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 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Cné
It Stings
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Cné
Woe to the one,
Who is stung by a bee.
F*ckin hurts a bunch
Makes one want to flee.

Even after he dies,
The bee knows what to do.
You might not realize,
But the stingers in you
“The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.” ~ Fernando Pessoa
Fear waits upon its prey
where the light is a shamefaced girl

wind is a fragmented guest
where silence fools the unwary

to chirp the birds forget
where the baiter might be the bait

the hush is not all white
as in that ever ruling night
blood is spilled without sound.

Forlorn as the lovers' lost track
meanders the creek
in moans for the lost
shedding its sighs to the tides.
Sunderbans, January 28, 5pm
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Shanath
We look at them
And smile at their brilliance,

Do the stars look at us
And weep for our miseries?
I am gone
And now wish to be forgotten.

                               ( There was chaos to clean
                                                  Now I will read.)
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Shanath
I am counting sunsets
On my fingers,
Falling short.

The sky falls so slow here
I can almost see
My eyelids brush the bottom.

The distance between us
Stretches beyond land and oceans
Yet the same star would fall on us both.

Your voice to me is waves
From the sound of air in a sea shell,
I can't tell which is what.

The moon and my bed
Feel the same
Perhaps so are you and the images in my head.
If you knew, if you knew.
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Shanath
Bananas
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Shanath
The heat knocking through the glass,
Shaking the metal,
Our seats impersonating
Our body heat.
I looked out, a brief pause in journey.
The red light tirelessly blinked
Then and now,
Green would be a go.
He was peeling it off,
He asked me, as usual I said no.
One was handed to the man
With an upturned mustache on the front,
I could tell that was his pride.
Three were alined in a plastic bag,
Their fate still undecided.

Gentle but hurried taps on my window,
They had cars to cover
I think now.
Two little kids in ragged clothes,
I wonder is it the dust of the world
Or the filth of a society's failure
That stains their clothes brown,
Their faces black?
One was of the usual age
They're grown up at,
The other, the age
They begin at.
After a brief and short
And "matter of fact" discussion,
Bearing in mind the kids' busy schedule
I wound down the window,
And decided the three bananas' fate.

The grown one just ran to the next car,
Grown you see,
The little one
Yelped in happiness
Of the fruits rejected by me.
Nothing could sound more beautiful
Than the kid's exclamation
"Bananas"
A giggle.

The red turned off.
The driver smiled
Yet every act was but a drop
I could not collect
To fill the desert of doom.
The heat hovered
And hovered,
The heat that turned
Back at my home
Many bananas black
Until they were discarded.
The flies feasted upon,
The gun is pointed
At the kids.
Sometimes blood leaves no stain.
Sometimes the black stains
On bananas are of our souls.
TRAVEL TALES III
The ant, the flies,
The lion, the man,
Who is important?
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Shanath
The Irony
 Feb 2018 A Shuli
Shanath
The black and white pills
Are failing to cure me,
After three long years of running
It's my feet that's killing me.

I would have ran home
Though I ran from there,
It is only when you are alive
That you begin dying.

Black and blue bruises
Hug me tighter than my own skin,
I wouldn't know I still had blood
If I still didn't bleed so much.

I should have drowned myself by now
If I could reach the sea.
But it is in my sadness
I learnt the opposite must exist.
I am waiting for the end
Then we will begin again.
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