More than a muse

I fear in an agony
if you shall remain a muse,
become another set of poems,
of a sad old poet —
a classic tale, for me to brood.

I fear in an agony
of unpublished manuscripts
filling up my lonely room
while you dance away my
infected love for you.

And I pray you bloom
out of this saree of a muse,
let the draping drop, the shawl loose,
toss it away
and let your heart ooze.

Bare me your body, your soul, and your spirit.
I shall drink thy elixir
to sooth this madness for you.
To calm this illness of a diseased heart,
I seek in you, my heart’s refuge.

Too much of anything cannot be good,
but of you, too much —
it shall be never be
for I shall always be
hungry and thirsty for you.

Give me no more poems,
but those lips.
Quench this thirst,
and let this heart burst.

Give me no more poems
but your heart.
Fill these gardens,
and let thy flowers bloom.

Give me no more poems,
you’ll poison me with them.
Give me no more poems,
you’ll become my muse.

Give me no more poems but —
Will you be my love, O Dear Muse?

Excerpts from a story

Poets write on you, heroes cry of you.
We have come a long way.
Your fragrance still runs through.
What must I do of you?


A ponytail, a plaid,
like an old-skool gait;
of nature and of simplicity,
your beauty has said.


Oh, wild flower, wild flower!
I know nothing much of you,
but of your beauty, and your smell.
Do I love you? Tell.


Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
July 2016


Today, Florentino puts a mouthful of papers,
of letters, his fingers pushing them down,
peripheral vision tearing up, miserable face, miserable act.

Today, Florentino chews his own letters,
chokes on his own words, whitewashed, white lies,
romantacised, chiseled love, refined words, aged wine.

Tonight, Florentino dips a finger in ink, swims,
moves a leisurely leisure. No words, just lines,
little finger, swaying circles,
a curve here, there, a twist, a turn,
a circle, misshaped, misfit, a crooked rhythm.

Tonight, Florentino puts his face upon paper,
rests his face upon lamp’s lap, warm glow, warm face,
warm light, warm forest face, evening dusk, evening ends,
tearing eyes, tearing papers.
Florentino chokes for his unloved love letters.

Tonight, Florentino weeps, in bullock cart’s rhythm,
heart sobbing in bulls’ bells’ swinging motion,
face falling in face-cupping palm-hands, hair-pulling hands.
Sniffs, snobs. Life’s music — God hums, oh, Florentino,
oh, Florentino, He hums while Florentino writes another love letter.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
May 2017

Flowers’ fate

Flowers are crushed
Stepped on
A breaking stem
Pressed petals
Petals cut
Dust sweeping up
Covering up
Cold cold wind, your hand
Pulling it up
Death’s blanket

People build walls
A fortress around hearts
Flowers and birds
Keep out

— Tales from a sadistic Universe

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
May 2017

Apple skin

Against lips of mine,
sensual, thin apple skin —
ceramic rims tease
like running fingers
against a woman’s skin.
Ceramic rims, glass or silver —
I prefer to kiss
a girl’s thin apple skin.

Neal Ym (Phalguni Y)
October 5, 2016