12/4/2017 Poetry by Archita Mittraprologue sometimes, poetry cracks apart at the seams, burning goodbye-shaped holes at the bottom of great black ships, bearing withered secrets they shall take to the ocean grave. words sputter out of your mouth like blood & breath beneath iron corsets & crinoline. in love letters to someone strange & desperate, you take refuge in myth, your woman-heart a casket they threw deep down a wishing well, a folktale allusion for all the poets to come. the old toyshop down the lane has disappeared; they whisper that the city swallowed it at night & did you notice, the blackbirds are scattering like stars. i wonder if the air smells lonelier. perhaps it is a sign of winter or love or something else (it is always something else). this is a tale of your death & re-living, a squirrel's careless step & the unending dive, the blue of a childhood sky you fell in love with, that took its last breath in a baroque painting, the dark of persephone’s winter emptiness. tell me if you can, what happens to burnt diaries, to claustrophobic ghosts in summer heat, to the spaces between conversations...the way the clouds wear their secrets reminds me of you & the poetry we'd rhyme before we discovered language-careless, unending & skeletal. beginning as a second person 1. beginnings are quiet things, hastily wrapped & orphaned at your doorstep in the dreamy light of midnight. they come without letter or promise 2. (dear mountain wind, teach me to look into mirrors, into the cracks in the walls, into little lonely puddles of gasoline rainbows, & not & not & not be terrified by what i find lurking there for me) 3. there is a universe of lost things. it is the dark forest of your childhood, where birdsong bleeds like mourning & sad moss creeps up on your skin like a desperate shadow. do not fear your returning there 4. when you yearn to scream but cannot, realize your mouth is a cave, swallowing dark water. remember all the lessons you learnt in your past life as a mermaid with coral-red hair & seashell skin (who dreamed the sun a pearl & a prince with legs) & swim & swim & swim against the tide & that manic moon woman & this spell you’ve woven into yourself- 5. in the old house at the end of the lane, there’s a dusty room where a painting of a princess still hangs. set fire to it, yes & kiss your soot-stained fingers. if they still feel like paint or the past, lick them clean 6. a planet thrown off orbit is still a planet. ask any solar system & you’ll know. imaginary friends (even the dead ones) are still friends. ask any ghost & you’ll know 7. every ending comes with a door. you (i) may choose not to enter; ![]() Bio: Archita Mittra is a wordsmith, visual artist with a love for all things vintage and darkly fantastical. A student of English Literature at Jadavpur University, she also has a Diploma in Multimedia and Animation from St. Xavier’s College, Kolkata. Her work has appeared or been profiled in The Statesman, Thought Catalog, Maudlin House, Rising Phoenix Review, Luna Luna Magazine and elsewhere. She also serves as the Poetry Editor at Quail Bell Magazine, occasionally practises as a tarot card reader and is still waiting for The Doctor and the TARDIS to show up. You can follow her Twitter at @archita_mittra and check out her blog here: https://architamittra.wordpress.com/ Comments are closed.
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