Come Autumn, without turning I kiss the night, the maladroit and send him away

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.

 

 

Photo credits: Flickr

Posted for “Midweek Motif” @ Poets united

Posted on weekend Challenge @ Real Toads

The air is wild with leaves, with poems and feelings

 

“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?

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Moonlight Musings: The Interactive Edition @ Poets United

This sugar, this feeling tossed into the shoreline by a gathering storm

Poem inspired by the title of Sappho’s poetic masterpiece, “In my eyes he matches the gods.”

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.

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Re-posted on the Poetry Pantry 🌹

Posted for “Wild Friday: First Edition” @ Poets United

And touch the stubble plains with velvet hue, until the soul is filled with deep contentment

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.

 

 

Photo credits: Seamstress, @catschappach

Posted for ‘Kerry’s Challenge’ @ Real Toads

and Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

Aubade – Autumn wind whispers your name as the colour of leaves changes to flame

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.

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Wordy Monday with Wild Woman @ Real Toads