And now you inquire about the nature of my heart now, after extracting its nectar and bestowing emptiness once more along rugged edges and oval pores, the liquid amber which you drink of is nothing short
of essence, urging Autumn awake from deepest slumber this maladroit handling of the affair has left me in pieces, brought about memories of poems written with sweet salt of your tongue, I choose every word with utmost care so that you know ache without confusion or misunderstanding.
“That’s not what I meant!” I sigh as I go through the comment section. The mixed responses make me wonder how it’s possible for people to misunderstand a poem.
Outside the rain conjures a sweet pattern along the rustic pavement. I watch as the droplets fall from a confident sky and wonder if words I write convey emotion properly.
It is then that I recall the wisdom of a much loved and dear friend. Poetry is like art. Everybody has their own interpretation and that’s all right.
I tend to write a lot of love poems. It’s what I do. But a very few people know that my poems are actually based on my life! Each poem recounts a different story from a different time and era.
For example, October: When Poets Dream, Lament and Sing speaks of the time when I was besotted by a man who loved nobody but himself. Of course, I had no idea at the time. The poem speaks about pain and invisible scars.
Do I like it when people misinterpret a poem? To be honest, not a bit! But then, even I have misunderstood other people’s work from time to time.
But oh, when a poem strikes a chord! Now that is the most beautiful feeling in the entire world. A few months ago I wrote a confessional poem that resonated with every person who read and commented on it.
Twenty-three hit me like a hammer/ drove me over the edge/I slept with danger and flirted with the idea of death. Dark Origin is one of the most personal poems I have ever written.
I am going to be very honest. I was terrified! The moment I hit the publish button I thought to myself. “What have I done?” But when the responses started coming in, I felt relieved! I was happy that I shared the most intimate part of my life with people whom I wrote poetry alongside with.
I use to become annoyed when a poem was misunderstood. But no more. When has the moon ever complained for being both light and dark?
and speak for my tongue is broken, my shoulders dusted with a soft blush and the full moon that serves as sole witness to possibility that alights on my heart.
In my eyes he matches the gods, the man who with the slightest inclination of his brow pours longing into lush reeds in water, profusely gold and I hearing nothing but sweet murmur of his voice become as wind, urging the night to linger awhile.
Savagely dark, I surrender to the sound of his breath circling me as clouds, as a flock of ravens wild, I write him poems and make love on paper lips as sour cherries, I contemplate as outside the trees sing his name.
To wish a darkness in every eye that dares to lock with yours
is paradigm shift tell me, is it so inscrutable a concept for me to want you all to myself? a wanton wave washes over me, as I desire for meeting of souls, of fingers running through hair and caressing my skin, surely you must feel the same? But all must be endured since even a poor hungers for bread, your only cruelty is that there is smoke and heat and flames but you know not passion: it burns for you.
Under ambrose pale that has painted the leaves upon the ground, the long shadows of early September and the last remnants of cerulean blue Summer, I have mastered the art of getting by my determination raging in every drop of my blood and snakeskin.
Mercurial and wayward is lust, that has discovered its way deep into the shy regions mark my shoulders with the willfulness of night, let it settle somewhere between the grey smudged sky and my sensuality, I am a seamstress of plain dealing, arbiter of wild and tame in dreams I dance with love sliding down as moonlight down my length, I, too gentle for words, am a product of Virgo Rising.
I am a woman wrapped in poesy, a flickering naked candle flame let me guide you
to the secret places in your soul, do you ever wonder
just how decadent it gets- undulating
like ivory waves on the ocean your senses follow mine, as I continue to be unapologetically myself.
The moors, the lowering skies, the ruins of a castle, the ghosts of times long past and phantom tinkling of a piano remind me as summer slides into solemn September, your words, your smile, your heat, and your scent. Love is a canvass, a manifesto of indulgence as I breathe your name on top of your thighs and if by the remotest chance I manage to capture beauty in verse, if slowly the glow of the moon fades and the presence of empty space becomes more apparent then I would torch blandness with fire, I have discovered that in life the paths that cross and go on seldom meet twice. A chalice of life is autumn who heeds not to the earthly lot, who mourns the desolate and is devastatingly romantic, I will never forget the adrenaline rush the catch of breath and clouds in an apricot sky when you first touched my face in the solitary passageway read me that chapter again, where the castle becomes the speaker and leads us through the age I wonder what it would be like if we could rewrite history a grey room with soft walls where a world shattered by chaos is put together again that’s all we shall yearn before we grow old and embrace the earth, for as long as time is fleeting it will teach us to make our lives meaningful, you and I are joined by the same exquisite longing this is my confession as true as I am to my purpose, I will always find a way back to you- the moors, the lowering skies, the ruins of a castle, the ghosts of times long past and phantom tinkling of a piano are witness.
Crowned with sun-kissed petals and moral culpability I drag half of Greece to the dark side, their memories locked away in a room where winter writes poems and where inhibitions are laid to rest. The sky is a palette of gutsy silver awaiting form and function, I, a siren of the ancient islets, desire nothing but carnality and dream of honey-dipped corpses, pierced in the most glorious of agony until they fall into oblivion. How can love be so unforgiving? How can it rise past my jaded lips like a host of thoughts unresolved, why do tears spread like fire across smooth skin? My words on a muted twilight tumble out just to be near him only he doesn’t care to listen. Carelessly I shuffle the light of day releasing souls and such back to their normal state for at night I allow my emotions to be true to themselves there is no escape
when it comes to the heart and a constantly wailing conscience,
or is there?