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2 poems by Ajinkya

Updated: Oct 16, 2021

Artwork: Dark Encounter by Max Kahn

Exodus maybe everything is an exodus from darkness  to darkness. fingers goaded by a third eye grow accustomed to the shape of the wooden handle,  wrought iron railing, dust, rust and finally, light -  disloyal dot, mischievous stranger skipping dreams,  trailing desire between fingers. We remember, always,  the start, and grope with the impossible barefaced trust of children discovering the form of purpose.  love is the moistness of skin whispering  with the undercover orchestra of memory,  not feeling; soft palm cradling the contours  of comfort, but not quite, like an ill-fitting dress.  even words stand at the door of experience,  out of place in the ostentation of flourish.  when it turns into testimony, after all, it is lost.  Darkness allows space for discovery, to find the edges of your own voice. one could find the embrace of a life by carving out the moonrise from the infinite excess of night,  rationing light like a physician bloodletting survival into the world. The Traveller the boatman delivers the promise that floats between lovers' lips the message that frees the prisoner and stalls the onslaught in the dead of night. everything is lost in translation. in the Exodus, even god’s message  needed the artillery of plagues to convince the tyrant. all that the messenger can call his own is the transit. what is left behind was home, what is ahead  is a dream - that is why it is obscure. and so the wanderer learns  the meaning of a friend, not what was before, not what is to come, but what is in between- under his chapped soles. do you know what it is to surrender to the expanse? to choose the companionship of the road? to claim the half-bitten moon as a mother, and lie beside the corpse of the wind under a torn headscarf? do you know that a baby’s unborn cry stifled with the sound of our indifference is a wee bit difficult to abbreviate  into the inked outlines  of a government register? maybe transit is our default state of being maybe we are truly ourselves, we are truly counted, only in death. when we are finally still. no wait,              not for them,                                   not even then.

About the poet:

Ajinkya is a poet, and curator of Poetly, a newsletter, and digital poetry archive. Poetly can be followed on instagram here.

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