Three: A Repertoire of January Nights

 

[Written after Message In The Bottle: End Of An Exile & before and after When My Mind Teased Me: A Day After Am Out of Veil]

 

–1–

So you’ve come…Come here quickly, inside the quilt. It’s cold outside.

No, no need to get undress, darling, just come and let me embrace you, let me kiss you.

Yes…I’ve been waiting for this a long…actually whole day…entire eve…you’re sleepy…

Sleep, my little angel, sleep…here, see, I had kissed you a good night on your forehead…

Now let me touch your lips before I stroke your hair to make you fall asleep…

You know my friends, my colleagues, my well-wishers say I’m exaggerating your loss;

They say I should move on; yes, I’m trying hard to forget you, to come in term–

Of your absence…No…I’ll not stop…Because it’s the truth, right…

This…this repertoire…repertoire will not stop how much I try…

(Because) The comfort, the solace is your presence in my arms…

So sleep my darling…though there’s a number of miles between our beds…

You’re right now in s’one else embrace and me with the memories of yours…of ours…

–2–

The vacant place (though) s’time strangle me, but, I can’t die–

Because for the long I have, after you leave me for the ever, to fall in love again…–

Even she break my heart, though it’s already a shattered glass frame–

The frame that used to hold the coming days we had dreamt of–

I’ll not feel sad ’cause you have made me already a man without a heart–

The heart that has been locked away in a chest of broken and unfulfilled wishes–

And the key is the time that has turned to a mulch on a time where you’ll be not…

Apology my friends, my colleagues, my well-wishers,–

If you want, you can curse me…curse..damn me..damn…but…

This repertoire is keeping me in a touch with the reality, pushing me to live at fullest…

And the tiredness that is curtaining my eyes now is result of the blue warmth–

Of the failed dream (which) once we both had dreamt of…

–3–

Sleep darling…sleep…wherever you are…whomever with you are…

We’ll meet again might be some day, years from now…

We’ll (though) make love when your memoirs will get hold of me…

Now, let me sleep oh my muse, oh my love…come darkness of the night,–

Come silence of the vacant…assassinate me so that I can struggle to live…–

To live for another day and coming days without her…come…strangle me…

Apology my friends, my colleagues, my well-wishers,–

If you want, you can curse me…curse..damn me..damn…

 

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When My Mind Teased Me: A Day After Am Out of Veil

Daily Prompt: Exposure

[Sometime between Message in The Bottle: End of An Exile & the next]

Exposure

I whispered to myself and screamed in my mind…for…for…for how many times, I don’t know…a sigh leaves me…

Exposure

I kicked my leg to the wall, hurting my thumb and the pointer toe…and also…punch on the girth of my writing table–hurting a little bit all my fingers by knuckles…

Exposure

(I) am just out of a block…I was there, in the abominable darkness…in a deserted place…for…for seven days..

So many ideas, and thoughts, beckoning me to be out, to get an exposure…but…

Exposure

I whispered to myself and screamed in my mind…for…for…for how many times, I don’t know…but…but, it seems the mind is playing a game with me…teasing me…for reason unknown…

Exposure

So many ideas, and thoughts, beckoning me to be out, to get an exposure…but…

Exposure

I whispered to myself and screamed in my mind…for the last and final time…’fore I start writing these lines–scattered ‘fore gathered…I gave the situation (I) am in and the words the exposure they were in need…

Exposure

Mistakenly I whispered the word once more…as I gather myself to write s’thing…to write the last line actually…

Message In The Bottle: End of An Exile

Thoughts of Words

{A Sequel to The Whisper: Another Day In The Veil}

The mind is disturbed right now; Need fresh air–no it’ll be the breeze…

The poet stopped at this point and looked out at the young winter morning–

Outside of his big poster window…soft mild breeze was touching him–then and now.

The cold has been bidding adieu–a warmth can be felt under the breath–

For the last couple of days…

For last an hour, he is trying to write s’thing different than he had written–

In the present past; he want to write a poem imbued with hope and laughs

Not a sad and dark one with words that are blue and thoughts yellow like a dead leaf–

(That’s) coming out of the marooned feel after the love is gone–

And the posit memoirs in mind and soul…

The poet light a cigarette and pressed the backspace, the first and…

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The Whisper: Another Day In The Veil

Daily Prompt: Invitation

 

{A Sequel to A Goodbye Note…}

 

It was silent, when, a soft voice startled me, catching my senses…

It’s actually was an invitation to be out of my cocoon of being here…

I leave a breath, deep inhale it was and slow exhale it is, laziness embrace me–

More tightly; I hadn’t written for last few days by own wish, but, with a grudge–

To convince me, am not in a block, am not rejecting the invitation of ideas…

But I was tired at one moment, it was inevitable, so, I stopped letting the poet-block win…

(But) this invitation…this beckoning me pulling me strongly, like…like a boat to high tide

I don’t want to come out ’cause I want to be in the solace…in this solidarity…

I want to be alone, I want to be marooned, I want to be just left alone…

I think I’m turning into something like lunatic; I think this hold-up period seducing me–

Leading me to fall in love with it…(I think) my friend, you’re scared or worried about me–

Right now…but, don’t be…it’s just a period…a period of moving into another zone–

I think…the beckoningis getting strong, of the solidarity…–

So, friend, au revoir…forgive me for not keeping the invitation of breaking out…

 

A Good Bye Note…

Daily Prompt: Exquisite

{A Sequel to Second Day in the Veil of Block}

It’s exquisite–I say to self as the moon rises beyond the mobile tower–

In the neighbor building; the moon is spreading its light, lightening the sky–

Of the city that is illuminated by the bluish neons and yellowish halogens.

The poet is not in the mirror; he’s standing beside me–looking pensive–

He’s silent and quiet against his usual nature of bullying me–

With his harsh verses and unscrupulous smile…

No, my friends, am not going to write another poem on my block–

With the words that just keep of coming out in a crude way–

I backspaced the word pop out, followed by much more…

Au revoir my friends; I’m going to take a leave for a day or days…

But I promise you when I’ll be back, I’ll try to gift you a beautiful poem…

The exquisite beauty is getting raised by minutes…my friends…

The poet (now) needs to sleep, shaded by memories–exquisite they’re–of her smile–

And wrap in the warmth–exquisite they were–of her breath when she used to kiss me…

Second Day in the Veil of Block

Daily Prompt: Unseen

 

{A Sequel to Me, He & a Winter Morning }

 

The winter morning was there long ago–it seems, —

It’s the Sunday noon–

I’m still shrouded by the unseen veil of the block…it’s being long I had written…

As Bruce Springsteen sings “Working on A Dream…”,

The poet at mirror jumped and shows it annoyance–

As am not listening to him, his words on my incapability to write;

The rope of tussle–unseen–in my hundred years mind, encapsulated–

In my late twenties mind, though, having a gala time–

Splitting me between triptych of heartbreak in mid with muses on two sides.

My mind is torn, my hands are freezing–wants the warmth of words…

Oh words come to me, give my chiaroscuro thoughts their voice…

A laughter startled me; it’s from s’one unseen–the poet in the mirror has gone away…

I write down, as I struggle, theses lines with the words–

That pop out of mind with the progress of time, while, writing this poem…

Me, He & a Winter Morning

Capable

Thoughts are flowing around me–lots of it; but, words are not.

As I look at self in the mirror, I see am smiling at me; silently questioning–

Are you capable of writing s’thing that’ll define the morning outside;

Are you capable of giving your thoughts the perfect words they need…

I hear a voice; it’s my muse–new; she’s begging to write of her against my will.

The poet at mirror laughed and said you’re not capable of writing s’thing–

’cause thoughts are there, but, words are not; he again laugh.

My hands are numb, my mind fogged up,

My soul yearning out, muffled scream it is, to speak out the turmoil it’s feeling…

But this winter morning, I’m not capable of writing s’thing–

Except these few gibberish, I think the perfect word, lines with the words–

That pop out of mind with the progress of time, while, writing this poem…

Come, the coldness of block engulf me so that I can write to find the warmth,–

So that I can feel again capable of writing a better poem than this…