the colour harmony!!

History is to be noted in moments Christmas break in a trench Raindrops in a burial ground.  Night without crickets  City without graffiti And skylarks without skies. Or the Corns, wind, women,  Sojourns and suntan Evenings secluded to oneself  and black coffee. thoughts like birds Seagulls crossing  thresholds of borders  on your skin. The half tint canvas Where stories procreate One after the other Of lips, hips and red streams Of bullets and bullshits Of Demons and Demi-gods Of Pope and the Peepal  Of love and lie. History is no more history But a child's game of  war and loss and war Sticks and mulberry crowns Of you and me and other lives.

                I Today as I kiss my son, and he blush and we laugh joyfully, I think of my own eighth year when nobody kissed me as a kid, yet held me close, drew me in to in-between spaces and loved me as a woman                                  II The man I married asks me, “Do you know? How ugly you look when you hiss at your son?” and he reminds, “He is a man and you a woman, so better arrest your anger.” I am at once, jealous of my son’s manhood at seven and wonder, if a woman in labor is equally ugly with her facial muscles rigid choked throat and shivering patience.                  III That day, after ...

Now, I need to understand There is Charm, in solitude  Not the made up one, in a melancholy base For love and loss and poetry, but  that which jell on to your skin Like tattoos of desire and sin. This is how two ports should drift away, Like planes of tectonic movements Each one designing a continent of its own  Of candle lights and islands. Latitudes on your body And shipwrecks on your shores. There is no other side  for an exhausted love But, the grabbing chill. Your abdomen, Like a million spiders birthing  As you gaze out of yourself  from a long distance train

1 Biography should begin from that coffee mug you toss against the evening sky and the ocean below, As you fall out of love. 2 The letter i wrote to my uncle when I was just four had a wrong address I was happy when it came back for, I knew it had come back meeting my uncle  and the doll would follow. 3 Men I loved didn't love me back  or vice versa but every now and then, I tried to patch up with a chanced opportunity May be, like the lizard rushing through the sunset seascape on my bedroom wall to catch the fly like comma the flight of seagulls  crossing the canvas. 4 My first love in school was a christian boy whom I hated, while he loved. But, I remember writing  a rather long philosophical treatise on the politics of social disharmony and personal threats in the condition of being in love with a catholic boy with regard to future...

Some fears are like the seventh wave, They hit hard, even while you play card games of distant memories, Narcissist moves of redemption, on a silver moon shore. They visit in sleep,  when you travel along those narrow streets of closed windows and collaged walls.  As I move uneasily on my bed,  not dreaming of blue eyes, but moving away from the body that smells of my origin chasing the  Pecola   of my nakedness, I stumble upon, conveniences sunlight midnight amnesia silence folktales mythology the genome project flames from self-portraits, or occasional lightening flashing across my windowpane. With a history, that will survive me, of doubts, deliriums and darlings, war bodies of guerrilla front, I won’t sleep again this night or in another era. Pecola : The protagonist of The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison