Kunal gaurav

Become one with the darkness. follow me on my poetry IG @plenilune_of_august

[surqrised]

“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

[my great grandmother and her siblings :: my flickr files]

* * * *

I hope you get old. I hope time is heavy on your bones, draped over you like an embrace from God. I hope the backs of your hands become deep maps— Of all the places you have been. Dark stains where your fingers dipped into clay and dirt and mud. I hope you get old. I hope time fills your heart with joy and triumph. I hope you have enough obstacles to teach you character and empathy and enough challenges to bestow you with uniqueness. I hope pain shows you how strong you are and the value of a true friend. I hope you’ve been alone enough to know yourself. I hope you find quiet more than you find chaos. I hope you get old. That time wraps around your legs like a desperate lover. I hope you can look into the faces of people you have loved and cherished and that you leave behind echos of grief, Because you were loved in turn. I hope you give thanks for every waking moment, For what you have and for what you have not. I hope you get old. I hope you make things that last. I hope you’ve inspired people. I hope you’ve helped someone. I hope grace rests at your feet. I hope. You forgive everything, You did. Not Get Quite. Right. [by Jann Arden]

[everytimeyousaygoodbye]

The wind narrates my

Poems to your weary heart

A symphony between the

Moon and the stardust on

Your palm..........................

everytimeyousaygoodbye ©

[kunal-gaurav]

In dreams, find joy, let worries be undone,

In life's vast continuum, you're the chosen one.

-Kunal Gaurav

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

“Grief is not only when they die. Grief is also when you don't recognize them anymore. When they've turned into someone who doesn't feel like yours anymore. Scary. And you stand there being the same you were. Lonely.”

— Trusha Gaigole

[kunal-gaurav]

[eatpussypraylove]

Kinda just hit a point in life where I’m too tired to do anything besides go towards what feels good, how freeing

[moderndaymystic]

“There’s a reason poets often say, ‘Poetry saved my life,’ for often the blank page is the only one listening to the soul’s suffering, the only one registering the story completely, the only one receiving all softly and without condemnation.”

—Clarissa Pinkola Estes

[poems-of-madness]

There are no fantasies of love, Only realities of me belly dancing, in my little kitchen. My body moving only for me, my hips know the hurt of my heart And I lose myself once again, The sun shines through my rose-colored drapes Turning my home into a Harem of love poetry and perfumes. I smoke a cigarette as I make the breakfast, And the whole world serenades me And love is nobody but myself. My hands in jewelry on my shape And I keep on dancing my hair getting longer my eyes getting greener. I eat my dessert in a beautiful dress on the balcony, And my solitude is pink sweeter than any gesture of Love. And they worry about my loneliness But if they saw me now They would fall in love with a woman that is utterly made out of soul and sensuality only for herself; Understanding that love is made of the solitude within the self.

- Pink Love by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

[3000s]

remember that interviews are not about giving a good and honest first impression that they'll carefully consider. interviews are about saying the special words and phrases they're looking for that give you points and when they tally those up whoever earned the most job points wins

[3000s]

they don't want to "know you" they want you to walk in there and regurgitate everything the job description said

[dg-fragments]

I write to you, of you, not because our souls are intertwined, neither because you're mine or I'm yours, but because I do not know of any other audience, for these thoughts, in the form of mere words, for this fragmented existence, which reveals through the cracks of past experiences, to lose itself in the captivating beauty, that is yourself.

- DG

[gnosticcontacthigh]

skyjacks saints poem

I copy down our collection Transcribe poetry and prose alike All of it too important to be lost To the danger that pools outside my door This has become my life’s work To save as much as I can 

Do you even receive my letters? I cannot know for sure Still I send them out Better this than to lose my life  To the ebbing tides that surrounds what was once Our abbey

It must have been five years in That I began to write down my own thoughts The strangeness of seeing the abbey Enshrined in water Still, for whatever reason, I sent that message out with the pigeon Watching it’s gray wings flap further into the distance Wondering once again if this would be the time It never came back And I would be left alone to wander the halls Spending long enough alone That one day I would let the brackish brine lap at my legs 

Last night I dreamt the flood came again I woke to darkness all around me, And I ran to my desk, To feverishly begin work on another text Before I realized the dampness covering me Was a cold sweat from my restless sleep. I stumbled back to bed, heart still racing, Only then seeing my hands Were shaking too badly to write anything down 

Then the day the pigeon never returned And I knew it in my bones You were dead My love, my friend, my confidante For all these some odd hundred years 

In my grief I threw a book at the wall Watched what must have been Some old master’s magnum opus  Hit the stone floor and crack and crumble Till it was barely more than dust And some few scattered pages  I went to that section of my chamber Collected what I could of what was left Stacked it on my desk 

Now as I write these words, I am making plans to set foot outside For the first time In what has felt like a century I will feel the soft breeze Which I have so often dreamt of. So as soon a I set down my quill I will gather my strength To take this last journey One which remained an impossibility For all those long and lonely years But no more of this talk of my haunted stay here For finally, I will walk where the stars can see me Finally, I will see you again 

[illbeyouranchor-deactivated2024]

He watched her

But he didn’t let on

His self-preservation a trophy on a shelf just out of reach

And though he longed to drink the words that rested on her honey lips

His body stayed still

Unmoving and unfocused

Because touching her would require the truth

A truth that he was not willing to tell himself just yet

The fact that somehow, she had gotten under his skin without his permission

And ever since she had,

No one else compared

[dg-fragments]

With the passing of time, I am not getting any younger, and perhaps with the oldness of age comes also the forgetfulness. Often times I am transported to days and times bygone to remember the moments that made me smile, brought me happiness. Then again, there are countless times such instances where I'd try with my might to recall the moment but fail miserably. To which I am left to wonder why; could it be to prevent the pain accompanying that moment or something else entirely, I am not sure.

Death has been a part of my recent visits to my home country in ways I would not have liked but then again, perhaps its giving me a chance to be close to family in the tragic times rather than to express grief from afar. It's a bag of mixed emotions, one that I have yet to comprehend myself albeit it is within my own mind and heart.

Incomprehensible emotions are another aspect of these journeys, without which such a journey would actually be incomplete. Within my mind, my heart and in actuality too, it is such a paradoxical situation where you want to be close to home and yet you know you are meant to be away for the betterment of home. And yet, if one would ask me now what or where is home, I would not be able to give a straight answer with a straight face, for a mere mention of home can be overwhelming.

- DG (A memoir)

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

You're often anxious because you hate the feeling of the seconds slipping away from you. The world is changing every day. And every day you're getting older. But there are still so many things you haven't done. You want to hold on to the sand. But the harder you squeeze, the quicker the sand slips from the cracks between your fingers, until nothing is left…

– Chen Qiufan, from “The Fish of Lijiang,” Invisible Planets: An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Science Fiction in Translation (Tor, 2018)

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“What is erotic about reading (or writing) is the play of imagination called forth in the space between you and your object of knowledge. Poets and novelists, like lovers, touch that space to life with their metaphors and subterfuge. The edges of the space are the edges of the things you love, whose inconcinnities make your mind move. And there is Eros, nervous realist in this sentimental domain, who acts out of a love of paradox, that is as he folds the beloved object out of sight into a mystery, into a blind point where it can float known and unknown, actual and possible, near and far, desired and drawing you on.”

— Anne Carson, from Eros the Bittersweet (Dalkey Archive Press, 1998)

[kunal-gaurav]

With chaste heart, and pure

eyes

I celebrate you, my beauty,

restraining my blood

so that the line

surges and follows

your contour,

and you bed yourself in my verse,

as in woodland, or wave-spume:

earth's perfume,

sea's music.

~~Pablo Neruda