qaynaat

"god must become an activity in our consciousness." - joel s. goldsmith

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  • qaynaat 2w

    I have in drafts at least 2 earlier letters I wrote to my younger self haha. An older self is just so shocked all the time, she wants to unload it all on the young. There's a million more things she needed to get sense of, I wish you could say it all in one letter, but that would become God's letter of the world.

    ps. Okonmanika in Assamese means 'teensy lil', paakhi means a feather.

    #letter #wod #pod @miraquill

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    Dear Myrrh, Paakhi, Okonmanika,


    And every unforgettable word like unforgettable people you've known, you are a lover of literary sounds and I hope that's going well for you. Here, I've the gift of Myrrh for you, that you are come to discover on a later date, but I have it for you right here, so, I hope you note it down somewhere someday soon, so you don't keep flinging away what you keep gathering gathering.


    Ah! Are you gonna be fine?- you're gonna be okay, humoured well by most days, you'll know how to keep yourself lost and acutely engaged with what just occured to you- however pointless, and when you're not happy for a prolonged period, reluctantly and sparingly, you'll seek the smallest blisses, walking a path wishing rather you were an earthworm, so you could play dead and walk again unaccounted for, and wiggle away inside the nothing that you know, mayhap even shit in the shoeflower of soil you walk in, it's hilarious. I want to call you lazy, but you're just, yes- lazy, ahem- old?


    Well, I was jesting! You're fine, except when you're in love, then you're a beetle, from an earthworm, and what evolution! Like Keats you show your deewangi symptoms, like Bukowski you feel yourself all queasy within, and none of the Titans to actually compare your love sonnets with, because you write none, or, better declare you write none than show around what you do! Don't be this hilarious too, baby!


    Well, jesting again! But if you're hilarious, then be it, by all means! The Eden of love is not fuelled of your false promises, don't be the tailor, the piece of cloth and the scissor rolled in one, what and why are you trying to fit! You do not have to love what you do not feel, you can walk the extraterrestrial end until you need or feel the pavement on the right, feel me?, you can be so brave as to tell a lot of people you actually do not need or, even like them, you can be so brave as to hurt someone, hurt that the way they hug the balloons of their faces and sinews, means nothing to you, or, means a boot.


    But, you think that's the real jest! To think that to get to hurt an xyz on your account, is bravery! Tho, is it, is it not! I am not a judge of great good things, I'll still ask you to be brave, whatever you do with it, I'll leave (also live) with you.
    I'll let you one whole free sky of being the singlemost bravest doormat, if that's what you need- on which is written 'you're beautiful, people' turned toward the host and toward the guest, just not ever toward the hand! Why should I object, when you're living in God's word, prayer's an act of the aligned head, the hand and the foot, when they're all pointing at Paradise already- and, maybe you should be writing me the letter instead, i.e., you have recived in writ confirmation the promise to your share of angel-reared-apples in God's overseeing, in Vaikunth, yeah?


    No?! The jest is that you war with faith, so I'll tell you rightaway, ya God's real and you must pray and not just try to pray, because you need God, wintering gets more pathetic by and by. You'll talk to God because you need a friend and you need to think of home, and you'll admit like a wise person that God's unto man for man needs to believe that someone one person xyz, holds him in some tolerable regard.


    And the zest of this jest is that all the religious and of- faith dilemmas are not so much the question, just don't be so fanciful as to suffer a weekly change of moods and theological sciences! The question is what's the point of life? The point of religion, of God, of duty, mercy, food, performance, love?


    You're hilarious because you're the person of a thousand books and a one most recent quote. Here's my second gift to you in a day (saving a good 5 yrs or so)- 'the point of everything is to read, consume'. That should be enough for some time, to, just know, like doormats too must naturally get to know more and more feet, no?, chop chop!


    Just jesting, dear! Or, am I! See you're going to be more hilarious when you're older like me you know, you'll give yourself wrinkles and pimples by now, worrying so much about everything. So yes, you're right to worry about your overall health, your skin, hair, tummy, bottoms- double yes, the worrying wonderfully complementing the worrying unto a wrinkle in time, congratulations! But, breathe a lot! Hold your body when you sleep, like hug your arms or pack a palm in the rain of thighs, nudge an elbow in the crack of that angsty waist, to check to check, then think that you're warm! Be introduced to your body, because I love you, but I'm a viable, loveable, diable thing, God of small quotes! I'm another doormat maybe or a matchbox girl, tin soldier of lameness, either way I'm dying, giving unto you my only best.


    Don't jest no more! Your little windowing of time is so wonderful I say, it could be the next heroine of a Fitzgerald novel. Let it debut too anyday now, you need to work out, you need the vixen's muscley things, and I am tired of these stickinsect organics, simply on account of how they walk, why don't they walk!


    You think I'm jesting since I do not bring up 'writing' once in my soliloquy! Ahem.. that's because I truly do not believe you have a rare (extraterrestrial) talent, you're gifted somewhat and you've chosen to play it up somewhat, you have my best; it's a choice, I respect yours, though I also hold it to the fact that neither the problem nor its answer is one ingenious, significant, world-class. You could write, you should write, or if you died, you died, that kind of thing!


    Your joy is your seeking joy. Jest! Zest! You like to touch and smell things, you like to see open grass and sky, open grass and sky, why o why! You show so much faith of death, and while I think it's very yesterday and uncalled for, I hold it maybe, organic(?) to you, even effective(?)! Maybe you'd consider a long vacation at that old spot in Cherra? Nearby, that nameless grave, but pretty with a white iron cross designed with filigree and frondy blackbirds: lace- life.


    Gist (un jest) of the matter is you're okay, kid! You're making happiness and that's a bright thing to be. You'll take care of yourself and I'll be happy about it. You'll grow older and less sharp, and less sharp- tongued, less riotous and more bemused, and I'll find it hilarious and cute evermore. You'll have more time, increasingly more time, but will you ever take your little windowing and bracketing, from this time to that cross of Cherra? It's a choice again, and I'll respect you, because I am your thigh, tied and torn and toed and towed and twoed on you.


    With dearest love,
    Becoming 'becoming:))

  • qaynaat 3w

    Life at half-life kills you anyway. What of it then, if you go on living or if you died-, he had said this some time ago in his status. 'Kisiko kya padi hai!', and he was right- hamein kisiko khaas nahin padi thi.


    He died today, cousin, my age, by early daylight, he passed into unconsciousness first, then passed into the angel's kiss on his lips. He died with a blue bruise swirling and licking all up like grass about his guts, as if the door of the hells open, and gives you to the ghosts that will kill your life at half- life, anyway.


    He made one striking figure because he was quite handsome, ripped- worked out, and was tall like tall. I used to tease him all the time for all the girls that would keep texting him, for the girls that brought gifts home to him: it was crazy. Frivolous, we used to advise each other to get married, settle down, start straightening up. He used to like that I wrote the little poems and notes, though he'd tell me- not his cup of tea, he used to call my pics artistic, and he used to ask me why I was fond of such a setting and not the other. I had once dreamt the two of us free and wandering in an Assam of old, adoring forgotten crannies and making pictures: an 'artistic' worthwhile life.


    It's funny now, some would say, the drink got to him. Some would say, it's about his attitude which was growing increasingly blind, difficult, stern, and aloof. Funnier is- man must die and it's most urgent, life kills you at half- life anyway, but that's not my cousin. Funnier yet is none of you knows him, just a handful of guys ever did. Even as more people were forgetting him as he grew darker, more reluctant in his bent corner.


    I want people to know him- that's what. I want people to think of him and think that they have lost the blessed man today. I want you to mourn, and admit that his life was indeed a gift, and he'd made a gift out of it. 'Hamein khaas nahin padi hai' but I want you to know that I am missing my cousin starting today, who was a good person, who was filled with youth and passion and desires for life and joy and frolic and wild plans, he could have 'aimed' for the greatness of everything. But man must die, it's the utmost urgent, and he just provided his attendance naturally.


    Man must have gifts, that is what I want you to think him by. He had a gift, cousin Pinku, he had seen the Gurus in a dream. He must have been just 3 when he was left fatherless, with his mother and an elder sister. The household had zero income, hardly a decent shed to call home. They had some education, but at some point with the fees always a biting bother, it was pointless anyway, they were not any academically gifted.


    They could get Pinki (his sister) married at 18, but Pinku had to make one and two livings, it would fall to him to run the household at 18. At 16, lying about his age on paper, he sneaked into a military enrollment camp, and cracked the physically taxing tests with brilliance. His lie was later caught, and he was sent home with life counsel and grave pity about his poverty.


    By the time he came of age, besides college, he'd fervently beat any ends to make them meet, but he had only bad-luck and desperation. On one such night, when he was about 18, in his dream he saw that, an early morning walking about, he had wandered into the community Gurudwara, where he saw the Gurus who showed him how to repair an electronic gadget, what you unscrew, then which chip and blade goes where kind of thing.


    The next morning, in the same fashion, he went first to the Gurudwara, offered prayers, back home and opened up a gadget to fix it, and he could. That's how he began to set up his little factory of mechanical repairing, and became the go-to gadget guy of their quaint small town. Seriously, who doesn't know Pawanjeet in Tangla and everywhere nearby, who doesn't need him over at their place urgently, checking some minor glitch!


    Who doesn't think him talented, hardworking, providing, accomplished! Beautiful, warm, jovial, sprightly! But man must die, it's the most urgent, as must man man gifts. And when you do not do the call of the angel right, a universal bruise opens up in the centre of your very earth; the doors of hell unfold and the ghosts of hell enfold, claiming you at half-life, anyway.


    He was a magical little dispeller of poverty, at least 3 peoples', and a house and home's! When riches is one thing people need before love and a God; he was the businessman: the pristine go-to gadget guy owned and trained under the wing of the ten Gurus.


    ~©neexaa

  • qaynaat 3w

    in answer to my letter,
    he sent me a dagger to invade
    my own heart-

    gushy roses: soft dew of blood
    to wear like a sun
    at his vest- proud, and taut.


    ~ ©neexaa

  • qaynaat 3w

    take
    your light,
    leave me bright
    that leaves your dream,
    stars


    -©neexaa

  • qaynaat 4w

    Coral- its wraith, bygone, solitary
    Coral- wrought, a faith lives on, posthumous
    Coral roses- flush an inch for the inch hour's wait, yet
    Coral moon- bleeding from wounds, ebbing rime

    Coral ocean- saying your name, shying away
    Coral: poem, you are the alliteration of hymns
    Coral reef- beauty becomes. Here! Leap!
    Coral sky bolts: a close-mouthed fury--

    Coral guts of the earth, will split for light: jewel; if you leap.


    ~neexaa

  • qaynaat 4w

    From Krishnaki's oceanic body,
    blue wing- restless, revolted,
    lapping seasons, for hunger.
    Now dusk falls, you can't see

    her: sensual anymore. Her wing dips
    in the dune of love, some ruffled
    desert: a perfect sun calling thirst
    and wanderlust to union.


    - sky


    ~ neexaa

  • qaynaat 5w

    We've stopped caring about love: it is
    the age of enlightenment, and about telling it in
    lovely words. So, I thought of you in my heart.


    With the heart's animalistic- eye, that is actually its comfortless,
    great arm: the left molehill of the left arch, left chest
    that is actually how chests rebel to be the abyssal


    tree of love- that's where the eye is, lesser buckthorn
    broadleaf in a forest, and in it, I smiled at you- what
    a bore that so-and-so aunt is, the ruckus, all silliness


    she cooked up this Christmas. And, you listened, countries
    with warfronts at seafronts in them- knotted,
    and knitted, unreal origami swan; a sorry, red envelope


    On my desk, warm under the table lamp, snaky
    under the dusk- rain, your name on it- waiting. I didn't have
    to speak. From the right arm of the heart, which is


    forearmed, bespectacled like an old Father:
    you laughed halfway through it: more and
    more like yourself, then, rolled your eyes, and a dewdrop


    strays from nowhere, sits on the envelope, smelting
    and sullying its red: I run to you, but there's already
    a rip. By my looming arm, I roll out of my body- back, back. I shake


    a hopeless branch, in where homes a company
    of swans, gray for the blackest night. They drop,
    like fog drops in the stars, and the stars and fog


    then, drop on the earth: you're right, it's nothing, I unmind
    the slighting, the sneering; only because I miss you. I
    would have wept for you- season's greetings, but


    I thought of a card trick instead, how the mouth: half- cuts
    like a flower, just beginning to wish on a bout
    of laughings, and joy. I want to nurse


    your laughter with all that is yet primitive-
    like a little God dreaming on a lozenge: fable,
    until the mint and kernels of tangerine flirt with him, yield


    itself. A lovely word rises in the correct
    crossing of this town: prim and poetic with sleep,
    like a sun, and the other giving tree loves like a swan


    Unraveling paper- all the way to the first riddle, begging
    you tell the fairytale- the ballad of our valley, highest
    king of kings, his vow for each brow- reverberate


    laughter: tree, another tree
    for the forest: gold, the enlightenment
    of hope. This bric-a-brac heart- in this sitting envelope.



    ~ ©neexa

    ~

  • qaynaat 5w

    Winter solstice
    hardened flowers on a bough
    dolled up for a long time to go-
    are pretty, you say.

    Your gleaming cheeks radiating
    warmth, a pink felt cap radiating
    like a sun crown from you. Words
    get through me- words words go

    through me, and you never knew.
    Thorns wet with a foreign kind of cold:
    the thawed morning cold, that allows
    the dance of blood and water for the body.

    Winter is just a cruel thing, my love!
    I reminisce the days of the past,
    remember you- drawing sky- circles
    in a skin so brown, so sandy, so young,

    tense and terse with youth. Winter:
    burst of the Flaming Sword- a billowing hair,
    a dingy eye stewing in hard mulch. Old
    words drop from swords, stars of ice- loose,

    and even, winged perhaps. But
    no one stoops to meddle in the earth. Cold
    is the midwife that embraces and mixes
    up the baby so brown, baby of the sands.

    Love
    blooms out of youth, she wails, winter,
    out of ashes, ice, out of a tree
    hindered by clouds now, or, nothing.


    ~ ©neexaa

  • qaynaat 7w

    Every cloud has a silver lining,
    silver of radioactive nuclear explosion is more like it!

    *

    An apple a day keeps the doctor away, and if the doctor's cute, keep the apple away.

    *

    A slap can turn into congratulations if you turn at the right time, and the (heady) palm lands on your back (of mockery) instead. And, vice versa.

    Better, slap back who slaps you.

    Or, do something congratulatory, because slaps can be slapped at whims, but congratulations are generally congratulated on reason.

    *

    Eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. They, in the world then, go on and on about the rest of the senses of the blind, gaining new supernatural heights of sensation.

    Also the simplest fact is right, why would the blind mind a whole world becoming supernatural like himself, or in other words, blind?

    *

    If you can't be nice, be blind.

    At least you didn't look at the bad you made worse.

    At least you made it worse, only because you couldn't see it. At least you do not see yourself now, feeling bad about it. Or, do not see yourself not feeling bad about it.

    Or, not feeling at all.

    *

    - ©neexa

  • qaynaat 57w

    ~•*

    One thousand times, I take his name
    I'm in love, it is not hard to tell
    I crinkle, breaking into sprigs,
    although my spine is bent



    I am like the mouth of the fiddlehead fern
    My tongue is curled inwards
    making no sound, and going in no direction,
    but a breaking of green gives up my secret.



    O' Sakhyamuni, I am really trying
    but I cannot sleep all night
    Listening to the breeze beating in the peach blossom,
    I dream of the hearth of his hands



    Holding my body- its thick skin
    My body beating
    in its thick skin- glimmering
    I- reaching him like a flame.



    O' Sakhyamuni, it is not passion
    My heart weeps for him,
    He is its beating- it is love.
    Says Sakhyamuni, it is with your thoughts



    you learn him- look at this clock
    that strikes 12 midnight- its needles are made
    from the yellow bamboo bush that grows
    beside the clement stream, that will really grow



    into a deep forest by a year
    if you let it flow.




    - Sanjukta.



    ~