Saturday, January 3, 2009

Winter morning

Black winter mornings are cruel.
They distort words. I inhabit

Vales of silence. Even echoes
Are respectful here. Time is

Measured in the calm between
Gales. They laid out your

Death. I devoured with my eyes.
I did not know that

I would be so starved
For the vision of you.

Now the cold winds anger
The architecture called space. I

Walk here in my fields
Of desert between drops of

Stubborn rain. Sorrow is ductile.
Watch the changing souls of

This dark light dissolve. Inferno
Assimilates. You walked in sheaths

Of glass. Now I glare
At the angry sun. The

Time for burial is come.
Earth grows barren with grief.

Hades has removed dear Persephone.


Swayam said...


Pankaj said...

Is there a specific name for this style of writing??
Its confusing. Its delightful..

Anonymous said...

came here via desipundit.

lovely indeed.

... now i glare
At the angry sun.

the style probably didn't work for me, because i'm a bit old fashioned... and there is a flow in the poem, which the structure strangulates. now if that was intentional, (and i can see that working on another level -- the structure doing independently, what the poem is doing through words, imagery), it's a master-stroke, despite my reservations.

keep writing,

Aarushi said...


Wow! You really read what I write. There is no specific name for this style of writing. It is just something I sometimes do.

I like to experiment with different styles.
And no, I have no problem with you adding me on your blog roll.

onna said...

winter isn't all that bad,
what have you got against it?

onna said...

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.
- Andrew Wyeth
- and now me.

Aarushi said...

Maybe, winter isn't all that bad.

But surely "April is the cruellest month."

onna said...