chaiNboli

Theoretically it is not possible to forget to swim if you didn't know how to swim in the first place. But when I say I became a cyclone which wanted to drown itself before reaching the shore , it means you are the shore and all I wanted was to save you from destruction and we are using metaphors, because we are afraid of clean words. I am not telling that metaphors are not pure and clean, but they are not innocent like the language we made up in the playground when we were five. The politics of language is so much here ,that, may be the metaphors will file a case against me for defamation. So it will be wise if I close my mouth and prolong a silent prayer. But in the end, it won't help: as you know. When the silence gets too suffocating you move through my mind : metaphorically : like an image of a half peeled orange resting in the summer sun. There are no cars to bump on you when you are crossing my mind: you shouldn't be afraid. You don't need to look left first,  the...

You left me and God left with you,  and am searching for you (both)  in the silent pockets of nights ,  in the throat of pigeons and  in the half eaten chocolate piece. We should have split the evening  we met into two,  rather than taking it with me. I am sorry for taking that and  your knife in my bare hands. I am sorry for keeping it with me  and weaving poems out of it. I am sorry that I knelt on the ground with it  in the kitchen floor and  for staring at my wrists for three days. Then I stood up like a flame and  kissed the berries for their existence. In the bathtub I wrote that  you are the sun and am Icarus. That we are open hands and closed eyes That we are open eyes and closed fists. That angels are crying for us, ugly creatures. Even if we are not poetic enough as the wrinkles of a refugee whose grave was disturbed by atomic bombs, I will write and write,  cry and sob in my bed,  and nobody would ever unde...

I am fading and he is not noticing. I will be a wisp of air and he won't notice.i know this. I know everything. I know that each time I proclaim my love, I am handing him a stone to throw at me. I know that this man, whom I am afraid to name as mine with confidence, is a crystal cyanide wrapped in sugar syrup. His ugly honesty disarms me, dismantles me ; a flood that washes a garden, thinking that it is helping the dry earth.  He is sensible enough not to catch a falling knife with his bare hands. Am the fool that runs along streets to make sure that the last wish of an autumn leaf came true. We are not the hands waiting to come together to form a prayer. That is we are two ancient civilizations: one who won and the other who died. So, being safe means being out of love. But,  love is a silent drowning and he is the mouth of a river. Every morning I am taking form of another square, contemplating boredom of a childhood no one wanted until it was lost. And like the singing of a...

Don't uproot flowers in the first place,  then they won't wilt. In the uproar of vapour of colours,  grief was taking  the form of a deaf translation. In the shade of dark nights,  the doors were standing  still,  until the wind ran on shapeless feet. We were children, who were afraid of magic glitter. Drowning, In the water of womb. Manicured to sit in a lawn  borderded by bloodline of fathers. Stuffed inside the    throat of death's desire. We were two birds inside their shells,  manifesting a storm,  so that we can fly. We are a single record of raptures,  lifting words of flame that is  tender as a God's love. We were water, our roles in between comforting or being danger . We were two names alive in the graveyard. And then you kissed me-  a coffee burn. A structured and systematic bruise. Heaven is your pronoun,  hell is mine.

My sadness is a green grape And yours, a strawberry bun. I have stared enough at your voice  to understand that  there is no art that can  help you swallow it. That there is no language  that can help you  to articulate the softness. You have listened to my eyes  enough to understand that there is no seasoning  that goes perfectly my grief. That no word play can dictate  the poised gifts of  my adulthood. It is the magnetic strip of our silence  that  measures our solace,  grasping shape of space. We have grown tired of holiness. There is self pollination of guilt. Despite everything, we search for metaphors,  trying to hold our mind in our fists. So, one day, when your shower turn into  a red river, I will be the first one to understand. This is why my tenderness is cruel. This is why my love is frightening. On the other hand, one day, when my carpet turns blue  enough to be a sea, you will be first to turn into...

//It's my own hands that are strangling me, Throwing shadows everywhere while searching for a light.  It's my own feets that are leading me to cliff, running away is futile when you are crippled// When I say the nakedness of a river is inviting, I mean growing myself into an old algae root where new born fishes can play hide and seek. Or being turned into a bleached calcium stone without being questioned about the meaning of existence. Or weaving a carpet out of my tissues for the baptism of an atheist. Or rolling the present tense, back lit with the star glow into a soft future no one can measure and dream upon. Or sacrificing the helpness into something that can feed the hunger of a kingfisher who is  choking in poverty. Or fitting everything I own into the closet of a ruby throated mermaid who isn't afraid of copper laughs of poisonous snakes. Or spinning along with the hidden currents of the water, like a reverberating cry of an old bell. Or becoming the chill of a prot...

It is important to tie knotes out of  the shoulders and circuits in the brain,  before stirring water with a clay spoon. Otherwise, the hands  won't be soft enough to  clean the red tides of memory. The breath of sun beam  will give colour to our skin,  a piece of rainbow over the cover,  May be erase the existential crisis. Inside there are crimson prints,  but don't worry,  we are just carrying wounds, not guns. No one will notice. No one will be harmed,   just us. Pack chlorine smiles,  before copper footprints ask  flowers to stand in a line. And manifest to have a flicker of breath. Because  Our poems are tails of snow. Our extinction won't add value, Our fossils won't be appreciated. We are half baked tragedies. This is the short history  of a candy before being swallowed. Not an autobiography.