Ahavati

~ Quocunque Jeceris Stabit ~

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Shakespeare in Love by Ahavati, literature

Literature

Shakespeare in Love

Thinking I would suffocate from heat, or dehydrate into a shriveled leaf, I wanted to crawl under a rock like those little animals in the dessert, content to watch the world turn when I felt you slip. When the rain came I was content to drown, allow the mud to rise above my shoulders, blocking sound to sleep so I could cross over too, rolling through light like milkweed until we were home. Yet, just as heat is abated by rain, thus is rain by heat, always in time to push the clock forward another minute. How easily my hands could navigate my own fate as effortlessly as the natural order of things. But, I keep thinking of Romeo, had he

Absolution I by Ahavati, literature

Literature

Absolution I

The wind is a trapped bird entangled in distance, a refugee gull blown inland by a category two hurricane. That angers her, because in younger years it would take a five to separate her from the shore. She hovers over McDonalds and Walmart for energy to sustain her flight home, diving for concrete water life: fries rolling like eels between cars and hamburger buns opening like clams from warm-waves of the sun. Sometimes bitterness gives way to memory: hermit crabs, platoons of foam capturing the beach and sandpipers defending against a navy of tourists. She hears the sea under the sound of a tire when it rains, puddled waves of mud sla

stars by Ahavati, literature

Literature

stars

I've seen them, alone and falling as though excommunicated by some angry church, burning from judgment through the atmosphere until swallowed by the deep throat of outer darkness. As a child I would wonder where they landed. I looked for any sign; glints of light that would reveal a colony of outcasts; soul mates I could migrate with, like a school of silver fish darting in time across an ocean wall. I thought I found them once, thousands of them floating listlessly on a pond, cooling after millions of light years of burning, unawares of being watched. But it was a mirage, the cruel joke of a mischievous sun from behind a cloud.

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Magic Flute by Ahavati, literature

Literature

Magic Flute

The moment I felt Death courting you my rib cage collapsed. I curled into childhood: the strange little girl always alone, talking to herself on the playground, thinking she was whispered a safe solitude of hush-holy clouds, relieved to slip away from mating rituals unnoticed; a detached solitude seeing only in shades of rock beneath a surface any touch or even death couldn't reach. Listen: Love is the beginning of Truth you were the first coup de foudre I climbed and the last amour out of this place. Wherever the courtship carried you, if ever a marriage or honeymoon, I renounce this waiting of hope; this solitude of celibate

Not this Island Music by Ahavati, literature

Literature

Not this Island Music

I. What it was never (on J reading Robert Kelly) "And after luscious months of living they would say it's not so very different from what they knew." It was never the verse, but something thicker dangerous to the finger; a bait trap of honesty foraged from a conformed colony by a dominant dro

monday by Ahavati, literature

Literature

monday

mornings are important to the poem. sometimes it has to struggle toward Monday and the house has to be cleaned. it hardly has time to think of you. it needs bagels for strength and caffeine for the tangled mess of words, strewn about like cheese doodles locked in battle position on the floor. the air is stale. it will unearth suitcases full of past. read chapters of history written on cracked luggage tags. it will want to stop because its allergies are flaring. the flotsam and jetsam of the mess is getting in the way of the poem. it becomes impatient and contemplates whiskey and a cigarette mid afternoon. it will di

On Love by Ahavati, literature

Literature

On Love

Love is not a poem drinking coffee at dusk calculating distance of space to close between us. It's a ratio of silence at the gallery opening; the dark-cornered guest with an understanding we fail to emulate. It mingles like an impaled olive. Its grief outshines the beautiful lichen munching satiated on stone when taken for granted or ignored. The reminder hurts so we impale its orange-red eye with the sharp fingers of our mouth. We reason its truth until shrunken to a memory of a memory. It's not about our need, though. Not the climb, the thrill, the release of salt and oil across our lips. It's about the stomach peeling from the burn o

Amnesic by Ahavati, literature

Literature

Amnesic

Amnesic The poem drained us; pressurized meaning from marrow -- a tsunami of DNA colliding against your tourist distance, binoculars dangling over the hibiscus of shirt, saturating your lie into the mundane of us before hijacking the last flight out. You'll show slides back home. Guests feign understanding while checking out the new BBQ instead. Your melancholy nature of undercurrent shifts the patio bricks beneath their feet as you pretend to refill a drink while staggering toward the memory of crest when we were face to face in the composition of it; the instant of discovery destined to be desecrated by the truth you hid. It will kee

untitled by Ahavati, literature

Literature

untitled

the silence can seem awkward don't look, it's perfectly at home. the poem will justify the yearn; the necessity of walls; believe that. my thoughts are tires over gravel that can't slow down for adjectives or verbs except for the poem. take this sentence and swallow hard. in the trust of you feel twos become one. here, we can take turns; your silence for my words. you understand because we've spent a lot of time recognizing tone: train wreck months; gnawing clocks; enormous rooms. look, baby, despite the lack of nouns and conjunctions, we know what is real. and it's not great expectations. it's what will be left after t

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About Ahavati

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Artist // Professional // Varied

Nov 5
United States
Deviant for 20 years
She / Her

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My Bio

Love is my religion.

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Picasso, Georges Rouault, Pierre Bonnard, Vincent van Gogh, Hanoch Ulfan, ,

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Ahavati

Dec 6, 2009

Prose For The Foreign One

0 min read

1. I haven't given up counting the days. So many days before you, during which silence lined the streets as if to welcome a great army that was going to save the city. The days you didn't come, when so much darkness fell from my useless hands. But I have known days when you came in like the armful of flowers that one throws in through the garden door, and sometimes I believed that you only ever left when night had fallen. And there were some days as well, fine long days as knowing as a pair of lowered eyes, when evening smoldered inexhaustibly like an ember under the ashes. You are not out of reach forever, and sometimes I have been very clo

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Ahavati

Aug 7, 2009

Being Ticked Off...

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has never been so pleasant! Thanks to everyone who suggested/vouched/nominated (however it's done) me for such a lovely honor. It's appreciated. :heart:

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Ahavati

Aug 4, 2009

In appreciation

0 min read

First, I want to apologize for my silence. This journal entry was not meant to garner attention or gauge that I was missed. I simply knew my last entry was outdated and needed removed. I didn't have the words to replace so simply left it blank until I had the time and words to say what I needed to say. Secondly, I want to thank everyone for their concern and well-wishes. I've reached a very tough decision and have delayed discussing it here for various reasons I'll leave be publicly. As you all know, my bio states that I had left the corporate world to focus on my art and writing.  I was in the process of relocation to settle and really focu