Poems of Arya Gopi

ARYA GOPI

I. AGE OF A TREE
(1)
A dry tree has nothing to drop
Not even a dormant shadow.

(2)
Seeds within me
are adapted to forest fires;
flames destroy me,
but will break down
the seed crust and it sprouts.

(3)
Mortal consolations
in the girth of salty sleep
are like borders drawn
for the eyes with kajal;
pure imagism.

(4)
The yoke of diseases;
to be in the labyrinth
of illness is like drinking
amorphous fears
as an art of medicine.

II. PARAMOUR

Clever tip-offs hide
in adulteress’s torso.

At midnight eyes elope
with stripped sleep and
I sit chewing the memory
of orgasmic shadows.

Paramour craves for
paranormal soliloquies
by sadistic vaginas and
barbarous penises.

Thirsty crows witnesses
the plethora of deaths,
daily, from the cloudless sky.

III. ELSEWHERE

I cry at night, feebly
the pillow smells musty.
Molds are like prayers

and sleeps instant suicides.
Wounds are like births
and growth is healing.

Elsewhere, I soak and
wash words; pen touches
my paper. I air-dry them.

IV. HABIT

I try to smooch words
every night. Its tainted
hickey on my lips is hard.
The scent of blue ink is
inebriant. Abstaining from
it may cause nasty
withdrawal symptoms.

V. CLIMAX

I am a time machine.
I fiddle my future by
deluding past.
I forget that’s that
then the end is not
death or afterlife;
that I can’t catch
or hinge even a little piece
of the tale hailed life.

VI. TAUTOLOGY

Refrains are like forces
of gravity. Alliance with
words is not extraneous.
To paraphrase catharsis
as a burning ceremony
is both holy and hell.
I jump into every line of
a page and dip into its guts.