Volume Two, Issue 2

Jayant Kashyap

Kissing the Sun

The day before you were to leave —
a little more than a fortnight ago —
I wanted to kiss you, but I abstained
from doing so; Just thought that
I would keep that for a later time;
I miss today how your skin felt against
mine — even though separated by
layers, of beautiful fabrics that you
wore, and the ragged ones, which
I always put on; I think I'll let myself
learn from you to dress, to look good
together, when we be; And will learn
to not miss your skin against mine,
in the process, and I'll learn that there is
but little difference between mine
and yours, that you feel the same
against me as I do against myself;
That we look as good together, with
each other, as by ourselves; That
there is little difference, if unfortunately
there is, between you and me — there
is, actually, no you and no me; There was
always just one self, and nothing that
would, that could, divide us, but
I miss your touch, and I'm learning to
feel my touch as yours, yours as mine,
or either way, and I'm learning to
not abstain the next time, I await
your arrival, and so does the kiss
that was calmly kept, though I kiss
you good night everytime, before sleep,
and I let the sun kiss you — lips mine;
Every morning, when you don't wake up,
and I do; But I await your arrival, and
sure shall do; I have a lot to learn
from you; I hope you come back soon.

Haircuts, and Laughter

Every year, a month before my birthday comes, I plan
to begin a year in a better way than the last ended —
usually pessimistic, or maybe moderately human;
somebody told me once, that in this age, people
grow sour with the passage of time, and it seemed a
riddle when he told me this, but I also learn that riddles are experiences.

So, I think of a haircut this time for a gentle
commencement, and we end up laughing at how I look,
for only moments ago I could have sold enough hair
and still be left with enough, and now that that is done,
the pirates seem to have won; I become the victim —
the jokes and the robbery conceived in my womb.

I end up hoping that a little growth of hair pride me
up again before a party does.

Expectations flutter. Days end.
I have a maybe moderately human year again,
with a vow that nothing be slaughtered while
Noah sets to borrow for mankind a second chance

A month to a day again.
We are found laughing at how I look. —
The haircut is gentle, for the commencement, though.

Of the Pact: February 2018

What I have left of you now is only
memory, and that we talk on the phone
and also text at intervals — but my time
and yours rarely compliment — and I
look at your photos (yet another memory!),
but that we do with the dead too;

It's been five years their having gone, more
or less. I don't need to look for their
photos, but I don't look at those; I don't
like my eyes well up — tears don't well up
in my eyes anymore. I know I miss them
as much now; I miss them lesser.

We have a pact made for this and this,
that I will visit you after it is
accomplished — and there are things never
accomplished. You never wish to achieve them.
Our times only rarely compliment, there are
things you have; You must envy me when

You wish to bask in the sun and play with
kites and dogs while I envy you because I
wish to play with the snow; so there are
also things you don't have, but I rarely
fly kites, or I don't do that at all. I though
click photos sometimes, when they glitter the

Sky — I have a taste for panoramic views
in particular; my phone's a wee bit small, but
it does them good. I don't zoom in, in fear
of a bad image, which you may laugh at when
we meet. We talk of ulterior destinations.
Ulterior intentions. We talk of words — contemptuous;

Conspicuous; ulterior those too; — while we're in
the middle of the months of my first book
being rejected, the second one being readied. You
suspect that I find myself in love, I
acknowledge that I be; You read me beyond
faces, beyond words, from all the distance.

Ulterior existences.
When god was not god, what must he have been?
When India not India, what India?


I wrote you a letter, only a couple months ago,
but it never reached you — I'm sorry! — and I'm
void of those expressions; I write my expressions
in words and let them leave me — words are
my lasso. I never wrote of the pact, so I have
as much excitement; I won't discuss the pact here,

So that excitement stays, and also the expressions
(in the form of words!) for some later time.
The world is so much phones. — I'm glad I don't
have a costlier one, that way I have the
leisure to write letters; I hope I behold you
before I die of radiations.

I don't know what the weather there is now, you
don't know what's here, only that I have the sun
and I know you are cold, but neither is sure —
neither of us relishes the sun when it stays;
but we notice radiations. I know you hate them,
I hate them too, apparently they hate too; but

They waste so much paper; — I stress myself on
what they do and what they do not, you
rather let them be. But that hurts the world!


I look at us in some of our photos, while
hundreds of animals feed, on the ocean-floor,
on oil that was once a whale — we only cease
to acknowledge such, but we know that it happens;
— death is common. Life overcrowds the planet.
Ulterior dimensions. I remember you when I

Observe an ant on a try to drag a bit of bread
all the way on the floor — how impossible it
seems! — I recall how your poems are yet my
favourites. I split the horizons to find your colour.
I look at the contrast between ours. I remember
the pact, and I recall when I last saw you;

You left before I did, and I remember you saying:
forever is quite an unfathomable time.
We have read poems together, though of only
one poet and that's enough; I love reading
Deborah Landau these days, I read your
old verses often. The thing I love about poetry

Is that we lived (to some extent, if not whole!)
together the sorrow that you had suffered alone
— I may never acknowledge this, but my words are
expression. Some expressions don't leave me even
after I leave them on paper; — I rarely
leave any paper though.

I keep picking out tomatoes from my plate when
I sit for dinner, at the mess, and watch them
look at the TV and discuss cricket the way
vultures hover over carcasses, but to no avail;
I assume they'll die with a narrow mind — and I
know you love tomatoes. When there are no

Tomatoes, at noon, and no cricket matches, I
look for carrots (I usually pick them out too!)
or rather be party to them who I accuse of
each having a narrow head; I hope that a
narrow head isn't contagious, but then hope itself
is — I cite it quite often these days, and a


Friend whom I found the same way as we found
each-other has apparently warned me to not
use these words so often — I hope I abide by
his wishes, but then hope is a contagion.

Degrees and Centimetres

O! Let it melt,
Yes —
And you well know,
Very well indeed,
What's got to happen;
From degrees
To centimetres —
To sea-level,
From sweat
To floods —
All you well know,
Very well indeed!

Jayant Kashyap: "Writing poems since 2012, I have tried to expand my horizons by extensive reading and also reviewing various books of fiction and poetry; in the past year, I have also been featured in a few national and international anthologies and on local and international websites ― including haiku, sonnet, free verse &c. I also write critical articles at times, but poetry is what makes me work on itself also in subconscious mind."

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