'Is it true, we can only love so much?': Four poems by Kashiana Singh

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'Is it true, we can only love so much?': Four poems by Kashiana Singh

'Is it true, we can only love so much?': Four poems by Kashiana Singh

Mouthful of Cloudbursts

 Feather soft droplets, uncertain and fickle Surprising sounds, glassy sheets of revival Gushing in to announce a transparent arrival Initiating an odorless ovation, trickle by trickle Rooftops lay flat against a tiptoe dance Hummingbirds listen transfixed, in pleasure Flapping grief, into a euphoria of collapsing treasures The wet night sings to darkened drapes, in a trance Particular aroma of a lightning struck earth, engulfs all form Undulating color draws patterns of seagull wings, dark sky Desire ruptures itself, comatose beside leftover boxes of Thai Heartbeats rescue each other, inhaling a moldy smell of the grass Howling death sounds, drown raging kisses Purple streaked canopy, plunging empty into black eyes Crushing raindrops, into mocha keeps passion in disguise Pittering and pattering, a pulsating remorse passes by Soaking into its torrential depths lusting between sunset and sunrise Streams chant seductively to themselves Breaking horizons, into a bellowing bronze I inhale the petrichor, each evening I submit nakedness to prescribed rituals I swallow mouthful of cloudbursts I lean into your humid breast I dissolve ***

Katputtli fables

you, collapse to erupt into mushroom shapes clouds that nestle within themselves, tears witness to destruction, an annihilation lays silent claim over wrinkles that wander your face jasmine vines, growing wild into secret encounters, whispered veins of grief, poppy cups colorful petals bathed in madness bursting stamen stems disseminate fear into a stubborn birth to ornamental life poppy capsules pregnant with your drunkenness life, and death, and desire you, lie broken, spread wide on an unheeding twilight floor, your dawn forces a manna of thunder, piercing your languid breast force of a collective heartache force of painful muscle memory force of miraculous sunsets force of your prayer fragrance of your cauldron remnants of a visceral wilderness force that oozes stillness force of combustive hearts force that kindles you towards daybreak where you again collapse to erupt, and erupt again force, of your acid reflux a loud sourness in your chest force as loud as a collective cry spreads like shards, scattered intestines through katputtli towns ***

questions at dawn

8 questions that reappear at dawn 1. Is it true, we can only love so much? That the wild lets you stay in touch 2. Is it fair, we face the weather in submission? That even ants and rabbits can awaken your vision 3. Is it a wonder, we are wanton in life? That deathbed tiptoes an end to strife 4. Is it true, we do not have to despair? That talking to rivers leads to the marsh of care 5. Is it odd that we so often exhaust of travel? That moving is only stillness unraveled 6. Is it kindness, that sits on our windowsill of age? That years gather imperfect prayers and uncage 7. Is it faith, we use to stoke a thousand fires? That moments of questioning, enable our deepest desires 8. Is it universal, to submit our flesh towards the dark? That shadows vanish, often into a frozen glass ***

Rainstorm Warning

rain falls in locusts your chaos of liquid fury unleashed on tin roofs as I ease into a crescendo of passion letting it, urge into my pores, while the gods make love when done, I ask what are you? you fill my sidewalks gurgling, growing into me, my knees becoming rheumatically inclined to cobble into my eaves you are cold in gutters washing yourself rid of my warts, purging skins of their own psoriasis you are greed collected stagnant water, sightless debris of my tears, lapping into oblivion my hollows you become a tandav drumming, a dark night into my bones, crushing my wrists as I hold a scream you gush in an escape hissing louder than hell my blood, accumulates in my mouth, regurgitated ultimately, you tease my conjured feet, afraid of footprints on marsh to now tread labyrinths in bullrushes, stumbling through acoustic hymns ***
Kashiana Singh, 51, is a management professional. Her poetry collection, Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words is written as a participant and an observer. She is from India, now lives in Chicago, and her contributions have been featured in The Narrow Mag, Tuck Magazine, Best Poetry, Fox Poetry Box, Women’s Web, OnMogul, Literary Yard, Modern Literature, and elsewhere.
Read more poetry on Bengaluru Review: Monsoon verses : Five poems for the season ‘And we smelt like guavas’ : Five poems by Nilim Kumar ‘You may see the city slowing down’ : Five poems by Malcolm Carvalho  

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