire a good vibe, lean on the
uncanny mystery staring at us since time immemorial.
I stopped the time for an overhaul and to breathe
with a little of mist and a mystic assurance of malady.
Times of bougainvillea enter the drawing room lately like a garlanded scarecrow or may be a post text of a surgery. Without a blink an upsurge of gullibility prays. Years gone by reverberate in low decibel as a ballad of Chaucer’s meditation. Sometimes fellow-feeling is surely an act of diplomacy. The silhouette of lavenders looks like a mystery of metaphysics with the new season of red roses. The multitude is panicked by an ulcer; the placards of serendipity germinate an infatuation. There, a bunch of people cheers in a deluge of blood of Allah and Ishwar. In a nation—even the dead bodies of infants feel the cessation of love. In the morning the ripe field waves a message of a new year to oil-paint the minds of an aloof living.
Ode to Australia
As the lifestyle goes, you dress up the spring whole year. Blue waters, juices of raspberries and fainting tequila are some of the most quoted great things about you. Others little envy. Those cool bed wraps of snow were the Eucharist of Sabbath—history smelled of the autumn season exactly like French cologne of seamlessness. Is it a distant reverie? The carols and the events of night jasmine wilted, there’s no anticipation of rain. Truthful smiles maybe the gigabytes of the green meadows of the land that collided with a dystopia. Though beauty is not accidental, the common folks were sad metaphors. God’s tender touch was sadly rare from the bosom of the hinterland. The souls of Kangaroos and the makeup of the eco-ghazal incarcerated mercilessly; the kisses of embers painted an inferno, Australia was a gutted artwork.
Age descends with a faulty chronology //syllables of wounds sound apathetic//a proposition //hits the right chord//the backbone of equilibrium// is an ice cube through the bioscope//the thugs sit on the bullets and see through the binocular//every morning//a bunch of brave hearts are sabotaged// but run for a cross-country & fight the baron of the dodgy lukewarm//in the middle path//the super market of expired medicines grins artificially// the tender promises of the rulers fade like the mediocrity//only the broadminded//wide-chest masochists hound//a storm in the woven of a pancake//the summer cooks pathology//young ventricles raise fierce debacle to distance itself; we care for no storm// rather busy for a phenomenology of other bliss//phenomenally we look for the groins of strawberries and sensation//
Pitambar Naik: "I have a collection of poetry, The Anatomy of Solitude (Hawakal). I’m a Poetry Editor for Minute Magazine and have been featured in journals across 13 countries. My work appears or is forthcoming in Mason Street, Packingtown Review, New Contrast, Ghost City Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Charge Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Eunoia Review, The Indian Quarterly, Vayavya, The World Belongs To Us (HarperCollins India), among others. I grew up in Odisha, India."