a superstition
finding yourself through writing
under the vastness of a starless sky,
stands my empty house of love.
oh how I used to open the blinds and
fracture the sunlight to let it admire
your freshly kissed lips, on fire.
now I guard this hollow place,
with my handpicked loneliness,
and instead of birdsong, I hear
the fading whispers of a forgotten dream.
Or the nightmares I have every night -
what if it’s just a phase?
and the benign lack of curiosity
by everyone I know
is warranted?
my sole self-defence is
a yearning that consumes me whole,
a longing so potent
it threatens to devour my soul.
and thus, I wish to be a writer
mercy me, it costs too much.
but I know all I have to do is write the right letters
and trust the words to carry me to you, again.
***
About the Creator
Mesh Toraskar
A wannabe storyteller from London. Sometimes words spill out of me and the only way to mop the spillage is to write them down.
"If you arrive here, remember, it wasn't you - it was me, in my longing, who found you."
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Serendipity
FADE IN: INT. BEDROOM - DUSK As dusk falls and I acquiesce to the arms of rest, my closing gesture is to call forth your memory. Yet, with each remembrance, your colours fade, your brilliance vanes, as if I am merely visiting the preceding night's echo, not the true memory I once held.
By Mesh Toraskar11 months ago in Poets
The Burnout Train
This poem was written in response to the Rattle® Poetry Ekphrastic Challenge for April 2024 and was ultimately not selected. You can find more information here. https://www.rattle.com/ekphrastic/ The image that this poem was specifically written about can be found here. (April 2024 – Gerrie Paino's “Night Train”) https://i0.wp.com/www.rattle.com/ekphrasis/EC24Apr.jpg?ssl=1
By Rae Fairchild (MRB)7 days ago in Poets
Comments (2)
So much emptiness in this poem, from "a starless sky" to a "house of love." Loneliness, fading whispers, a forgotten dream. Lack of curiosity. Then the shift. "A yearning that consumes me whole" "A longing so potent" "Devour my soul" Damn. Your inversions here are stark on deeper reading, yet hide in plain sight. Much like inspiration can evade a creative mind, until you realize it was right on the tip of your nose all the while. "Thus, I wish to be a writer mercy me, it costs too much." How achingly true this seems to be. I want to crawl away from it. "All I have to do is write the right letters" — Which feels like a double sentiment. Letters (abc) or letters (correspondence)? I think both are true here, though, as the words in either one will "carry me to you, again." I must say "handpicked loneliness" must really be the shift, as it speaks to a fullness of palm, yet a lacking of substance. Something chosen, yet regretted. Your metaphors are incredible. I feel like framing this to remind me what writer’s block can be sometimes. God, I feel like I’ve fulfilled part of this poem’s fears: "and the benign lack of curiosity by everyone I know is warranted?" I’ve been meaning to address this one. It took me too long. And I’m sorry. Hoping this isn’t still true, though. You capture your desire to be a writer so freaking well. I see "wannabe storyteller" pasted across the margins here, underneath the poeticisms, and desperate overspilling meeting your successes. I think you’ve made it past wannabe, and you just ARE.
Beautiful piece, and those last two lines say it all. Just trust the words. Well done.