It's a wonderful day to present the poetry of a very talented individual here on the Jimmy Broccoli page and website. It is a great honor to share the poetry of Jyoti Aarya with you today.
Jyoti is highly skilled at weaving together beautiful and descriptive words to create complex and complete poetic masterpieces. Her words are purposely chosen - every line, every stanza is written with intent and detail, much like a careful artist's brush embraces it's canvas, producing alluring colors and shadows.
Jyoti Aaarya in her own words:
Intrinsically from career per se, as a Sr. learning and development professional spearheading multiple business accounts in the HR compass, Jyoti Nair is quite intrigued, with respect to the human behavior spectrum, its layered richness, and uncanny complexities. She believes in the imperative need to harness her writing abilities as experimental plugs to connect with people, with their myriad thought-tunnels…She feels, that’s the pulsating cusp, where the process of writing gallops, in its optimal propensity, towards her as an alchemy: gnawing, prodding, embracing her in varied frequencies. She has been intermittently greasing her quill since many years now, yet every literary piece unfolds as an awakening, while she loves to create canvases anew. Her works have found havens in distinguished poetry journals: The Kali Project & Through The Looking Glass- Indie Blue Publication Ventures, Impspired, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Open Skies Quarterly, Journal of Expressive Writing, Indian Periodical, The Times Group Femina, etc.
Here are two poems by Jyoti Aarya - and I know you'll enjoy them as much as I do! ______________
The crepuscule smiles… She has been asked to muddle The coquettish mocktails of our days Her dimples filling up to the brim Of those surreal glasses… Each glass holds the cue… Yellow, Orange, Red, Magenta… Paradisal puzzles knotted in eclectic hues Being poured by her dainty fingers They await, all agog… Albeit, they aren’t tricksters They don’t try to entice
Serene zeitgebers they are… Learn their foot tapping patterns You will need those To foxtrot with the ensuing obsidian shrills For now, she is the translucent gaze The first promise of your dawn How discerning is your palate? Will some sips suffice… To distil the anticipated Gravel groans of your path… Will a few gulps have the prudence… To foresee the savoury see-saw Being churned by swirls In those chosen glasses
Until then tread along The seams of that crepuscule Where sunrise blooms write To the withering foliage As dusks emit sighs of relief… Where empyrean landscapes Peep into each other Their glances stirring up The microcosms that we call life…
When dusks sneeze, The umber tresses of the ebbing twilights wrap them, Around their quivering napes. Those dusks, a smorgasbord of drenched yearnings. Their synchronized sighs, leaning from the parapet… Their bruised hearts, staggering on the patio… Could they be the acorns, beloveds that fell from the Terebinth Tree of Moreh. Perambulating as non-ionizing radiation, through sporadic phone calls. Mottled sweet nothings, moments that giggled as polka dots, drizzling from veneered autumns. Mirthful melancholic vagabonds… Anemoia ambling through barrels, That her arteries sip insouciantly… Inflammable capillaries, their smothered lunges… Pacified chest heaves, caressed vacuum of their souls… Inscribed on Scarlet Oak leaves… Reinstating the hypothesis, that some lovers are fugues, melodies that aspens and birches interweave… While they hum through trembling saga and peeling swings… Feuille morte, that galaxies cherish beneath their mercurial gaze.
Definition of feuille morte : a brownish orange that is deeper and slightly redder than leather, yellower and deeper than spice, and yellower and deeper than gold pheasant. — called also autumn leaf, dead leaf, foliage brown, leather lake, oakleaf brown, philamot, withered leaf.