http://slow.writerscafe.org/Illitdarkness The original writings of author Abhra en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775984134 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 This dance of feet my love for some measureof a songThis dance of drops on windows for a sigh of bluesbefore it catches a breath of you.  This mad run of warmth my beloved into green open fieldsto find sunflowersbefore the rain touches you This d.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1989700/ I write to my city of many lightsto my city of darknessto its aging body of people living and breathing as shadows.I write to its midnights (when my city quietly walks to wet its feet in the river)as it erupts silently as STD's on the countenance of hookers,I write to their naked breast that of.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1806095/ When I am the b***h this is your p***y to hate. It is yours to own.This vagina is yours.This is your playground. This is your own country. Your masculinity was born here. In the neighborhood and context of my p***y.Our p***y.You can chain it. Devour it. Desecrate it. Decide what must and m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1804334/ There's no poetry for inhumanity,injustice and greed.There are no words that (placed in any order)would make oppression beautiful. No measure of language that makes it palatable. Perhaps it is just as wellthat you take my eyes outSo that from now onI will not see;my brethren vi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1804108/ Let some parts be left behindSo that they may sift and form an open wound.Know thatsome things are left behind in transit from one tongue to another(as from Hebrew to Yiddish)So that no matter how hard you trySome things can no longer.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1798659/  This is the measure of fogsthe loose grasp of wet soilthe measure of tendrils that shadow my fingersthe smoke that lives betweensilence and poems. This is the place where mosses slowly forget to be trees; where they only ga.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1782969/ Often out of the blueI am driven to populate a list,like Herat,of things you cannot take from me.You bloom like Genghisand its citizens like spiders.traveling far..nomads in the inner shadows the gatherers of oblivionand like the sudden dew of dawnI decide that I am the Khan .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1668369/ Waves have a way of giving back. A little boy swept to the shore. The ocean is too old to take a child in. Here Fado take this child. She leaves him on the beach.Face down. Arms spread out. He is too heavy for my bosom. His limbs are swollen from the salt. He wailed for his mot.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1656421/ Tell me about soot that gives body to shadowsand sends them as meager friendsto sew the thread of nearnesstell me about folk whofold the rain into their windowsand offer them to birds tell me how poems are riveted by silenceTell me about those nomads who travel in handfuls like sand h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1405700/ Don't spread rumors about cities or riversdon't tell me that my belovedwalks through my memorylike a cityknow that I have walked farfar enough to find Qandahar right in the middle of my sentencesDon't bring your rain to mineknow that there can be no friendshipsamong their folk,they are mere toolsm.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1330439/ I have a windowsubliminally to a quiet housewhere the diaspora of silence ebbs and tideslike the brackish waters of Sundarbans.Making sense like broken things.Some like fireflies, some like shadows. The house accepts me like its folk songof shadows and groans.Groaning with footsteps.S.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1310526/ This is so much a love songthat my body Brazil like swaysfrom the brass in your voiceThe hum from the sea that seepssomewhat like a twilight breaththe sound of words rustlingand you break tongues to draw fromtheir breathas you say 'hearts break and hearts wait'The faint congr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1239222/  This is my versewith its fogand footprints in the pastThis is my earthmy window to the rainwith words made out of footmarksand ink. I write tentatively now, going back and forth in syllablesThis is where I lost my way .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1238126/ Waves from the seawith so much hauntinglike shadowsfollow me to every wordher face breaking slowly dissolving in the little puddle i madein the home of my handsin its disordered city of linesand only at last foundin the outskirtsof forgettingin the windows of poemscli.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1234078/ Perhaps in closingperhaps in whispersI write to you again.In my halted speechwords spill over slowly…A thought huesmy absent gaze I keep the break of dawnin the folds of re-read pagesabout the wind softand the grass green,I know them from somewhere before.From another fall…when I .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1228833/ Give it a name, something colloquial, something easylike 'there'. Like the city you have left. Far behind. Or somewhere you have arrived with your baggage.You stitch the time and place with hashtags. #Nowandheresmoothly.And It stays like that. In your mind. Your world hanging in .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1198223/ I don't remember if its nineor seven feet every second.But that's how you escape gravity,forget stories; estrange your shadows.The unexplained sluggishness around your feet.That is how you elude the small hands of rain.Leave behind the heaviness of circumstances. You close your windows.Shut and.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1172121/ This does not read like things that break.These are not words that come in the form of seas.These aren't words that froth and foam silhouettes. This isn't a story that runs like coloror a soon to die out torch. Neither is it about pieces that add up to a whole.This is about sitting bes.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1086136/ If this were about a closure.It would be a museum of many things,knick knacks, illusions and poems.Words flaring up like an old bruise some caving in like the loose earth during monsoon some going out like the those stars that shimmer with the fleeting hue of permanence.If this were a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1054210/ There is a place somewhere along the hairlines of oblivionObscure yet with history. Where you are a tendril of a vision. Dim yet with commensurate charm. Somewhere between light and shade.Like a photograph. Collated and kept in wooden boxes that only open to humidity.&n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1043933/ This is as much about nothing.As it is about things that do not feature.This is about all the commas, pauses in speech and the halts in breatha poem can muster. A poem made of words that tread and pause. Pause and remember. Kiting somewhere between forgetting and giving up.T.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1042893/ This is a minute.A minute stolen from a day. A minute in which you embrace final things.The things that come after fables end.A minute that only keeps count of heartbreaks, like a postmark.A minute in which you find shadows and nihilism finally rattles by your window.A minute in which you .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1033423/ Things appear from the past.. An identity of distance between footprints and the body.It's geography and history is in tiny, sparse things. In its own faded corner.It has something in common with white.Something about its patience annoys you.You get restless and begin to count in.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1009621/ I want to know the origin of wind.I want to know her face.If she has history and kins.I want to know her name. What did they call the wind when she was a child? Was she named sawah?Is there a road that she takes less often?What does she think when she's passing through a flute? I.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1009610/ I cannot begin to write about lifeFor it is short.Summed up neatly in a few memoriesLike a bundle of old newspaperStored aside for occasional reference.You lived.And it ends.Like that.Neither can I write about deathDeath is too long.Smoked in hazy absence.Like the mouth of a riverSeared and forsaken.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1007222/ What do I do with so much poetry and so many wordswhen all I have to say footnotes in silence.In the disheveled coliseum of language, vicinity is a river in ruins.And I run through colors and love.These alleys have no one in them, only a window waits for me.and I keep looking to the street.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1006852/ This was also written sometime in 2007 http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1006851/ I shall call it a parenthesisbecause life does extend beyond it,suddenly,in all directions.And inside there's just a dotted landscape, with somemoth-eaten words that remain spelt in random order,so much so, that it sometimes rains to make sense.A little farther out, I want you to know, that there is.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1006839/ This poem was written awhile back. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1006835/ I come from a place where languageshave widows.Their adjectives are unclothed, unpronouncedand executed openly in foster care of soft-drink republics.I come from a place where all windows were dimpled and pointed to the sea.Forest had homes. Rivers had folklore.Until.They found a door that.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/1002805/ I am happy that we are not a part of a rectangle. Or of anything exact. Although I do admitthat we mostly meet in rectangles.But be that as it may, triangles we are not. Neither are we like countries.We do not share bordersalthough there is no part in uswhere one could .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/997746/ you would know that finality is a placewhere everything is done once.You would know the territory of closing and bolting a door.  You would know and recall closing linesfrom many verses, for instance"Shut and bolt you doors. No-one, no-one will come here now."You know no-one and no-on.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/996449/ I close here. In the vicinity of trees.In the whistling alleyways of the wind, where all the things you've given me sway like wind chimes.Only your thoughts linger like a twilight waiting for nightfall.We sort through the looming fireflies, split themso that there may be silence.You keep their .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/981296/ Today is not cinco de mayo. Or a momentous day of liberty. It is not a day where the leaves might congress.It is not a day out of a dream.Today is the fourteenth day of May. A day where I seem to circle around like a tethered moth. Unable to escape and only the fire promises any hope .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/974327/ There comes a time when I floatthrough my own nameless river,sometimes with a taste of salt, sometimes with a touch of kohl,(I call yours).where a story(a debilitated home of yesterdays)breaks into roughhewn fables, and soon after, recede as refugeesinto the corners and shadowsof a song.In.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/970983/ Sometimes i visit mypoems of old. My family of words.They live in the realm of forgetting.As I see them they have aged with wrinkled skins and hollowed out teeth. They walk slower and brood most of the day.They have forgotten their lot, stopped to groan and ache with me. Now the.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/915709/ Call me reminiscent tonight.Call me butter and bread.Call me erupt, meadow.Call me anything tonight.In this discordant night.I can become anything you want.A book of unfinished passages. A rain drenched road.Call me a harp, a stringor lament tonight.Call me a word. Any word. But do not find a m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/804228/ Perhaps I write to you. Perhaps to your shadow.Maybe to all the brittle things that accumulatebetween you and me.To the museum ofblurs and fogs.To the moments in whichI lose the thread of wordsand when you almostcome into my poemslike reluctant shadows from the night,wounded and flickering.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/735239/ Perhaps there's still some poetry left,somewhere,even when there are no beginningsand no ends. Living in some alleyways beyond blur,like the nomad sand, like the wistful wind.Sometimes it comes barefoot, like silence.There were stories once.Unfolding from every cornerwhich held the reminder of your .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/723209/ I offer nothing.Neither the night nor bread.Not a window or a tree.Not even the comfort of poetry.To us we are a seed. Buried deep into memories.where we each bloom a stranger.Mine carries your name.Your's carry mine.Silent and sable like shadows.I see what I wish in the present,waves made and .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/723207/ There will be a day when a poem shall pause to a lazy halt, as if to feel the evening breeze, to look up into the sky, to lie beneath a tree, somewhere.Where they shall forget their own country and their flaming tongue,the way an exiled lover slowly forgets his beloved's fac.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/723205/ I have a memory, a kajriand country of easy bruises.I have a window and a nameless space inhabited by a fabricbreathing in holes. I have ridges and a mountainbred in colors and discords. And a cultureof broken hearts surrounded by a sea-the keeper of secrets.I have a canvas tainted wi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/723203/ There's a something between us now.A long unnamed wind.instead of all the tangible things we broke the earth, the salt and the words.There was an amazon once and the randomsong of fleeting clouds.A staccato chime of cricketsin the quiver of my eyes,instead of the burnt logs of woods and the dea.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/580093/ Something draws me to writea poem that meanders insidewith a wish to bloom with your name.But you know how it isI lose myself in the fireflies of lifeand time floats away somewhere between tonightsand the clouds on their way home.As I navigate to the lines of your facemorning breaks into the frailne.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/530006/ I no longer visit the country of poetry.There is neither reason nor need.As I write tonight,I know not what lies ahead.I only know that I do not seek a port with words. I speak in a tongue of gooseflesh and the native rituals of absence.As I write tonight, I do not feel happiness or sorrow&nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/510559/ There are times when I wish I could write like DarwishSay for instance that I have learnt all the words and dismantled themto form from them a single word-you. I don’t.Simply because I do not love you like that country of nomad lovers.I do not feel you with my blood or skin.I do not .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/481004/ Somehow it has been long since I have not found you in my dreamscoiled in as-you-wish-mornings. You come still.Sometimes in the different shades of light,sometimes as a stranger, or a picket fence,or the kohl lined borders of vision.But you come still. As you only know how,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/478148/   Let some words be about voyages and homecomingsAnd not about things breaking.Let some words be like the Rhone,and let the night bend through it to dawn..Let some words be about afternoonsAnd the woman incarnateAbout the destitute carnal truths in your bosom.Your eye.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/475906/   I'd often wished that I could beginwhat I want to say with a certain "chapter 31"as a bookend ( the count notwithstanding)between half the heart bled beforeand the other half which wishes to run away.And my words takenout of darkness- as the blind read Brail.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/475905/   I speak of nothing.My tongue of gondolier nightshas lost itself into starless skiesimbued in thelanguage of quietude.I only hiss.Sometimes,like serpents festering with transgressionor as kettles and pots sigh in hushed steamin their despair to be something else... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Illitdarkness/475904/