Beast
There is a beast in me,
Curled up into itself;
Fast asleep…
There is a beast in me;
A giant moving in soft steps,
Shaking off dragonflies from the grass…
A sparkling thing of melancholy,
Like a bluebird on a rusted gate
Singing at the setting sun
Like the band on the Titanic
Slowly going down…
The sun goes down,
Turning the grass black,
And the pink flowers red,
And the water a sparkling confusing mess…
There is a beast in me,
Curled up into itself;
Sleeping to this song in the heart
Created by the breeze
Blowing through its ventricles…
Toll
The hanging flower touches the water,
The cat looks up,
The pendulum sings
A sombre tone
That makes the living look at it…
That makes the dead open their eyes
And see
Their own blood,
Skulls,
The vines growing over rotting hair,
Swallowed by flowers
Opening to the chill of a slow violin,
Like a dead finger
Slowly moving
To feel the sand …
Pretty from afar
You’re a van Gogh painting;
Confusing in proximity,
Pretty from afar…
Like the sun throwing black light
On blue flowers;
Flowers that adore you,
But cannot decorate your hair;
Flowers that want to be plucked
And add to your breath and beauty;
Flowers that long to belong
Away from each other…
Stuck in the same field
Shoulder to shoulder.
You’re a van Gogh painting;
Confusing in proximity,
Pretty from afar…
With a red scar there on the cheek;
Probably a slash of blood
From a decapitated ear…
An ear now free,
But more freed by death than life…
Abel Johnson Thundil is a young poet from India. His poems are sometimes sentimental, sometimes dark; but always with a madness that’s very enjoyable. His works have appeared in Terror House Magazine, The Pangolin Review and The Hooghly Review. His anthology ‘Wilted: Poems of Modern Tragedy’ is available on Amazon as an e-book.
Contact: abeljthundil@gmail.com
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