Napowrimo 13 Elizabeth and Darcy (the untold story of how she stole his heart)

Elizabeth and Darcy (the untold story of how she stole his heart)

Now that I am old I can tell you the true story
Like Kate Winslett did in that movie
That came later, much after my time
On how her ship was sunk
And all she was left with was a stone
When Wickham was talking I was looking at his ruffles
They were more in number than Mr. Bingley's
I don't like men whose names end in hams or start with Binges
By the way, do you?
It's so much more romantic if they end with sea
As in you know who's does.
My smile grew wider though he was such a proud oaf
Seeing how his wristwatch perfectly mantled o'er his wrist
And his pocket-handkerchief peek(p)ed out of his pocket
So white, so delicious, like a little white mouse-head
His breeches were like the arches of some churches
So stylish, I mean; don't get me wrong, he wasn't bow-legged
And his shirt, coat, and weskit were all impeccable
Like the sun and the rain on a picnic hospitable
In a cummerbund or bow-tie, he'd still be resplendent
His biceps would win any battle of the bulge
And his grounds and mansion were ideally large
Fully to my taste
How could I get off the barge?
Barge, what barge, you may be thinking?
Has she had one too many of the large?
No, I am just being metaphoric
Didn't Raleigh and another Elizabeth sail in a barge?
Suffice it to say, soon I found him unbend
In my mind's eye, all prejudice spent
One day - not written off in the book-
When no one was looking I kissed his pride
and whispered in his ear
Darcy, my dear
Tell no one, but your name ending with 'sea'
has quite clinched it for me
Poor Lydia and Jane can have their hams and binges
I choose you, if you'll have me, I'm thine
Taken aback by my passionate kiss
He quickly rallied
and - not written in the book -
put his hand
(this I blushingly confess)
in my bosom
This did my prejudice entire
take away, if any was left.
He knew how to steal my
shame-faced mien away
to a bolder glance, to his unquestioned sway
while I stole his millions and his nights
(This will, I thought, thrilled, also put paid to Mr. Collins)
that day, happy, as I wanted badly
to know where his hand would go next if left to stray!

Not-a-triolet - a savage deconstruction

A crazy form called triolet -

Its name sounds a lot like toilet -

is a cheat. You write five lines

and three of them you cut and paste

to say you wrote an eight-line poem!

Then you pat yourself on the back

as if you did something great

after filling in the rhyme with words like marmoset

or worse still, ones like flibbertigibbet! 

Theft in the Time of Corona

Theft in the Time of Corona - with Aakriti Kuntal (thanks)

Helpless in the tide from
the oceans of my mind
where the homeless trudge
back to nowhere, trepanned
the blood roaring in my ears

The waves wash up the bodies of the children, tattooed
By death

I steal
away from the images
crowding
inside
to resemble
the living dead

The river, at another bend
grows drinkable
and swallows swoop
on the red sunset
to peck out its heart
as if echoing the dreams
and cries of the mute
who will never know, now
crisis again
resting in the arms of the ones
who went on ahead
have permanently slept
free of the scouring dis-ease
of life.

My mind
of jungled Apolemia too
longs, not for peace but rest.

My Poem Black Dove translated into Italian by Santa Vetturi

‎Santa Vetturi‎ द्वारा Let's Hug The World With Poetry

21 मार्च को 1:04 अपराह्न बजे

Ricevo questa prosa poetica dal dottor Ampat Koshy, che lavora presso l'Università di Jazan, in Arabia Saudita, mentre la sua famiglia è rimasta nella città d'origine, Bangalore, in India.

HOPE

Someone working abroad worried about his wife and children waiting for him.
Back home in another country finds hope coming in through the window
Smiling as a gentle breeze and forgets temporarily himself and his sorrows.
Outside, but, Covid-19 hunts and hope as a black dove flies about in the sky.

SPERANZA

Qualcuno che lavora all'estero è in ansia per la moglie e i figli che lo aspettano.
Con il pensiero a casa, in un altro paese sente la speranza entrare attraverso la finestra
sorridendo come una leggera brezza e dimentica temporaneamente se stesso e i suoi dolori. Fuori, però,
il Covid 19 va a caccia e la speranza come una colomba nera
vola nel cielo.

Napowrimo 13 April 13 The day I stole Santosh Bakaya away ( "Unbeknownst to her she was stolen, and how")

I have met them at the close of day
coming home from their work
looking tired, and wanted to say
Hey, lovelies, look at me

and put a smile on your face
You look enchanting e'en more
When tired at the end of the day
or sprouting at the gates

like forlorn, desolate lilies
waiting for the husband, daughter or son
to come back to make life less dull
and bring in some end-of-day cheer

I had stolen many of their hearts
I had stolen a Malayalam textbook
I had stolen my father's stamp album once
I am quite an accomplished thief

But all agree on such a dismal, dark day
I stole Santosh Bakaya away
to the Lidder to live in two small white cottages or tents
for we had two novels to write and then read

out to each other
on the banks of the river Lidder
I stole her off all the way to Kashmir
Where Father Time, fairyland-like, stands still

I stole her - unbeknownst to her - quite away
I stole her clean away
I stole her clear away
I stole her, soft and quick, away

The temperature might have dropped in the mouth
of the instrument that measured it that day
But not a care had I in the world
as I had stolen Santosh away

All the way to the Lidder
to read her novel, and write
mine and read it to her
in wit, humour and dazzling wordplay

It was winter when we got there
spring went by and summer
and then came autumn
and we were still

scribbling madly away
For when two mad people start writing
they never stop for a day
and the pages keep up piling

and the novels getting longer
day by night by day
night by day by night
day by night by day

We may never finish these novels
but we read it out each day
at the end of it to each other
on the banks of the Lidder, I say!

I have hardly seen her since here
except when we emerge
each evening to read them out
our novels and then retreat

I have met them at the close of day
My characters and her characters
Willy-nilly, mixing and talking
at the end of each such day!

By the side of the river
with the backdrop of lush green mountains
under clear blue skies
with the sounds of the rushing foaming swirling white waters

In a place called Pahalgam
in Jammu and Kashmir
where the peace is unbroken
in a 'novel' lockdown.

They come out from two small white cottages or tents
and dance in the pale moonlight
with the devil or without him;
her characters and mine.

Napowrimo 12 April 12 (Off the Prompt) Jesus

As triolets don't interest me let me write on Jesus, it being Easter.

Some say he didn't exist
Some say he was just a man
Some say his grave is found in Kashmir
Some say, in Jerusalem

To the Jews he was the false Messiah/the false Christ
To the Christians he is Lord
To the Muslims he is a prophet
To the Hindus one more God

Some say he was in India
Where he learned to walk on water
From the art of hatha yoga
And how to resurrect the dead

Some say he was in England
Some say that he was gay
Some say he was a woman
Some say that he took 'shrooms

But the Jesus that I met and know
Is none of all these things
He is both much simpler and deeper
And not deciphered by false runes

Some say he is resurrected
And ascended to the skies,
Will come back to judge the quick and the dead
With his saints and rapture his Bride

Then there will come the final reign
Of His, and peace on earth
and in heaven, both made new
With every tear wiped

And that's who I believe he is
As that's what gives me hope
To strive down here, below, now
To make things better for this world.

Inspired by Larry Norman for the form.

Jesus and Mary Magdalene whom he revealed himself to first after the resurrection

Napowrimo 11 April 11 The Language of Flowers

Part 1

The Flowers of Childhood

The red rose bush
The white jasmines
Mulla pookkal and kudamulla pookkal
And the roadside flowers
Touch-me-nots and forget-me-nots
The smaller, the better
Whites and yellows, reds and blue
The clusters the hummingbirds came to drink honey from
With their standing-stillness-whirring wings
With my sister trying to explain to me
The names I never remembered
My mother put the love of flowers in me
Even now they remind me
Of Gray and Wordsworth simultaneously
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen"
In forest or glade and valley and by tower
"And waste its sweetness on the desert air"
But "oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
And then my heart," again, "with pleasure
Fills and dances with the flowers
Of my childhood and gives me peace"

Part 2 The Flowers of Ideology

My mother read me Toru Dutt
but was wiser than the poet
for she told me to love the rose,
the lily, and the lotus - all,
not to make a fight of it,
For in the world they all three live
thrive
spread their grace
and do not care that men have made
them symbols to fight with
I follow my mother and
so equality always praise.

Part 3 The Flowers of Art

The flowers of art
like the love of God
are wider, deeper, longer, broader
higher than any man can grasp
Here there's a place for all the flowers
Ophelia's sad ones and also plastic, or cloth ones
Alice's talking and acting/dancing flowers
Flowers in vases and Venus fly-traps
I want to write the Revenge of the Flowers
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme
"The flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryears"
Singing ones, to put it briefly
Here flowers come into their own
Here they have their own language
Here they have not only a glossary
They have their own litany and epiphany

Painting: Vincent Van Gogh, 3 Sunflowers, Still life.

Quotes from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray and I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud by Wordsworth, sometimes popularly referred to as Daffodils.

A Translation of my Poem into Bengali by Lopa Banerjee from USA

"Honored and more than that touched and moved beyond words by Lopa Banerjee who is a great writer now in her own right translating my intensely personal poem into Bengali <3 font=""> Will never forget this gesture of love, dear Lopa."

Lopa  Banerjee  is with, Santosh Bakaya and Ampat Koshy.

March 27 at 9:53 AM

During grim times as these, hopeful that at least we are privileged with a roof over our heads, food on our plates and the succor of books, literature, creativity which is not only our food for thought but also the inspiration and the stimulus to carry on with our everyday lives, despite the grueling reminder of death and devastation ...

My humble Bengali translation of the English poem 'It Hurts Me', by Dr. Ampat Koshy , a prolific poet and scholar of contemporary Indian English literature. He has been my creative writing mentor since 2014 and I can't describe how happy I am to share this little gift with him.

4

আমি আহত হই
ঠিক যখন আমি ভাবি
কিভাবে তুমি বন্দী একটি দেহের বেড়াজালে, শব্দহীন.
হয়তো আমি আহত হই তোমার অপেক্ষা আরো বেশি.
অশ্রুর দুচোখে ধারাস্নান
ভাবি, যখন আমি যাই দূরে সরে, কিভাবে
তুমি বোঝাতে পারো না বোবা যন্ত্রণা
আমি জানতে পারি না, না জানবো কখনো
তোমার কাতর অনুভূতি Kkk
আর তার পর, সেই দিনটির কথা মনে আসে
যখন প্রিয়তমের প্রস্থান হয় চিরস্থায়ী,
বক্ষ সংকুচিত হয় ভাষাহীন আর্তনাদে
অশ্রু ঝরে যায় তীরবেগে,
তখন-ও, যখন আমি প্রার্থনা করি, আমি যেন প্রথম না হই,
বা তুমি, বা সে, বা
তার তাা সার

যদিও জানি, সে প্রার্থনা মন্জুর হবার নয়.
তাই আশায় আশায় থাকি, হয়তো কোনোদিন এমন আসবে—
তুমি যাবে প্রথম, তারপর সে, তারপর আমি.
কিন্তু প্রকৃতির এই হয়তো খেয়াল,
জানি তার অমোঘ বিধান.
প্রথম প্রস্থান আমার, তারপর তার, তারপর তোমার.

একথা ভেবে ভেবে আমি কুঁকরে যাই
দু চোখের অশ্রু মুছে যাই নিরুপায়,
এই বহমান স্রোতে, মনে হয়
আমাদের ছিল আরো, আরো উপায় ...
কিন্তু সত্যিই, ছিল না.

Original poem in English: It hurts me

It hurts me
only when I think of you
trapped in a body
wordless

Maybe it hurts me more than it does you?

The tears fall from my eyes
like torrential rain
thinking of how
when I go away
you cannot express -
I cannot ever know -
what you feel, then
and when I return
you cannot express -
I cannot ever know -
what you feel, again
and then , thinking of that one day
when one goes away to stay
my chest constricts more
my tears fall faster
even as I pray
that I will not be the one to, first
or you
or she or them
but it may all happen together
though I know such prayers are not answered
so I hope again, that it may happen the other way
you first, then she and then I
but if it goes the way of nature
then I know it will go thus
I first, then she, then you

Thinking of that
I get upset
but do not know what to do
except to wipe my eyes
go on
as if
there is a choice
when there never was one.

Poem source:

https://koshyav.blogspot.com/2015/

Photograph of Lopa Banerjee who is a creative writing teacher in the USA as well as a writer of fiction and non-fiction and of poetry and a translator of repute.

April 10 Napowrimo 10 GOOD FRIDAY (a verse play, in hay(na)kus )

Part 1 Mother Mary speaks:
I
remember you
As a child

That
Day on
The white sand

Making
Those pigeons
From the mud

And
when the
children came to

Destroy
mud pigeons
how you clapped

And
they came
to life, escaped

Flew
in the
sky, cross-shaped

An
awful foreboding
filled my heart

Today
you died
on the cross

I
wish I
was you, child

I
would clap
my hands, now

Make
my dove
alive, once again

My
tears
do fall down

Where
is God
or Gabriel now?

Is
this what
the end is?

No.
There must
be something more.

Part 2 Mary Magdalene speaks:

A
week ago
the children came

Waving
palm branches
and singing Hosanna

yesterday
you spoke
in dark sayings

Eat
my flesh!
Drink my blood!

Now
you hang
and are dead

Come
Get up
You freed me

Once
from devils
in my head

Where
is that
you, gone now?

My
tears once
washed your feet

The
same ones
now nail-pierced

I
perfumed you
with the spikenard

She
has done
this, you said

Against
my death
Now I see

What
you meant
Wish I didn't!

Part 3

Jesus:

I
wish I
could tell them

Hanging
here 'twixt
heaven and earth/hell

With
the keys
of death, hell

Paradise
Heaven and
souls of men

Dead
and alive
now all mine

But
it is
not yet time

It
ends not
Has just begun.

Painting: Christ of S.t John of the Cross by Salvador Dali (The Dark Night of the Soul)

Napowrimo 9 Concrete Poem Well, not really (Title: Beauty, she is!)

The pleasure of writing on the back of a nude, sketched, female figure ;) (Title: Beauty, she is!)

Her wavy hair
eyes
nose
lips
her curving back
her hips
her moons of bliss
her thighs
her legs
Beauty, she is!


Image taken from Vectorstock

NaPoWriMo 8 April 8 Poem inspired by quotes etc. Title: Goodbye, Dad and Mom

Goodbye, Dad and Mom

"I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew." - Sylvia Plath

"Oh, Daddy,

You know you make me cry" -  Fleetwood Mac

"Mother, do you think they'll try to break my balls?

....

Mama's gonna make all your nightmares come true.
Mama's gonna put all her fears into you.
Mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing.
She won't let you fly"...  Pink Floyd

When they came for me

they told me

"you are one of us.

Your ancestors

were from our religion.

Why did you leave us?

Come back home.

Don't try to convert us

We have the answers for that

No one can leave us

No one join us

And even among us

No one can go up the ladder

No one can climb down

'Nothing has changed since we began.

Our eyes have permitted no change.
We are going to keep things like this.'

You can't convert us

But, you "Jew"

you just try

&

your Daddy and Mommy will soon fix you.

Don't you know

we have answers for everything?

Your questions may be different, but change them, do.

Is your body weak?

Do Yoga.

Are you ill?

Try Ayurveda

or siddha vaidyam

and you will be fine.

Want no rebirth?

Go to Kailasa.

Is your soul sick?

Read the Bhagwad Gita.

Mind not enlightened?

Come to Vedanta.

Heart sick?

Embrace the bhakti marga.

Searching for mukthi?

Try our yukthi.

Don't call this conversion or baptism.

This is just cultural immersion.
Who was it said "Change is the immutable law in Nature"
So help us, Ram, we will kill that fellow!

Oh, dad and mom

lost in your chakravyuh

don't you know

the world has changed around you?

Anything you say

I don't have

as it is found

only in you

I found it all

outside too

Thomas the Apostle had it

and Thomas of Cnana

The Antiochians too

Siddhartha had it

The Sufis had it

Kabir did too

Akbar had it

& Asoka too

What can you give me

when what's lost has been found

what's to come has already been

that was not bought and paid for 

by the blood of the Lamb

when Mara fled when Buddha laughed

when Nanak spoke and many left

Hinduism and Islam 

when Zen and Tao is still there

when Confucius still speaks, though dead

what can you give me

except this lore

that this is my land

and it all began here

which is also not really true

It began in Africa, you know, you knew

and all land is holy and all land not (y)ours

we are its, and that the 'Redskins' knew
We have our own music
We don't need yours
Our own art, our own songs, and lyrics
Our own literature and culture too
Our own architectural spaces to woo
Do you want health for the body and medicine for its ailments?
We can give it to you too
through medicine, science, knowledge, research and reason now, anew
Do you want salvation
for the spirit?
Balm for the soul?
Enlightened mind?
Heart full of light and hope?
Intellectual thoughts to feed your mind,
Keep it satisfied?
It's all in our books, lit up in blue
Daddy, even escaping rebirth.
Don't give me the superior caste brew.
Truth is concave, convex and universal/global/international.
Daddy, for an instant, think of this:
If you were not there what would happen to Bliss?
Sat-chit-anandam?
Nothing would, it can't be added to
or taken from, don't you know, daddy dear?
That's the truth about any land
or religion or faith or caste/creed.
A world without us or a world without you?
Life would still go on, never fear!
Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.
Kind King Lear, don't cry, Cordelia still loves you.
One day, too late, you'll know only I/she was loyal and true to you. 

"Oh, Daddy,

won't you give me your smile

for letting me know"

"I'm a bit of a Jew"

Oh, Mother,

Don't fool me anymore

Your little boy's grown up

and he's no Oedipus.

He don't need no one, now, anymo'
to tell him right from wrong.
good from bad
black from white
Eenie meenie mini mo
He ain't no nigga, no mo' you can't catch him by his toe
and say if he follows let him go, if he don't tell him no

He don't need no lies

in the name of land, caste, faith, religion, language, -sthan or -ism.
All he wants is love and fun

and compassion, grace, mercy and a bit of life under the sun.

Oh Daddy, stop fooling me with this game.

I don't speak your language

of fascism.
Open, Sesame.
I have my own discourse too.
If you want to, fit in it, please do.

Have you heard Mahavishnu Orchestra sing

"Are you ready to be

a planetary citizen?"

Give up your nationalism.

And "Mother",

stop trying to tell me

"she's dangerous."

I married her.

The one you thought

I should not,

your perceived enemy.

Now be at peace.

High time you learned

life and time flow forward,
not backward,
if you two really want to -

to find, in time, both ease and peace.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OeEzmPs7i_U

Napowrimo Day 7 April 7 (A Poem based on a news item) Wo/e/men (can) Rape Too

This is a boring prompt, for me, so I am gonna write rubbish that will shock and thrill all of you :D I've no inspiration and I am bored as hell. Planets raining iron, pink moons,  and new moons in Kentucky, and corona tragedies just don't cut it for me!

Khalil was a waiter, and we could not wait to err

We went to get a platter

From his pretty eater-

y. He came. We kid-napped the caterer

Khalil, the sexy waiter

Who said women can't

We can and we will

Took him to our house

Gave him drugged milk to drink

Then we made him shrink

Three of us, we raped him

Daily, for four days' sin

Then we threw him near the river

In Qayyumabad

We are rich, from Clifton

The men we taught a lesson

Women can also rape

The Rap we now await

From the cops of this town

Rape is always wrong

Continuing to Bosch it up :) - 2

Yes, why am I a dice?

They also say it as die

These humans

And why a five, four, two

hanging on a pitchfork

or in mid-air

and over a naked woman's head -

(to show it all is to be is diceworthy?

a woman is just an object to be gambled, a gamble?) -

bigger than my mates

on a table, three

far away from me

Why not one and three

or a six of me

me thus shown to advantage to all?

And why am I alone, denied

to rub with Lady Dice

on that brown surface

when all around me

men

and women copulate

men with women or mice

men with men

and women with women

and even men with beasts

and half-human, half machines

and birds and bees and flowers

fruits and leaves and towers

Why am I alone

left to hang here

for nothing

I can make out still,

only being a Thing?

Does not a Thing have feelings?

If you roll us don't we come to a stop?

And at the roll of a dice

are not kingdoms won and lost?

Women bartered and sold

their dresses removed and wars fought?

A dice is no mean thing

We decide destinies

At a twist of a wrist and a tumble

Give me my wish, someone

and paint over this thing

this damn painting

and put me on that table

with my six as the fable

so I can rub against

yon Lady Dice and Die.

Day 6 April Napowrimo Ekphrastic Poetry 2 The Da Vinci Goad

When I saw her, first, she was wearing a wine-dark bathrobe
and smoking a black cheroot in a long brown holder.
Drop it, Mona Lisa, I admonished her
and she did,

but the wrong thing!

Her whatsits popped out
and my eyes.
Now that was
something!
What tits she had
woulda blinded
me
if they had poked me
in my eye.

It was destiny, it was chance,
it was fate,
it was I Ching.

I started to paint
furiously
yet stopped frequently
to light her cheroot
but accidentally
trying to hide my bulge
I set her eyebrows
alight

All she did
was smile enigmatically
to hide her grimace of pain
& at my buffoonery
while I shaved them off
and set off on
the task of painting
again

The result
they say
is a masterpiece

But when she looked at it
she burst out laughing
and said
what the hell
is this mockery
all this vague scenery
behind me
my damn, missing eyebrows
and my covered-up whatsits?

Day 6 April NAPOWRIMO 6 Ekphrastic Poetry Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch

"I got some news for you, sir"

A strange-looking creature whom I could not name told me.

"What news?" I asked, grumpily.

"We got the good news and the bad noose, sah.

Which one you want first, saar?"

The exceedingly strange-looking, nameless creatures had multiplied now

And said this in unison!

"Gimme the good news first," I said, "and keep the bad noose to yourself", I continued, still grumpy.

"Wokay, sur," they cheeped or chirped or chirruped or grumbled or groaned or grunted or mumbled or roared, I could not quite make out which as it was all done together but I could understand them.

They opened a triptych.

Then they showed me Hell.

I laughed and laughed.

The teacher who beat me till I cried was there in the nude being eaten by a giant bird in a chair -

with at least four, at least, if not twenty, blackbirds flying out of his ass into the sky (not pie!)!

I could make out it was him as we used to call him Black Bird, as that name sure suited him.

The chap who stole money from me was there shitting gold coins endlessly.

Hahaha.

The chap who always made me pay for his drinks was vomiting into the bottomless pit endlessly.

The woman who had 'unrequited' my love was being held prisoner by an ass, naturally, and made to look into a polished black surface of a monster mirror with two green legs, Shrek-like ones, while a stupid black frog (once her prince) travelled up from her bare breasts to do God knows what to her brain, which she had had none of or she would not have rejected me, in the first place, and ended up in hell.

The nameless, exceeding-strange creatures showed me sight after sight like this which made me chortle like a kid.

It was the garden of earthly delights, alright!

My name? Bosch, Hieronymus Bosch.

April 5 NAPOWRIMO 20 Little Poetry Projects Black Rose

5th April

"Our (optional) prompt for today is one that we have used in past years, but which I love to come back to, because it so often takes me to new and unusual places, and results in fantastic poems. It’s called the “Twenty Little Poetry Projects,” and was originally developed by Jim Simmerman. The challenge is to use/do all of the following in the same poem. Of course, if you can’t fit all twenty projects into your poem, or a few of them get your poem going, that is just fine too!

Begin the poem with a metaphor.
Say something specific but utterly preposterous.
Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.
Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).
Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.
Use an example of false cause-effect logic.
Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).
Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . .”
Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in “real life.”
Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.
Use a phrase from a language other than English.
Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).
Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem."

Black Rose

Hate is a black rose (Metaphor)

All roses are black (Something specific but utterly preposterous)

The fragrance of jasmine (Olfactory image)

The feel of your nipples between my fingers, your accepting lips, and turned-away-at-first-cheek on my lips (Two or three tactile images)

The canny tinge of cardamom in our lovemaking (Gustatory image)

The black that excludes all blacks (Visual image)

The cacophony of the ghost's laugh in your chuckle (Auditory image)

The ventriloquism of the petals in their blossoming into the fullness (Synaesthesia)

Anamika, Bengaluru (Name, place)

Love is a black rose (Contradiction)

When my friend, the poet died (Digression)

Aveesh, that thrishooran* (Dialect for a person from Trichur)

If he hadn't died I wouldn't have loved (False cause-effect) 

If he hadn't died I wouldn't have become a poet (False cause-effect)

If he hadn't died hate would not be a black rose (False cause-effect)

Kakke, kakke, koodevide? Róisín Dubh (dialect meaning crow, crow, where is your nest in Malayalam and black rose in Irish)

Is a red love the obverse of a hate rose? (Concrete metaphor turned inverse)

Black is black is black and nothing more or less or else (Image reversing its associative qualities)

Reader, I brought Aveesh back to life and had children by Anamika, thus betraying my wife (Doing the impossible)

That Kozhy* (Nickname for hen/cock in Malayalam), he (Third person) should be hung and quartered for such treasonous, adulterous thoughts

But what if he will resurrect, (Future tense)

The womanizing bard? (Adjective that is not normally used)

Then the black rose will unbloom (A declarative assertion that finally makes no sense)

IL MIGLIOR FABBRO (A phrase from a foreign language)

Old Possum's ghost still 'haints' us while the clock hammers out our dying life with a one and a two and a one or a two, relentlessly (Personification)

The petals, blackening, mayhap, in their un-demise ... (Refers back to an earlier image but is not a statement)

Black Rose (without explanation)

Hate is a black rose

All roses are black 

The fragrance of jasmine

The feel of your nipples between my fingers, your accepting lips and turned-away-at-first-cheek on my lips

The canny tinge of cardamom in our lovemaking

The black that excludes all blacks

The cacophony of the ghost's laugh in your chuckle 

The ventriloquism of the petals in their blossoming into fullness 

Anamika, Bengaluru 

Love is a black rose 

When my friend, the poet died

Aveesh, that thrishooran

If he hadn't died I wouldn't have loved 

If he hadn't died I wouldn't have become a poet 

If he hadn't died hate would not be a black rose 

Kakke, kakke, koodevide? Róisín Dubh 

Is a red love the obverse of a hate rose? 

Black is black is black and nothing more or less or else 

Reader, I brought Aveesh back to life and had children by Anamika, thus betraying my wife (

That Kozhy, he should be hung and quartered for such treasonous, adulterous thoughts

But what if he will resurrect, 

The womanizing bard? 

Then the black rose will unbloom 

IL MIGLIOR FABBRO 

Old Possum's ghost still 'haints' us while the clock hammers out our dying life with a one and a two and a one or a two, relentlessly 

The petals, blackening, mayhap, in their un-demise ...