O Brazilian damsel! Don’t throw the camera such
a celestial, green look
You are the emperor of originality
Let your dainty legs ask your heart how to wander
Your sensuous hair is a symbol of opulence
Your sweet eyes are marbles of innocence
Your fingers will swell anyone’s success
Your lips will taste liberty one day,
your mouth will be a chamber of holy songs
O Brazilian damsel! Stop coming in my dreams
or my coffee will get cold
Please, stop coming in my dreams or
I’ll go to work barefoot
Many belles have slapped their beaux
Many waiters have lost their job
Lamps have withered on the ceiling
It’s all because of you, rustic beauty
But that isn’t your fault only
O damsel, wine might cast an evil spell on you
Glasses might roll on the wild ground
like disobedient children
Cheese might refuse to be soft
Drunkards might stop shaking their heads
O damsel! Stop spreading this serpent look
You’ll kill someone, some day
in blue or yellow Brazil
Your black eyes carry cut and repaired
Sanskrit stories, in their pristine forms—
They have the shakti to create violent impacts
and loot immortal dacoits, or to bring peace
in times when jungle birds
become mad and shed their feathers.
When I watch your
fiery eyes it is as if the first time
I peruse the old expression ‘purely divine’.
They are as beautiful as your
brave bosom. They have the might
to set shy battalions into triumphant motion.
Those charismatic, Kerala eyes have
not been given due credit.
They’ve been searching for a sage
who can make us all adore them.
No coldness—surely,
not made for lies or boundaries
your eyes want to ski on a lover’s skin,
speak a worthy language, be kissed and
sensuously praised.
I can’t bring myself to burn them.
They are as melodic as the bansuri.
They are as feisty as the cheetah.
They are as black as the freshest kohl.
They are the cloth of my winter,
and my safest, wide verandah.
My heart tries to spend every second, slowly,
telling my brain how a woman’s eyes
can be the woman herself.
As I stare, carefree,
the same smoke snakes up
from my khaki cup
of coffee. I get excited to
tell you how much
I love you… then suddenly
I realize you exist
no more. As I wipe
the maze of fingerprints off
the screen of my
blue mobile phone, I end
up typing heartfelt words
to you… then somehow I
realize you exist no
more. And as I flick
through the old pages
of my mind’s library
I think of the
nice poem I once
wrote for you. I
quickly start a fresh
one … only to realize you exist
no more. Whenever I
walk amidst the rustling leaves
I feel I can hear
your strange voice too. I
start a mini conversation only
to realize you exist
no more. I’m so sorry. I’m
now very talented in
forgetting the past, especially
when it concerns something good,
something better than you.
I hate this white, red and blue flag
floating high in the sky of my mind.
I’ve never been to any school
to learn about its possible ramifications.
I live in a jungle where I can’t
rule despite being a muscular lion.
Every night, I grope for meaning
below a million brilliant sweet stars.
I think of the white as a pure butterfly,
and as the shroud of my erratic life.
This white is also my wife, on whom
I want to cheat every midnight.
I think of the red as bloody charlatans,
and as the flower of a passion I’ve had to sell.
This red is also the future which
has robbed my sinews of present and past.
I think of the blue as a powerful bullet,
and the missing part of my dream suicide.
This blue is also my unborn child,
because of whom I am called a eunuch.
And, when all the colors in the world
tango and tangle in my blind, brittle heart,
I have more of the blues every black night.
I feel I am burning religiously in hell
and have to hate all the heavenly apes
trying hard to outwit my ignorance.
I’m gonna say it again! Let’s be
childish friends. It’s gonna rain
pure bliss, you and me - you the
fresh rose among jealous roses.
Let’s return to innocence with
experience. We’re sacred
children. Let’s talk about what’s sweet.
Let’s joke like mad clowns. Let’s
play, hide and seek. Let’s be the
perfect boy and girl, the couple who
will root firmly in the violent wild,
the one to blossom beautifully in
times of grief. Let’s be childish
friends! Let us give each other’s
mind to each other’s soul so
that we can shine like one star.
If the ship of our amity is firm
we shall smash the toughest icebergs.
Our past will never matter as long
as we are friends. Let’s respect
each other. Let’s honor things as
we aren’t scared, suspicious or savage.
I’m gonna say it again! Let’s be
childish friends!
Inside me,
yes deep, deep inside,
there’s a red ocean of melodious ecstasy!
Today it’s going to help
build my dream house, effortlessly.
Feeling jealous? Just shoo off!
It’s twirling and whirling and swirling.
It’s helping me to have enough fire
to burn those around me
who do not think what I’m thinking.
I’m the Queen of China-Town.
I’m also a child who eats
something delicious late at night,
when everyone is snoring.
Won’t tell you what!
I like sharks too.
So beware.
I do not stay home and do nothing.
I do not remember to forget my prayers.
I’m crazy. Real crazy, I mean.
It helps me to note down
what I haven’t done
the whole day and show it to no one.
I’m whirling and swirling and twirling.
This melodious ecstasy I got it by
looking for gold in the dust on the windowsills.
This melodious ecstasy
I got it on a foolish goat’s farm.
It twirls and swirls and whirls.
Wish I could tell you more secrets.
Right now, gotta go.
Going. Take care—
(I don’t know from
which idiot you gonna take it.
Do take it.)
I’m swirling, rolling on the floor.
Feeling jealous? Shoo off!
Give me not the crescent moon
that belongs to primitive people.
Give me a rusty sickle.
Give me not the bold sun
once worshipped in ancient Egypt.
Give me cheap candles.
Give me not overloaded papyri
that praise glorious days.
Give me empty pages.
Give me not sacrosanct rivers
that are mythic reminders of truth.
Rather give me salty saliva.
Make me your diligent hoe
and dig fertile furrows in the earth
of my crumbling destiny.
Let the waves of your poetic
hair burble down like noodles
of sincerity into the broken temple,
the blasphemed, blackened church,
the fading mosque
found inside my crying heart.
Give me not the crescent moon
that belongs to primitive people.
Rather, give me empty pages.
Born in January 1983, Amit Parmessur lives in Quatre-Bornes, in the beautiful island, Mauritius. His poems have appeared in around 100 literary magazines, such as: Ann Arbor Review, The Camel Saloon, Censored Poets, Calliope Nerve, Damazine, Zouch Magazine, Black-Listed Magazine, Red Fez, Poetic Medicine and many others. Nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Prize for his poem Chinese Cicada Slough, he is also published in Swan Morrison’s People of Few Words Volume 1 and selected for Crack the Spine’s ‘best of Winter 2012’. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon.
ISSUE:
W I N T E R
2012
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