Art on Canvas

Art on Canvas

Fingers digging deep
below the blemished skin;
tickling the untamed loins,
teasing the cervix;
they leave their mark;
letting elixir-like ecstasy flow through the veins;
blood rushes –
a rhythmic beat of the heart –
thump-thump-thump-thump.

More words of prayer are muttered to the abandoned gods;
as we explore the peak of our pleasure –
in hunt for a treasure –
a well-satisfying, self-devouring essense
found in
in the cauldron of blasphemous thoughts
where blood boils, and breathing turns rapid –
a continuous, rhythmic pant.

The flesh aches;
the backbone – a machinery
pursuing the unfathomable depths
of yearnings –
a humble act of exploration.
The palms clasp tighter against each other
as the heavy breathing now descends into
exhalation of cigarette smoke;
soaked in desire a puddle of liquids –
so pungent –
drip through the slanted surface of the sweat-soaked skin,
and form a puddle on the mattress-
art on canvas.

***

Art by Ivana Dostal.

 

Past Midnight Realisations

Past Midnight Realisations

Sold my new blue jeans,
and bought a new pair of white shorts
to last me the entire summer.

***

Killed my cat,
and let the silence sink
in the dampness of my room –
the clock ticking coherently on the wall.

***

Smoked a cigar,
flicked it in the dustbin –
waste papers burning –
the letters never posted.

***

Broken promises
that were made in moments so aesthetic,
that a painter would fetch colours,
wash his brushes,
setup his canvas.

***

Says Rahim:
break not the threads of love,
for they cannot be mended,
and if they are,
the knots remain everlasting.

***

Candle wax melts
on the bare surface of skin;
the wait for you never ends.

***

Be stubborn, my love,
for you castle will be besieged
with the swarm of my kisses.

***

Only the smell of rain
seeped in the moist garden soil –
earthworms wriggling,
can replace the absence of your smell.

***

When the trees are laden with fruits,
you would find me high up on the branches,
plucking the well-ripened fruits for you.

***

Just the effort to be near to you,
is similar to extracting honey
from a beehive in wild –
body bare, fingers trembling.

***

The sound the sea makes
with the gush of its waves on the shore,
is similar to your footsteps passing by.

***

The devotees ran out of incense sticks
when they had you –
your idol
setup in the temple in gold.

***

When you became an atheist,
the Gods rained thunder and storms,
and flooded the city –
many died,
many perished.

***

All the notes taken
in the six semester of the course
were not sufficient to describe
the charm that you hide behind your smile.

***

Poetry has its branches extended
in the gutters
where the human soul drowns in misery.

***

In the sky,
the supersonic jets flew,
to escape from the sound of your laughter.

***

The pages of The Bhagwat Gita were turned
again and again,
to repent over the sins
committed in your love.

***

I’d trade
the purpose of my life
for a mere word from you.

***

My lovers gave up on me,
for I was too busy
admiring the shape of your anklets.

***

Art by Gil Cohen.

 

 

 

Casually Daisy-ing Around

Casually Daisy-ing Around

A Daisy that you are,
so little,
so freshly bloomed,
that when a starving mountain goat
sees you on the frosted, naked cliffs
and sniffs your well-crafted petals,
decides to starve —
dies.

Oh, would you not
turn your gaze at me
and shower your fragrance —
invite sunlight into my dimly-lit room;

would you not sit at my table-top
with your feet dipped in the water
of my golden vase,
sipping sunshine?

A mere gaze of you —
from you —
has me plucking at the many flowers that I see —
she loves,
she loves me not —
not that I have anything to say to you,
oh Daisy, my dear.

***

Find the art here.

Call Me a Name, or Two

Call Me a Name, or Two

Call me a Cat and I will purr at your touch;
Heaven and I will open my doors – lay out twinkling stars;
Senses and I will make you drool;
Water and I will be the first rains flooding your parched rivers.

Call me a Poem and I will rhyme my stanzas for you;
Sleep and I will instil smile-provoking dreams;
Warmth and I will be the wool – the winter frost moistening the window pane;
Time and I will rust your tear-evoking memories away.

Call me a flower and I will inspire a painting – hung for display at the exhibitions;
Envy and I will introduce a poet to a painter;
Hunger and I will burn your harvest away;
Thirst and I will dry off your wells; poison your rivers.

Call me Sun and I will never touch the horizons;
Moon and I will be new forever;
Tree and I will lower my branches,
yield you fruits for seasons to come.

***

Art by Samuel Palmer.

 

 

To His Coy Mistress: 367 Years Later

To His Coy Mistress: 367 Years Later

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would talk long and kill the day
and for night long, ask you to stay.
Taking walks on a sunny day,
we would lay down on heaves of hay.
A beauty like yours is not to be found
in a square’s angle and a circle’s round.
A gaze from you from miles afar
would slaughter men – wage a war.
Let alone be your eyes and gaze,
look at me in a hundred ways.
At the horizon when the sun has set
and the darkness has cast its net –
a sight of you is much to see,
the gazers: guilty they plea.
Resting your hand on that chin of yours,
you have me put aside all my chores.
Do you, my lady, deserve this state
of being loved at a lower rate?
I would love you till my grave is dug –
feeds on my rotting flesh the night-loving bug.
And when the night would fall in all its prime,
I would fill our glasses with well-preserved wine,
the filled glasses, with each other, would clink,
nearer to you, my lips, I would thoughtfully bring.
And if you should shy away – a bud of rose,
I would assume it’s the fate which chose,
to bring me near to you at this hour
free will against fate has, but little power.
The graves are a decorated place
but no lovers there are found to graze.
So while we have this youthful glow –
the river in its prime has its flow,
let’s swim in it for miles together,
in the calm air and stormy weather.
Time, my love, holds the final cure –
a pyre for me, a grave for you, I’m sure –
and then it shall end all our woes,
Vonnegut says: So It Goes.
So let us unroll our beds – lay down on it,
and let our mortal bodies in each other fit –
tire ourselves and sweat out,
like a battle well fought;
victory would be ours, I proclaim thus,
if only my love you do not make a fuss.

***

Inspired by To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell.
Art by Choin Im.

 

 

 

One Post-modern Brat

One Post-modern Brat

Give me a poem, won’t you —
you post-modern brat?
Little Daisy Minx.
Yeah, keep spinning in circles.
It reminds me of my Indie Dream.
Your ikr and ffs…
Netflix and aesthetics…
In a shower of memes,
you self-cure your existential crisis.
And for some reason,
punctuations and capitalisation
don’t exist.
But your privileged existential crisis,
it still does exist.
Oh, you millennial biscuit!
You drive this Beatnik mad.

***

A poem by Phalguni Yumnam.
Art by Roy Lichtenstein.

Ultra Smooth Mid Detention Poems

Ultra Smooth Mid Detention Poems

Detention post classes
feels like drowning a fish
in oxygen.

***

Writing haikus post class
in the laps of the mistress
of cynicism.

***

Sarah walks in, in blue,
and the blue fountain ink
flushes in her colours.

***

Let’s fetch some water
from the fountain of our
unrequited love.

***

We have all
plagiarised
in love.

***

“To hell with God,”
said he,
for her arms were heaven.

***

Very clean strokes
in the art of
our love-making.

***

Art has no rules,
says she,
and flicks her cigarette away in style.

***

50 poems in a day;
I can go on writing
if you love me enough.

***

Winter is coming,
and I lie in the cave –
the warmth of her breasts.

***

The smell of her hair
reminds me of
the much-awaited monsoon.

***

Art by Brent Lynch.