Boomerang

by Amit Parmessur

On her way to the scarred cliff she
smelled the burning sunflowers again.
She saw a wheelchaired centenarian,
his head hanging with warm snow;
he gave her a rope and a sword.

Once there, she quickly rubbed
her hands in the dust before choking,
slitting and dumping dexterously
her dead heart into the wild wind
for play, pleasure and peace.

Her eyes did not drip.
She sacrificed many more body
parts as grey smoke from nearby
camp fires wreathed slowly up.
She relished the struggle for breath.

Till, renewed, everything crept back
rolling like shiny drums to tell her
that life isn’t a sacred book,
or a scared feather.
She dug a lush grave
for her tears and became a
spectacle for the white clouds.

Teasing Mielina

by Amit Parmessur

If spring has another face, it’s yours;
on each thread of your holy head
there’s a golden drop of honey.
There are flaming swords always
busy carrying beauty
from one pink lip to another.
And in the honeycomb of your
brown eyes dwells a child,
buzzing with stingy questions,
while adoring divine idols
more than her own saintly soul.
As solid as your chair,
as parliamentary as owls
sits a queen who knows
honey isn’t far from the sting.
Your voice cuts
my morning blues and urges
my scars to commit suicide like
drones crashing into hard clouds.
Like you, the future promised
to last forever and
when you play in the rain
to whet your moles made from
two million flowers
I always go
tell the bees of you;
your dream isn’t to spy on
the moon and honey making
wild love on their honeymoon;
it’s to hear me hum your name
before I enter the ocean.

The Camel

by Amit Parmessur

The very first dune in sight,
he threw himself at my back
when he experienced
those emotional deserts.
Despite the cold night
my shamed heart felt dry
when he gave me those callow
and dull looks.

The weight of his calumny
made me feel like a cactus
trying to caress a fragile fish.

And as the moonless wind
blew from the oasis I realized
that it’s not a straw that breaks
the threads of sincerity; it is the
strain of a husband’s wrong words.

But when we reached
the burnt tree I heard him kneel
under the scurrying clouds of guilt.
I grunted with desperate joy.
He never wanted me;
he always wanted my ride.

Wish the dark could
scare the ego off his hooves
and teach him the right balance.

As we crossed the last mound
the stars told me that
I showed him my back
could be overloaded that’s why
he disrespected me and
dribbled the cud of his mistakes
over my rough skin
to call himself perfect.

Let’s hope God catches him
when he falls from the hostile
humps of life’s clamorous circus.

Meanwhile, the walk continues.

The Dodo’s Gone To Sleep

by Amit Parmessur

Each step up the staircase and each heartbeat brings
me closer to you, like a black magnet.
The only good I can do in this city’s emptiness
is to anticipate your squawk;
remember, when the sun sets, we’ll borrow wings
and fly into the night full of fast clouds.
Strumming my sitar I’ll watch over
your yellow feet, green beak and curly feathers,
with you preening in Wonderland.

Reaching the rooftop I meet only a ghost
as your name means fool. With each memory
of you I shed a cold tear. I go down.
The nuts in my hand, the seeds in my pockets
I wish to see you in my room and
fool the whole world, cracking jokes with you,
rolling on the ecstatic floor.
But the butterfly clock on the wall
whispers to me that you’ve gone to sleep
early today with the dogs and monkeys.

Pre-Christmas Colors

by Amit Parmessur

When I stop my bicycle in
the swirling dust and watch the
old woman’s lush garden I feel
like a roasted turkey on two wheels.
Once at the library the textures
and tastes of the books transform
me into a blue world map and
then flatten me into an ancient page.
The frantic bazaar decolorizes me
and I become invisible. I still
owe the egg seller a few coins.
Forgetfulness you see.
When I stop again and see the
sun stealing water from the
municipality fountain I feel eager
to serve others. I’m the type who
feels timeless when I hear the big
town clock. Yet, I fail to be proud
of my people as I see almost
everyone whizzing past with musical
corks in their ears nowadays.
I feel like pointing a gun at those
who throw cigarette butts on the
ground too. They have a head
of cauliflower instead of a brain!
I just hope Christ never quits me
and we ban selling unborn chicks
or else I shall keep buying eggs for free
and hatch them into life and
fill my street with merry cackling.

Morning Dew

by Amit Parmessur

I know you stare at the pregnant

dewdrops mourning on the leaf
and feel like Atargatis, ready to
transform yourself into a mermaid
for unwillingly killing my love for you.

I know you wonder where

these dewdrops were born.
Yes, right from my heart.

A more careful look will

reveal they are not mourning.
They are half-bird femme fatales
whose enchanting voices
want to draw you to me again.

These dewdrops have stopped

and hope to avoid a dark plunge.
You must move before my legs
fuse together and I forget my name
one stormy night
invaded by guitar music.
 

Mistakes happen and

rainbows do break into dust.
In every dewdrop there is a Utopia.
In every man there is a woman.

I’ll forgive.

Run.

Or else, one day you might keep

asking “Is my King alive?” and count
the dewdrops on every blade of grass.

Spring Anguish

by Amit Parmessur

my slim tongues want to lick the sky
I wish I could lose this crowd forever,
slowly, and with no one’s knowledge
I dream of growing new tastes
and buds in a nameless city,
of changing everything
about this nothing
sprawled in bed
with an eye slashed
and feeling like
a toothless Cyclops I
muse about what life is
there’s a pit of
darkness that’s deepening
in my stomach, these days

time will tell
people say, but my
clock does not speak to me
so much pain I remember
I remember I’ve forgotten
to remember I need to forget you
My heart will walk up to
my mind maybe and in unison
they’ll try to kill what’s
trying to kill me
I care about those who don’t care,
and how I really fail to care
about those who care
maybe it’s time—
it’s time to change
my beard into cotton
candy so that
only syrupy
tears may splash against
the shower floor, every season

Oftentimes

by Amit Parmessur

Oftentimes I wish to read the message
hidden in the Turkish clouds.
Oftentimes I wish to feel the liveliness
hidden in the Guatemalan rain.

Oftentimes I wish to capture the songs
hidden in the Wellington wind.
Oftentimes I wish to taste the tranquility
hidden in the Pondicherry stars.

Oftentimes...

Oftentimes I wish to imitate the madness
hidden in my wallpaper’s waterfall.
Oftentimes I wish to collect the fire
hidden in my neighbor’s sunflower.

Oftentimes I wish to learn the language
hidden in Asia’s rich utensils.
Oftentimes I wish to tell Mother

You are my playful rain,
my peaceful star,
my perpetual sunflower.

Oftentimes I wish to tell Mother that
She is my clouds, my wind, my sole God.

Oftentimes...
Oftentimes...

Oftentimes...

I Want Something Tomorrow

by Amit Parmessur

Don’t smile –
I’ll be too happy, and regret being mortal.
I’ll rue being able to breathe
the garden’s cozy breeze, that afternoon.

Cursed be my fingers
which couldn’t reach you again,
And speaking to my heart
now is like knocking at a stone.
I want something tomorrow!

Don’t smile –
Let us learn to reinvent each other’s soul.
Ask only to your heart, if I used to tempt you.
Do not ever show gold
to someone who cannot dig.
I want something tomorrow!

Don’t smile like this –
I dread myself. I’m scared of memories.
They have preserved your lips
that often haunt me.

It seems that your ease is
stamping panic on my heart.
I want some poison for tomorrow!

Le Morne

by Amit Parmessur

O my dearest friends, have
you ever slid down the back of a serpent?

It is the same going there, to Le Morne —
just that on the reptile’s back there is
no such wonderful, original scenery.

There are no such delightful breezes
to charm you and rippling waters
to whisper silent stories into your ears.

Le Morne is Le Morne.
Home to tired slaves,
grave to runaway rebels

its basaltic Le Morne Brabant, that
gargantuan bump in the soil that no wind
can flatten is still a lighthouse for fishermen.

If you go there you might just
sense, see and suffer for the slaves
who bled for us,
who worked for us,
who perished.

Le Morne has guided the blood of many
unsung heroes into the haven of its oceans.
Le Morne is Le Morne,
a serpent that can charm any snake charmer!

Its calmness, a tireless journey into infinity
will always mock any form
of man-made turmoil.

Le Morne is Le Morne.

My Mother’s Birthplace

by Amit Parmessur

is where I’ve learnt the contours of Bhojpuri
from the lips of the old people spending their
day bowing to the soil and their crops.

O Crève Coeur, I have run with my brother
in your beautiful ginger fields.
Your ginger smell still haunts my fingers.

From grandma’s house, we have flown
a kite that could tickle your mountain trees.

I have laughed at the old man
who swims naked in your river, with
a couple of naughty cousins stealing his
funny clothes away while he is in the water

which flows proudly along
redolences of bananas.

I have played in cow dung and performed
long jump in your soft, reddish brown soil.
I have scored goals on your football
ground and won the
rural trophies of sincere friendship.

The scissors of my mind still cut
through your rustling sugar cane leaves to meet
the places where my once nimble feet
would play hide-and-seek with the
village boys, until the time of solemn stars.

I have also disobeyed and slipped into
the stable to caress the beard of an old goat.
I have gamboled with naked neck hens

and chased the domineering roosters, dropping
my heart in the heart of your heart
in the process.
O Crève Coeur you
are the adorable place I really come from.

Simply… Beautyful

by Amit Parmessur

Something’s rocking,
sitting near those wild rocks
And you know, it’s a mosaic of magic
Really, there’s something magnetic near the wild rocks

Tender fingers chopped from long lady fingers
from the green garden where stars grow
Toes cut from the juicy stem of red sugar cane

O fresh fragrant Frangipani,
your hair’s like the finest spaghetti
curled by the warm breeze of Pointe d’Esny

Your grace exudes all religions
You’re a peppy reggae

Skin like cream churned in local industries
Legs from the dust of lovely dodos
You’re like a soft bouquet of trochetia

Someone’s rocking, sitting near those wild rocks
Someone needs to feed you with sincerity
Someone needs to cuddle you with true love
Someone must become your morning mirror,
evening tea and nocturnal sorbet

There must be majestic magic in your veins
I wonder whose private property you’ll be

it’s gonna be

by Amit Parmessur

it’s gonna rain bliss

yes, i’m talking to you
it’s gonna rain bliss
you and me

it’s gonna be a marriage of cultures
it’s gonna be superhit
it’s gonna be what it’s gonna be
it’s gonna be sincere

it’s gonna be poetic
it’s gonna be flowery

it’s gonna be new
you and me
i just can’t end you
it’s gonna be the best medicine
it’s gonna be sound, soft

say you like my style

it’s gonna be respectful
it’s gonna be wonderful
it’s gonna be beauty,
fulfil the wish

return to innocence
with experience

i’m gonna be your mirror

it’s gonna rain, now
let’s hide together

i’m talking to you

come let’s fly, away

Chamarel

by Amit Parmessur

My tired mind takes its daily bath
in the pool of your mellifluous beauty.

O dunes of seven colors and infinite wonders,
why do your sands separate when I mix them?

Chamarel, my friend!
I can only imagine pink pigeons preening
in the lush and dewy gorges.

I can only see the kestrel collecting blithely
the sunrays along his feathers and
palavering with the silver rain.

I often try to imitate the original dance
of the spindly red sugar cane.
Are they drunk in some seggae too?

I find the children’s play and giant tortoises
so very cute.
O Chamarel, my dearest love!

I adore your secret garden, on the top of a mountain,
like an island in a sea of verdure.

I love the tropical rainforest whose
beauty lunges itself into the
sparkling sapphire sea, in perpetual, cheerful suicide.

In the blazing sunshine, the colors of my heart
sing out in beautiful radiance and sheer vibrance
at your beautiful vibrance and sheer radiance.

O Chamarel, my love, my friend!

Juvenile Jackdaws

by Amit Parmessur

A baffling rain of birds blackened
my New Year in a snowy Swedish street.

My knees buried in the soft shroud I gazed
at one bird’s demise. His light blue eyes were
bordered with a young desire to soar,
but the death carousels inside were growling
so ominously. The purple sheen on
his crown reminded me of crazy queens
widowed after just one night.
The tip of his beak in the snow was like
a warrior’s rusty sword sleeping in
a morose sheath. No expressions
on his grayish-silver cheeks,
the bill and legs so black,
the green-blue sheen on his throat
like a pinch of poison, the bird’s stature
was a giant statue of death on cotton.
I remained silent, very silent, and
completely motionless as the breeze spoke
something into my nostrils.

The Cactus People

by Amit Parmessur

The wind with a tuna smell blows into their
faces as they look from behind rusty iron sheets.

In some eyes I can see a spark, an unwillingness to buy
a way out of poverty. I’m afraid of speaking to them,
these cactus people, as they never smile. Yet,
these silent, stoic people populate my dreams.

Each time I see them open their wooden gate it
seems I can overhear their bones crack.

The children in decrepit cars would lick
their lips to clean the deposits of the salty wind,
with furtive and inhospitable and indifferent looks.

When they cross the road they go about
like an anxious herd, never hand in hand, only looking
at each other once at the other side. They’re a
rare race. Their heels as shoes, their palms as gloves, their
skin as their clothes, they have a stomach of steel.

I know the secrets and contours of their language,
these cactus people, but they never smile.

Why they still have cacti everywhere around their
small houses? Does cactus have a
divine place in their uncivilization? They co-exist
with all the wealth of poverty,
occupying the harshest lands. Those bearded goats,
naked hens, proud roosters. It’s a shame,

as these cactus people were once my dear people.

It’s also true; no amount of expensive perfume has
removed that tuna smell lingering all over my soft face.
I can’t forget the red soil before and after cock fights.

Guitarra Señorita

by Amit Parmessur

Your hair is so intoxicated in inspiration
that it has fallen all over your left eye.
I can see the golden guitar in your face;
I can see your fantastic face in the guitar.

There are so many mad musical notes sparkling
and waltzing all along your beautiful brown hair,
without your permission. There’s a simple
dream in your right eye too but
I know that you’ve learnt life’s not a simple song.

On your innocent cheeks the scars
of past tears and sufferings are still visible,
but now your melodious smile is flourishing
smoothly, making you a better woman.

Always be as melodic and strong
as your Taurus guitar, poetic Señorita.

Above your head it’s blue paradise, see,
full of pretty little windows to choose from.
Whatever window you choose you’ll
meet your dreams, and your scars will smile.

Your sealed lips covered in pale pink lipstick
are singing so many songs nowadays— let me
hear you a bit tonight, before you start dreaming,
charming Guitarra Señorita.

Remember, many men would love to be the
lucky chain that you have around your tender neck,
without your permission.

Belle on Soft Belly

by Amit Parmessur

Your smooth body lying on the smooth lawn
Stunning brown eyes looking for a safe horizon
You look like a belle flying in the green sky.

There’re fierce flames burning in your calm heart.
Your lovely navel kissing the grass in melody,
Your village hair caressing your sunny sweet back,

Your soft hips badly need their purity again.
O Bella, I know you love my poetic words.
Let your ears hear me; this world will see your beauty.

Don’t ever fall on your belly in times of despair—
Remember, your fine feet want to dance in heaven
And winds of happiness want to kiss your lips,
strongly.

I’m sure, the wings of my poetry will help you
take off;
So fly, run, swim, laugh and just be your beautiful
self.
Let’s weave some real magic in this mysterious life.

Mélisande

by Amit Parmessur

Your sunglasses tucked in your wavy hair,
your gracious elbows resting on the table,
you look almost like a modern Mona Lisa,
except that your smile is more charming.

The river of beauty flows in you.
Behold! Behind you the young coconut trees
look like excited fireworks in
brown, yellow and tender green sparks,
celebrating your rustic beauty.

Your veins are the strings of a calm guitar.
Having met misery and life’s dark demons,
you seem now ready to enjoy
long hours of luck and eternal joy,
just like any other pretty woman.

Your cheeks want to move like a merry piano.
And it’s good that the painting does
not show your feet; now you
just cannot run away.
So, live in this prison of delight!

God made you with very special hands.Take care of your heartbeats.

Those Rainy Days

by Amit Parmessur

The groggy growl of our old outdoor dog
made me peek through the neglected window
only to notice the leaves swirling down,
swirling and swirling down the young yew tree
in the once glorious and green garden.

The leaves swirled down just like the dates
drying up and falling off
the greasy kitchen calendar.

Drinking a serene coffee with a false face
to our innocent children each morning
and looking at your photo each night
could not stop the fall of leaves or dates.
Smoking cigarette after cigarette
Couldn’t burn down my passion for your blue eyes,
for your sweet whispers or red anger.
I still want those rainy days by the lake with you,

drenched by the open umbrella
discarded on the muddy grass,
looking like an inverted mushroom, capturing the rainwater.

How we would each place a fresh flower
in the cherry umbrella and swear
by the drenched kissing petals
a blissful life in each other’s eyes.

Every rainy moment I still turn the umbrella
into a mushroom to capture your memories and smiles,

but now there are no flowers by the cherished lake.