This was supposed to be a mea culpa. Of sorts.
Now, it’s just words.
My poem, “Cannibal 2,” is in Subliminal Interiors. You can read it here.
This is the “after” version of my “before”.
I told myself I won’t write a ghazal.
And then, I thought of you.
And then, I had to write.
My poem, “Ghazal of Desire,” is in Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Cure. You can read it here.
P.S. This is my first poem that flirts with poetic structure.
Dreams are for dreamers. Sometimes, they don’t come true.
My shortest short fiction to date (it’s exactly 3 lines long!), “Dreamer,” is now in One Forty Fiction. Read it here.
*Poison Cup by M. Ward.
You meet a stranger for coffee. It’s not a date.
Coffee leads to dinner.
Dinner leads to Saturday night plans.
Saturday night leads to Sunday morning.
And a few more meetings.
And then, you say your goodbyes. You fly off to another country. A month later, he will be gone too.
There are six months to kill.
There are no promises made. No commitments. Zilch expectations.
But you guys keep in touch. Talk often (He doesn’t want you for a pen pal). Skype for hours and stare at each other’s faces.
Then he says something and messes up. Makes you angry (and breaks your heart). You slip up just to prove a point (and end up hurting him).
Then you guys become strangers. Formal and superficial.
You miss him. But you seal your lips (and try and seal your heart too).
There are four more months to kill.
Happy Valentine’s Day.
Two of my (love) poems, “In Transit” and “Respectable,” are in the February issue of Red River Review (To read, click on February 2012 issue, and check out #73 and #78).
DISCLAIMER: If you are expecting gooey declarations of undying love, mush, butterflies in your stomach or happy endings, this is not it.
Love is cheap. As disposable as toilet paper. Even underwear has a longer shelf life.
Everyone wants to be in love. Liars, all. What they are really after is the idea of being in love. It’s a game, really. The Love Game.
My flash fiction, “The Love Game,” was published by Daily Love today (you can read it here). I don’t know why. There is nothing love(ly) about it.
When I was a little girl living in Calcutta, I learnt how to make paper boats. I suppose it was one of those things you pick up as a child. You become adept at making boats and aeroplanes from notebook paper in-between classes. My fascination with making “art” out of paper extended to the point where I became slightly obsessed with origami at some point. I suppose the fleeting nature of such art attracted me greatly. Just like one becomes enamoured with the short-lived rose.
Nowadays, I play with words in the hope that they will last beyond the page. Beyond the reading. And perhaps, beyond me.
My poem, “Paperboat Promises,” was published in The Montucky Review today. You can read it here.
I read Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origins of the Sublime and Beautiful in my third year undergrad Romantics class. For the misguided, no, this was not a class on love. The Romantic era refers to a time period in literary history that saw a reactionary revolt against the industrial revolution in the latter half of the 18th century in Europe. Most noted poets who come to mind are Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth.
But back to Burke. His concept of sublime never quite left my consciousness. The idea of extreme ecstasy coupled with extreme pain. The ultimate moment of sublime. To me, unending longing can create this moment in infinite loops.
So, I wrote a poem. Deconstructed sublime, as I saw fit.
My poem, “Sublime,” is now in Red Poppy Review. You can read it here.
A taste for the morbid. That is what I have. I entertain fantasies of death (your’s, not mine). But this one was written in a moment of delirium. That’s all I can tell you for sure.
One of my flash fiction pieces titled, “A Death Fantasy,” was published in Corvus Magazine’s launch issue. You can read it here (It’s a pdf. You might need to download it. Look for the piece under the ‘Table of Contents’.). And, feel free to comment and criticize. I won’t end up fantasizing your death. Promise.