poem – Saye Kamal

3–5 minutes

Kilfruit Oil

Disclaimer: formatting breaks, flip your phone to landscape or lead on a laptop/tablet for the intended experience

Bright.                                                                                                      Too bright.
Warm.                                                                                                      Too Warm.
Ah, winter comes, but not soon enough.
                                              It’s an afternoon, just an afternoon, nothing more,
                                                                                                            nothing less.
The flask on the burner stinks quite badly,
                                                           emitting a rather foul odour, ah,
                                                                                                      what trouble!
Just another task on this afternoon inching it into the more,
                                                                      but I prefer otherwise, and I’d much
                                                                                                                      prefer it
in the less.
                                   Ah!                                               It’s burning!
                                                                             No wonder it smells so foul,
                                                                                                       tsk tsk, I tsk
                                                                                                           myself again,
                              I appear to be an amateur!
                                                           60 years of alchemy and
                                              I’m still a novice!
                                      I ought to be a bit ashamed,
but why?
                         I don’t know really,
but I feel like I ought to,
                         though it oughtn’t matter, I don’t think.
Drats,                                                                                           what was I doing?
            Ah!
Yes, mm…                                  ah, here it is!
                                  It appears I need
                                                            a dash of chronozymum,
                                                                                      hmm, yes got that,
yes, ermm.. hmm,                             a bit of hoglily, I certainly do,
and lastly…                           oh dear, Kilfruit oil!      Drat!

Hot. Far too hot!
Yes sir, far too hot to breathe,
far too hot for crowds!
There are so many people,
far too many,
by far too many stinky sweaty vagrants
sloshing and slapping,
intermingling, wrapping,
coiling, themselves in each other’s fluids!
Avert my eyes,
look away,
tear them away
from the slimy and slick and stinky bodies!
No, I won’t have it!
Not have it all!
Refuse!
I’ll simply step here,
oh and here,
skip over that brick,
it looks unsafe,
though why?
I do not know,
I only know that I ought not,
so I oughtn’t.
Aha, I live!
With fanciful footwork
and perfected pirouettes,
I have arrived!
Behold all, Sourtier’s Sourtier!
A befitting name, though why?
Why because,
my good friend Sourtier sourtiers all the sourtres!
Although no, I
cannot say certainly, no, I
haven’t a clue what it means
to sourtier,
though I say, it does befit!

Herbs. Too many herbs!
Kilfruit oil!
I beckon thee,
oh, kilfruit oil!
Where dost thou hide in this menagerie!
Alas, good sir, in this collection of various
sizes, shapes, colours, and
scents, textures, tastes, and
properties, efforts, rates,
where might one,
or two,
or three,
or four,
find kilfruit oil?
Mightn’t you say?!
Say it is not so!
…So?! No!
No,
no,
no!
Damn, it be so! Hm, where?
Down the road?
Left of the cookshop, right of baker?
In front of hm?
Ah, the watchmaker!
Tick tock!
Tick tock!
Agh, that blasted--
Tick tock!
Tick tock!
Stop!
Gah, would you look at the time?!
Each moving hand,
more day
becomes more, and
less day to
be less, which makes
less
more!
Dammit, Sourtier!
Sourtier!
I implore you Sourtier!
You must sourtier
more sourtres!

D a r k. Far too dark!
Only more,
more and
more!
No more!
No more!
No more,
I say!
Agh! To the cookshop,
by the baker,
ah there it is!
It must be!
Hello, madam! I require—
you’re stunning, so stunning in fact,
that I’m too stunned to speak, what can I even say?
What is there to say? To one as beautiful as you, I do not know, may I even be allowed to grace myself in your presence? To bask under your sight?! Madam, may I ask for your hand in—
ah… drats!
Madam, kilfruit oil!
Aha!
Magical!
Marvellous!
Musical!
Masterful!
Miraculous!
Kilfruit oil, I’ve found you now!

C o l d. Far too c o l d!
S h i v e r i n g,
c h a tt e r i n g, and frozen!
Now again,
once more,
I must,
to make the more
less,
and make the less
must.
A dash of chronozymum, yes,
a bit of hoglily too, and lastly, oh yes!
A generous pour of kilfruit oil, now, slowly, yes,
this time! To be sure, slowly,
slowly!
Easy there now! Slowly! Slowly…
ah!
The flask smells quite pleasant, oh yes,
perfect!
Perfect to be!
Take it off heat,
quickly,
quickly now!
Ah,
now its
cold, and the black turns
grey turns
purple turns
brown turns
yellow turns
green turns
blue,
ah! What a beautiful blue,
like the lazy sky blue of
an afternoon,
just an afternoon,
nothing more,
nothing less
than an afternoon.
Ah!
It’s cool, and it smells marvellous!
Drink,
swig,
chug,
slurp!
Slurp it up!
All of it up!
Blue!
Oh, so blue!
As more turns to less and
less into
must,
an afternoon
nothing more
nothing less,

turns into the afternoon,
nothing else,
nowhere else,
just afternoon.

October 30, 2024

1–2 minutes

In your footsteps, away from home

Where,
did you go that night?
Dancing under the streetlamps?
Frolicking in the city?
Lying in your own filth,
is what mother would have told me.
Ere,
I remember you as a cautionary tale,
one our father repeated nightly
to never be like you,
nor be like him.
Scared,
that maybe one day,
I’ll walk into this town,
that’s grey and hard and,
cold like an iron rod in Winter;
And I’ll find it’s the same
as the night you escaped.
I’m ready now,
wait for me, please,
I’m packing my bags,
they’re lighter than I expected.
Wait for me,
I’m coming.

October 16, 2022

1–2 minutes

Future Prospects

The following is an poem I submitted at Purdue University for ENGL 205 Introduction to Creative Writing

I imagine myself in a
a quiet country home, a wooden hut surrounded by trees,
there’s a pond nearby where multitude of fish scurry about
under the cool embrace of the water.
I see a myriad of chubby little rabbits hopping and
Skipping about their brief lives.

I imagine myself in an
overpriced apartment in NYC, a concrete cube surrounded by more of the same.
I walk the same route every day, a monotony I have come enjoy
I pop into my favorite café where they already have my order prepped,
an Americano, as black as if light were too scared to come near it.

I imagine myself on a
rickety ship, a seafarer of wood and nails circled by an uncaring ocean,
thunder and rain battering down on the sails, as I clamber up to the crow’s nest
in a desperate attempt to find land and salvation,
to not join the corpses sleeping on the ocean’s bed.

I imagine myself in a
dark room, my face lit up with naught but
a computer monitor and accompanied by rhythmic keyboard clicks.
A silhouette hunched over; a blanket draped around their shoulders,
picturing what could have been different.

September 18, 2022

1–2 minutes

War

The fires of war rage,
leaving behind ashes of what once was.
Dwindling embers of a lost age;
sacrifices for a redundant cause.

Lives lost in millions;
only a shattered existence remains.
Death in the crossfire, civilians.
Blood spilled from countless veins.

Land or power,
all is arbitrary.
In the heat of war,
a life is momentary.

Yet the fires of war rage on.
And so it will, infernally
until all is gone;
eaten by flames enterally.

February 4, 2021

Tag: poem

Kilfruit Oil

In your footsteps, away from home

Future Prospects

War