O Where?

There can be no peace of mind in love,

Since what one has obtained is never anything

But a starting point for further desires.

-Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

O, where is my heart, beloved? Where has that spoilt thing gone, with its fickle measure, and sullen frown?

O, where has it gone, beloved? And what is this fluttering thing that fills up its empty space?

O, tell me, where has it gone, and why doth this queer emptiness that is so full, overflow my throat, and lungs, and stomach, instead?

O, do tell jaanu, where has that wicked creature gone that you have taken?

Is that it? That sweetness of light that flows ‘twixt the rising suns unveiling your laughter?

Or was it in the tender curve of your mouth, twisting to gentle bemusement?

O, tell me quickly where I can find that pesky thing you have taken with your laughter, and your soul, and your eyes,

For it is quite difficult to fathom what I must do with all this queer glow that beams from my chest like wolf’s moon at dark.

O, beloved, do tell where I am to find it–

That lost organ whose home has been stolen by a possibility so bright, I have not yet had chance to teach bespectacled orbs to not see the burn of flickering stars, still long from burning cold.

O, jaanu, tell my ears before they forget reason’s voice–

Where is that organ you have taken, and what dread glory habits its caves?

K.N.O.W. Thursday, March 24, 2016. 5.30-6. a.m.

😐 I just really needed a reason to use a pretty quote from that journal I never touch. That’s the story I’m sticking with.


There is none between our palms,
Because you refused to let go
When you squeezed my hand in farewell.

There is plenty of it between
My mother and I.

It is all taken up,
By the fragrance of your bath-wash,
Filling every breath I take.

The oceans I could not cross,
Although your pain was clear.

Always non-existent when I sat beside Adurna,
And she taught me how to love.

An Andromeda I discovered,
While your scent clung to my skin.

The loss my family knew,
When Gran did not remain.

“the space between us”:
A great book I once read,
Which became the story of us.

Monday, May 4, 2015. 01:33 hrs.
*An old prompt I took a little too seriously while browsing through The Poet’s Billow.*

We Do Not Discuss These Lines

You and I do not discuss these lines we pen,
For there is something between those lines—
In our hidden aspiration to great sonnets, and couplets, and lyric poetry—
Which details a world of things we cannot speak;

For between those lines, and behind those metaphors,
We allude to past and present,
Caliginous dreams and lost visions–
Hopes and disappointments
That have marked our skins,
And made homes within our eyes:

On dark days and bright nights when the world was silent,
And the voices cried loudly for things we could not give them,
Our pens moved, and sometimes our lips with them,
As we too marred blank page, and scholarly-lined books,
With stories our parents pretended not to know,
And histories of their own they imparted within us;

At the birth of these tales,
When the concepts were too heavy,
Too big with burden, and unheard screams,
As we struggled to push them from the loins of our throats,
We learned to share them
So that our labour would not be lonely—
‘Though it always has been (Is that not why we write so much?);

And while we do not discuss these lines and,
Shall probably never give voice
To the sentiments from which they rose,
And will continue to rise,
In the reading of these lines,
We shall always know
What one smile
And two eyes offer,
As they muse on the knowledge,
Of what our labour is like.


Kadeen Nichelle Oksana Waldron. April 13 & 24, 2015. 13.45 hrs and 12.17 hrs.
Began in MacroEcons and ended in bed 🙂