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 ... 

Napowrimo 4 - April 4 -A Ballad About a Dream. (The Lay of Parsifal and Isabel)

There was a land called Beautiful
In which there lived Maid Isabel.
She had a dream of Parsifal,
The knight who made the maidens swoon.

Isabel was beautiful.
And Parsifal? In gold, his plume,
His armor shining, sword and chain-
Mail and buckler, helmet, hail!

Isabel did dream a dream,
A dark one that did make her scream.
Then Parsifal made with his spear
A wound that rent her fear in twain

In the dream. She then did laugh
And turned over, and slept a night.
When she awoke, the dream was gone
Strange, she forgot it next morn.

Parsifal came to that town
Where dwelt a monster like Grendel,
Fangdel who'd come once a while
To catch the maidens for Its fare.

Isabel knew she should not step out
But her mother ill, father gone to fetch wood
She had no choice but to make a short trip.
She had to go to fetch water to cook.

Isabel was near the well
When Fangdel suddenly appeared.
Tall was It, like a mountain dark.
It caught her in its paw and ran.

"Isabel," the whole town mourned
"Is stolen, ta'en to the demon's lair.
It will rape her, eat her, and then sleep,
Then come back for maids lovelorn."

Fangdel loved Isabel's face.
It set her gently down in place.
All around were dresses strewn,
Of women It had in two torn.

Isabel did faint away.
When she awoke, the beast did grunt
And groan in Its strange, fiend-tongue.
Isabel tried to slip away.

Fangdel caught her with an iron hand.
Tore off her clothes to make her repent,
Isabel flailed and Isabel wailed,
Alas, it was all to no avail!

It threw her on the floor and was
About to thrust Its bulk on her
When at Its den's foul, slimy door
Loomed the shade of Parsifal.

Like the sun on a murky day
Busting through in silver light
Like an answer to silent prayer
Bright gleamed the well-armed Parsifal

Parsifal did draw his spear,
Sharp its tip and long its reach.
A dreadful wound he struck Fangdel
Who ne'er had known the bite of steel

Fangdel thrashed and Fangdel roared
But the spear had gone deep in his heart
He died in a pool of black, fell blood
Parsifal watched with no delight

Then he turned to Isabel
And gently raised her up to stand
Where the monster had bit her
Was a wound that would kill her

For Its fangs were poison
By them It made Its victims still
Parsifal took out his trusty spear
And cleaned her wound, while she stood still

The wound was in her shoulder bare
Her face, it was surpassing fair
Parsifal gazed upon its grace
She longed for him to kiss her, there

For was not now her dream fulfilled?
Parsifal, with his golden plume
Knight of the Spear was before her
In splendid disarray, her fair

Bosom, trembling, beating, aware
From fear now to love's passion stirred
Parsifal stood watching the wound
Healing; he bore a magic spear

It could kill and it could heal
Its story has elsewhere been told
This is not the tale of that Holy Grail
But of Parsifal and Isabel

If found in such a predicament
Who can blame a knight, if he yields
To such fair temptation's bands
In such evil surroundings?

For she, to him, seemed like a star
In lust's dusty, dingy, gloomy cellar
And he wanted to kiss her bare
Shoulder and all her cares, away!

Parsifal took Isabel in his arms
Embraced and took her on that floor
Where the monster had wanted to rape her sore
Surrounded by women who had died there in gore.

Surrounded by their dresses, and stink,
Surrounded by their skeletons.
Life asserting itself in the midst of death.
Love asserting itself in the midst of hate.

His spear entered her woman-cup.
It shed its seed and did its part
In making sure the world would have
A new generation of brave folk.

Then Parsifal did kiss her hands
And Isabel did kiss his lips.
Then Parsifal did kiss her eyes
And her sweet, soft, milk-white thighs

When they looked up, the town-folk had come
They led them to the marriage hall
Parisfal left her,  after they wed.
A child roams the town now who resembles him.

She wields the spear wondrous well.

Fangdel

Isabel of Portugal by Titian

Parsifal of /fromWagner

Napowrimo 4 - April 3 - The Battle of the Sexes (Rhymes and near rhymes, without using Rhymezone)

"No one can win the battle of the sexes as there is too much fraternizing with the enemy"

Women complain if men have wars
They also complain if men love fast cars
When they notice the man is still wet behind the ears
It becomes the cause for much of their tears

Women hate it to see men sitting around doing nothing
Nothing is not what they're doing, they're watching somebody's thong
They are also waiting for the dinner gong
They are wondering when the bell for it will toll

Women cannot understand the male of the species
Just as men cannot stand under or step down in this thesis
As to who is better or worse, as down the ages
No one will win the battle of the sexes
Men are too busy playing football
Women, in trying to take away their balls!

I could go on with this silly poem
Endlessly and say men: corona 'em or crown 'em
Men: as Kings of the jungle and all -
But my wife and daughters read 'em
My lame rhymes and havin' see'd 'em
Will brain me if I don' admit de wimmin, dey do stand taller or as tall!

(The famous Newsweek picture of Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs)

Napowrimo Day 2 - Nanthencode Then (a poem on a specific place/time/space or locality)

"....take a page or leaf from James Schuyler's chapbook (Pulitzer Prize winner) and write a poem about a specific place —  a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details, like street names, distances (“three and a half blocks from the post office”), the types of trees or flowers, the color of the shirts on the people you remember there. Little details like this can really help the reader imagine not only the place, but its mood – and can take your poem to weird and wild places."


Poem 2.1.

Nanthencode Then

Although we no longer stay at Nanthencode
O junction 'tis of thee
I sing
My childhood memory
From and of its rich paucity
Your small side-road of a mud path from my first rented house
- Not being rich, it was a small house
That was my paradise
But it was the junction that was my palace -
That led to the butcher's shop
No longer there
Where hung slabs of pink-reddish chunks of meat
On hooks
Where first I saw blood, innards, and bone
And skulls of cows
Thankachen's shop in the center of the junction from which we always bought provisions
Sugar, salt, parippu, payaru, sweets, rice, and wheat....
Whose youngest brother was Unni who was my age
O junction, you had your drunkard MR (Radha, short for Radhakrishnan)
And your own version of the village idiot or madman in Oollen Paakkaren
You had your vegetable shop which also had cycles for rent and two small ones for children, one red and one green, as if just for me and my sister
Next to it was the ration kada with its green planks to shut it with and the sacks of rice,  kerosene in cans, wheat and kadala in rough brown sacks
And murukkaan kada
Your tea shop  just next to the small bus stop that was only two pillars and a tin-roof
With its brass samovar to make tea
And your miller and his shop, whose son was the locatough
Venu who was always good to me
You had your dhobi whose son Vinod was a madcap
But friendly with me
The dhobi who ironed with red coals in his isthiripetti
You had your Mao building! Imagine that, these days!
You had your center as a  circle with its flags
You had a locksmith's shop and forge
And a toddy shop
You had your Western bakery
With Binu and Biju who came to my mom for tuition for all subjects
With cream-filled cornets, plum cakes, and bread so soft it would melt in our mouths
Who studied, worked and were my friends too
Next to the bakery was Shivan's barber-shop and nearby an old rickety wooden staircase we loved to climb led to the kind tailor's shop we loved to go to
Fascinated by the many sewing machines in there, the zips, the differently-colored buttons, and his measuring tape
O junction with your one mangy brown stray of a street dog and many stray cats
O junction, you are my Malgudi
My Wessex, you are my Tbilisi!
My junction, yet never mine only!
Junction of my mornings, sunshine-noons, evenings, twilights and my nights
I immortalize you in this poem and in my story
Titled aptly "The Junction"
Not as you are now
But as you were then!
In my mind, you have not aged!
Babu's vegetable shop that came later is not a part of you
By this crazy logic
But the Mar Thoma church of the faction that split away (Evangelical) is!
Junction, I have you in me
And every detail is of importance to me
Vimal's cows let out in the daytime
And each post and their yellow, dim, lights at night
A symphony of sounds, smells, and colors
Shapes, touch, sights, and tastes
Fantasies and dreams!
O small junction, 'tis of thee
(Not the one in Google maps
Or the one as it stands today)
I sing my ode, forsooth!
I sing my elegy!

Nanthencode Now (unrecognizable and leaving me strangely unmoved!)

Napowrimo April 1 Prompt 2 Self Portrait

Prompt: "Today, however, I’d like to challenge you to write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances. For example, bowling, or shopping for socks, or shoveling snow, or teaching a child to tie its shoes."

The metaphor for my life is something
no one ever talks about
except once when Judith Butler did it when I was lecturing on radicalism
and extremism in art
She came up front and spoke of it
She said it is something everyone does
but no one talks of
as they are ashamed to
but talking of it is my idea of being radical.
Maybe it was suggested by the synaesthetic metaphor
generator, I could say, and try to cover up 
but it is not as I had already planned to use it earlier
This is organic imagery
You have to guess what I am talking of as to say it
may make you think
but who would use that as a metaphor
You would not unless you felt it was like that
life
your life
something that has to be hidden 
then comes out and grows unexpectedly
and leaves a mess behind
Pleasure, then sleep
and children born
but mostly it is wasted
most of it
tonnes of it
What else is a metaphor, better
for life
my life
and wondering if I was a woman
and was writing of this as the metaphor
for her life
life
how it would be
and knowing that one cannot ever know
that
but this one can know
I need to break the suspense
or the ice
whichever you think is better
so let me tell you
what my metaphor is
it is nothing but
that my life
life 
is 
a lot like -
but before that
it is not such a low-down, cheap, dirty, filthy one; after all
I can make it sound great
by saying 
some worship it
and the explosion can be compared 
to the Big Bang
still & all 
one never talks of it
but let me be
radical
or extreme
or dare to be a fool
joker, clown, harlequin
on April Fool's Day
and say
my life
(your life?)
life
the perfect metaphor for it
an action, as the prompt says,
that describes it a hundred percent
is the most-people-do-it thing 
but never-discuss-it thing
which is nothing but the act of -
masturbation.

Painting of Natalia  by Schiavonni.

Napowrimo Day 1 April 1 First prompt Synaesthetic metaphor generator

A Five-finger Exercise to Fulfill a (Silly?) Prompt

We talk
She talks
I talk
of poetry
Discourse
turns to intercourse
In the future it will cum
to Be Di eS uM
when "the padded whistles
of emission
nebulae."

Napowrimo 1 March 31st Early Bird Poem

My early bird poem - Napowrimo 1 Koshy AV

THE SAUDI SPARROW

Lord of the tower,
the tower of the quarantine,
how are you building it
so you remain happy?

Asker, so fair,
I build it each day
listening to the birds
outside my window

Yesterday, caught sight
from my bathroom window
of a single sparrow
playing in the niche of the air conditioner
ventilator's netted metal cover
with its yellow plastic frame
in the building, opposite
outside, in the sun
happily
& smiled ...
anon

It's never lonely
in the quarantine tower.

SEVEN POEMS BY AMBIKA TALWAR - A VERY FINE POET

AMBIKA TALWAR is an India-born author, wellness consultant, artist, and educator whose vision is to realize her sacred destiny and invite you to your brilliance. As a poet of ecstatic verse, her poetry is a “bridge to other worlds.” Some publications include: CQ-California Quarterly; Collateral Damage; Grateful Conversations; Kyoto Journal; Chopin with Cherries; On Divine Names; St. Julian Press; Tower Journal; Tebot Bach; VIA-Vision in Action; in Poets on Site collections; Life and Legends, and others.  She authored 4 Stars & 25 Roses (poems for her father) and My Greece: Mirrors & Metamorphoses, a poetic-spiritual travelogue that probes what is our human purpose in a roving personal and mythical narrative. This book is on Amazon.

She won the Best Original Story award for her film “Androgyne” in Belgium. She asserts it is time for creative visionaries to offer narratives that change our worldview, and the big film studios must play a part in this transformation.
               She also offers group healing workshops noting that poetry and healing go well together for language is deeply coded in our cells. Her intuitive and subtle healing practices achieve rapid results for clients ready for change.  Loving this work, she says in these fascinating troubling times, we must call in our best possible resilient self. 

               An English professor at Cypress College, she lives in Los Angeles, Ca and New Delhi, India.  And when she can, she picks up her paints and enjoys play of color, a  pleasure for which she wishes to have more time.

All rights reserved by the author.

Doors: Nothing is Ever Lost

~ Ambika Talwar

Minarets come into being with the drumming. Three claps – She arrives. Goddess of radiance slowly crumbles illusions.  We surrender to her hideous smile. Dropping aged cloaks, we move into our bliss. Her mien changes form and expression; her limbs contort then gracefully weave matrix of all that is.

In such hush lush, we find our stillness, we find our center, we find dance of grace. Her beatific eyes bring us to ecstasy. Thusly, Shiva comes alive, rocks to mountains to galaxies. Such beauty of the terrifying wanders into our ache-less minds, stirring awe. 

No more sacrifice, Beloveds – a dying paradigm – now is way of cosmic wonder. Flowers dance on shoulders of mountains...white on Mondays...yellow on Thursdays. Lavender sage tulsi musk permeate edges of rivers where water comes to rest.

Drumming ripples until dawn cracks open egg of sky.  My eyes take in vast turmoil of time; rivers of light pour through my dark corners like sweetest joy, as Gratitude for this wonder impregnates cosmos!

I ask, I command: Show me more!

Three galaxies emerge ... far there.  Here in my heart gazing into stillness are eyes of deer golden-brown with desire where floats a full moon, silver-white unyielding...! She rises in love that has no other way but to be itSelf fully. Irreducible. Irrevocable. Luminous wonder walks ground of being until nothing is left—nothing can be. This is gateway of all promise—nothing is ever lost.

Fallen leaves stir soul

as moonlight skirts footfall

doors creak open –

Walk through Beloved

to hinterland of wonder

let love prick your burns

Ready to be skinned

alive? Fool! Drop the mountain

Sit by small silent stone.

#

(April 2018)

 Three Ells

~ Ambika Talwar

     ~ after photograph of Japanese red maple

Am walking these leaves
embers of wise voices
muted cicadas
near where a river runs
whipper-twittering of a single bird
slices air
in-an-instant auburn reds
meld in gold

My heart is afired
wandering between gullies
mulch making continues
reminds me of Kabir's potter
who makes dust of whom

How much space and time
dance between each lick of flame
each particle
becoming a window
each breath a raaga
music of loss of longing of love
Three ells which mark
our days from end to end

as maple woods change gold
to blackish driftwood

hanging in the sky
between my glances
where you reside

Where spirit becomes flesh

crimson vermilion crashes across blue

I linger gazing at sage-like trees

my toes fresh out of freezing

river currents glare at my hesitations.

#

(11 Nov. 2018)

Night's Silent Aroma

~ Ambika Talwar

Camphor of night pervades my waking
moments as mingled thoughts of you

swing into view tied to tender habits

Moon's single ray a silver cord

measures distances – one end swallowed
by old sun's burn. With eyes closed

I recall camphor of night's breath
when smiling you held my face as smoke filled         
borrowed room with scattered rose petals.

We slipped we sank on gold-green lawns
as sunlight traveled momentarily laughing
along our silhouetted undulation sinking

into night's silent aroma...

You hummed into my heart's crevices

made me forego a step so I lose balance

Doors shatter these days wildly opening

to directions hidden – as a cleaved heart shies

far somewhere between ache-less stars

#

(12 Sept. 2019)

 Losses Into Treasures

~ Ambika Talwar

My father - dear glorious one.

How do you fare so far away?  I am

readying for another visit to

a distant home. I miss you as mad

earth who contains all our stories.

Your absence so palpable – even trees

bend to gaze in my eyes; in these presences

I gather riches of your wise brown eyes

I wrote of wild moons ago.

Some riches are borne of loss – all losses

become treasures – not yours not now

maybe tomorrow. I cannot shed pain

of my lostness of you.

Wild orange blue bird-like flower courses

through my domain – walls wither.

There are no excuses for not speaking

tongues of love.  Moments of eternal stories

gather moss strung in my heart’s eyes.

I must speak of them now. To you.

Tales from my little days – as teen years

pulled me tall. My injured hand,

shy smile, falling star – maker of tea.
I could never say them aloud; power of silence

of shutting had me captured with tales

of she's too much.

Find out now – how too much I am

I love too much to come close…

you with the grand trine in the skies

that mirrors mine – Stargazers have told me

But I could tear apart the sky looking

for you – to tell a story a day for 100 years.  

Your palms bruised curved ridges

disappear into a lost horizon –

I search – my shadow walks behind me… 

Your voice remembers.

#

(11 Nov. 2018)

Wound: Point of Origins

~ Ambika Talwar

for Rumi’s 'The wound is the place where the Light enters you.'  

If the wound is the place where light enters through,

then I am shot with white and gold;

I pulse infinitely in geometric patterns.

If the wound is point of origins,

the gate after gate of heaven, then my body-being

must be the paradise I had quite forgotten.


I ask for that wholeness to enwrap me

beyond time and fragmentation.

If wound you speak of is a paradigm of welcome,

then I am that curtain that parts and all light subsumes

my all and you – for what is a repast made of?

If wound is a cry of longing, then light is that love

that makes me whole and you.  Stitches us up

with sutures beyond skin – nerves enlivening

even passersby waiting for a sip of rain.

This bird of my heart sings, so I be not

forgotten, nor the hem of my skirt.

#

(21 July 2015)

Oh Poets! Oh Travelers!

~ Ambika Talwar

Poet! What makes your heart hum?

Your travels tipple across time whose breath

a cosmic silk thread is a stitch in your palm…

whose words and silence, dew and raindrops

carpet lands you traverse – cliffs riffs rocks

under mulch, fragrance of jasmine, a stolen walnut?

Five syllables from a running squirrel who emerges

after season has slept, then awakes in mating –

from shore to shore aquiver because that is how

you describe the waves and the shivering.

Sometimes, it is just because you are wordless

your feet bleed on morning dew

skin is cracked deserts.

Your eyes darken like flowers at night

as shadows that called you to journey – the ache

beckons, disappearing, then reappearing.

How you hungered for the hungry

to realize you were the famished one

eating words that fall from witnessing oak.

Stop the shivering – stillness like satin milk

makes the paper you write on an epic of your fingernails

mean something:

light of syllabary – coat of love, a favorite shirt

muslin of ancient lands, fathers, mothers

parchment, rice paper made by hand

numb smarting fingers that tear leaves into pools

of water to make an inkwell... Water for your travels

is wisdom enough to laugh white teeth in sunlight.

Same way river runs on by.  Desire turns

her head – sees you kneeling.

#

(4 Dec. 2012)

Night Sky Hum
~ Ambika Talwar

        Eyes open wide
        Kuan Yin adorns laddered night
        stars wonder and asterisk…


When my being weaves in night sky hum
a kind of rest subsumes my skin -
I feel a tension between wishing to curl away
or pry my eyes open to see, do, know more.
My head spins in wonder as a poem
becomes memory – will I recall these lines?
One stitch ladders through weaves of night…
I cannot sleep until I shed leaves of gratitude

A summer tree springs with turning of season
singed aria - sudden wind swifts inward
tremors of gratefulness; I wish each finger-tip
mark a wing on 1,000 poems
Beauty of this world wraps a blanket on my bones
satin strings hum a lullaby, but I resist
for I might lose a verse or two – I wish…
I wish I could smell you

I surrender my feelings to lull - for I feel so full...
tender bed turns my curling toes and hair

May sweet night's gentle dreams fall
upon your tensile curving frame –
listen to drum of your heart beat
even if mine is so far away…
#

(24th Sept. 2017)

Sites: http://www.patreon.com/goldenmatrixvisions

http://www.creativeinfinities.com

https://smile.amazon.com/My-Greece-Mirrors-Metamorphoses-Discover/dp/1937207234/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=My+Greece%2C+Mirrors&qid=1576475188&sr=8-1