Amit Parmessur- Three Poems

POEM 1: Bottled

Sitting amidst sparkling tombs at midnight

I am holding a green bottle in my battered hands

All the crimson wine in my belly is ringing,

ringing luscious bells on her melodious name

My barbaric beard glistens in the milky moonlight

like an inverted pyramid housing mummified dreams

I scan solemnly the bittersweet sky resembling

an empty page, one upon which I try hard

to decipher the promise made by her juicy lips

I crave to feel her soft crayon-like fingers,

to know the twisty paths of her clumsy toes,

ready to hammer my tingling heels to fit her footprints

I want to undress her hip and her navel,

making them my pillow on alternate nights,

nights to be spent on a broad bed of fragrant silk

I muse. My girl is the bottle mouth,

I’m the bottom on which the bottle stands

The body of the bottle, which my hands

want to strangle is the tyrant keeping us apart

I wish I could crush it and unite

the mute mouth to the passionate bottom

Why,

but why is it that each time I look at this

tomb without flowers over there,

I see my odious name carefully laid on it

POEM 2: Nirvana

Nowadays I am lunching on the nectar

of devotion in the fecund Abode of God,

the formless Force to whom all forms belong

I was turned into a net, a huge net with infinite holes

tied together with the strings of my failures

I just wanted to flow in the river of her virginity,

feasting on the passion of her delicate heart

My end started by making a spectacular dive,

in a deep pool of my own blood

I ended up as dying drops in a desert full

of dehydrated travelers, but I

am enjoying the divine force around me

now

She broke my chest with a smiling hammer

and stole my heart. She glued my eyelids

to my forehead and stole my mind. She drank

some of my blood, thinking it was Irish wine

She whipped my sandcastle with the

lightnings in her palm and turned me

into an old bottle to be kept under a broad bed

I have arduously climbed a mountain made

of my own swollen bones held together

by modest but shattered dreams

When I inhale I feel like a living dead,

when I exhale I’m a withered flower

but I am enjoying the divine force around,

waiting for when, where, why,

and how I shall be stung again.

POEM 3: reproaches from the dead

pouring some blood into my teacup,

I tried new heights of spirituality

through the rickety window,

I could see a madman shooting

at golden shooting stars,

with an erect blade of grass in hand

and in the neglected garden,

I could find bloody flowers sprouting

amidst the glistening moonlit leaves

soon in the distant darkness

I could make out a few

angels coming out of the swollen soil

my adorable grandmother,

my drunkard of a grandfather

and my brave girl

I shook my head; grandmother was surely

coming to remind me about cleaning her grave

grandfather would ask me why I had

neglected his wife just like he did when alive,

I tossed the blood into my mouth

my dead girl knew that I had betrayed

the promise of never loving someone else

with the dead folk approaching

I closed my frozen eyes,

plugging the bottle of whiskey

into my own glass-cold mouth

unaware that there was a snake in it

I shouldn’t have killed those shooting stars

Aged 28, Amit Parmessur has been published many times in his homeland Mauritius. He has been published and is forthcoming in over 30 magazines including Carcinogenic Poetry, Leaf Garden Press, Long Story Short, LITSNACK and Eunoia Review since starting to submit his poems late 2010. He is very close to the land of his ancestors, India.