August Sonnets
1.
this room is smitten by agalloch
nothing placed above me except loneliness
nothing is untouched by the body
fever rises as the leaves keep falling
rains and their fury-dance
walls have seen art of a child
now dead and gone between lost worlds
of my agility and my ignorance
in my grandmother's house of intimidation
silence milks the men on sofa
woman is always a butter, always a bread
my hands are dictated by habit
my eyes follow the memory-calendar
I have known myself to be a woman: I'm eaten
2.
I'm eaten by dear insects of affection
in the glycerine hour of the day, a want
desire is weak in the knees forever and always
no one knows the cure for such deaths
those that are essential and ritual
ritualist sits and reads and smokes
whereas, windows in this chocolate block
and fingers as harmless as the nostalgia
are my inventories for the remaining day
I have never cared for any death, but poem's
in such seasons of rage and rage and cages
are on the hunt for those who sing
where are the surviving poems hiding
where do they go and sing, is my thing
3.
my thing dangled like the seven'o'clock
by three a.m. fights were settled
love was brought in, politics pacified
whole bed was like an iceberg
tilted to the side of water, as usual
sea calls by the name and sand rises
now there's nothing to see but window
every picture in this roll was a negative
somehow cinema always remains a draft
one character is always on a journey
one story is a story of grief and unchanged
one can always be happy watching television
there's nothing much to do with a remote
when you can change the channel, you do
4.
you do not see the end to this madness
neither do I. we have had conversations
everyone is reading faiz. anger is regular diary-entry
writers are being manufactured like leaders
world is all about looking decent
that we are good at and done with
will you drink a cup of tea? yes please
then we can talk about some news
maybe laugh after few awkward pauses
touch hands and bite lips and click tongues
someone might be dying somewhere, true
but sanity is also something to be kept in check
are we walking over someone's corpse?
yes, but let's write a poem about it
The bedtime funeral but a love poem
the green lawn
is my shadow
against which the moist night
hoists the moon
exploits the room in which we sleep
trespasses our nakedness
our bare hands are holding:
moonlight by the window
moonlight by the lingo of our
intimate air
and moonlight of the limbo
between our brains:
a Dali paints
tongue
my death in your mouth.
banal sounds
around our fleeting whispers
an ellipsis, an exclamation, an idea
of a colon
a question mark that is
all nibbling is a call
all fidgeting is a call
all mumbling is a call
that when you move this eye
to that place
that place moves to me
camera
reflex
and
all the places we go to sit
are standing in a long queue
to buy a few more pictures
to get a few more senses
other than the five
the sixth we share
the seventh we wish
we did
but shit
you purse your lips.
tomorrow a grave will wake up
tomorrow few tears will fall
tomorrow this tree will turn to me
tomorrow it will say: I owe you a leaf
tomorrow a stranger will know
they are not a stranger
tomorrow I won't be here
to see this happening
but as it happens
play me a ghazal
shift this bed to the terrace
let it rot in the monsoon
let my books suffer the hands
they will move to
let them miss our rendezvous
play me a fire
burn the curtains first
burn the shirts next
put in some perfume
our favorite
decide the color to wear for the funeral march
decide what rains would prefer
tonight is the night when we do this
this love is not final
but the fifth act has arrived
the clowns are out of hands
the rivals are understating themselves
the queens are dying on their own
just as they lived
just as they loved
we are undressing hastily
shivering
as we do
the clumsy climax is a tad bit late
but here now
here now
hear
how
pants come off
the lipstick
the only red I cannot bear any more
the bras
that were never there
the hesitation
ah yes
this whore is a menace
but our mother
dear mother
insistent fingers
touching
legs
sprouting
limbs
we knew not to exist
pains out of a cube
where Picasso kills
where he is nothing but an abuser
windows are as cold as this closure
I say
I want you
you are reading this
in a tomorrow:
I have turned into a kiss
here
this.
Half of the World is Asleep
to Sujatha Pillai
I'll never sleep
because the final dream
never arrives
I have to stand at the door
I have to stare deep
in the streets
in the faces
brewing
strange
𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴
I have to look for it
the sudden urge
that will become my poem
when nothing volunteers
to jump
to pull
the first trigger in the only
heart that is cruel
𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦
I will
I have to be here
till then
looking out for places where
moon hid when clouds left
where sea slept silent
where a tree undresses
another tree
and green happens
where blue of our bare chest sky
kisses the yellows of our
kitchens
and mama's saree wipes
the leftovers
on lips
on cheeks
on territories of father's manhood
there I have to document
a photograph
to show my daughter
not to be in that kitchen
not to cater the territory
not to let her father
become anything
that brings it
i have to put an eye
in a book
like a flower
to smell like the city I grew up in
in visuals, i want it to
remind me of baby rebellions
I was part of
to remember what was fear
in my country
what it looked like
to remember and not to forget
when I open those pages
𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦
my new room
𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸
what died in the debris of
𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦
my old room
I cannot sleep
because there's yet another poem
and another and other
waiting for a taxi
on the darkest corner
where no public officer cared to put
a lampost
I have to be there
not with a taxi
but a sun
that sets not
because the final night
never arrives
because the final poem
is only the first
Abhijeet Singh lives in Lucknow and considers Love as the only source of poetry-writing.