There is no more any pleasure except

in dying each second through transgression.

As in when you tell me not to

try to kiss you, and turn your lips away

and I still try.

Or like not taking part in competitions,

or sending to anthologies unless sure of acceptance

knowing that this is the way in which

lies all my losing and escape,

not engaging with the reality of the unplumbable depths of my failure.

Transgression, also, in killing and drinking the ants that never did one any harm;

every such act symbolizing or equalling

similar untold, innumerable lapsed moments to loved ones

and resultantly one is only: the monstrosity of the lost one.

Poetry it breeds, no doubt, that seems like

the darkest of prayers

But if my self is only such transcendent illuminations

of seasons spent in hell and proverbs garnered there

why do I still long for human company?

No more shall I expect it

since no one can understand this

lonely journey

except another

who equals or rivals my law-breaking.



This entry was posted in Poetry on by .


Dr A.V. Koshy is presently working as Assistant Professor in Dept. of English, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Jazan University, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. He has authored or co-authored seven or eight books of poetry, theory and criticism. He is an editor and anthologist. He is also a distinguished teacher of the English language and literature and a critic, with a Ph.D in modern poetry, specifically Samuel Beckett's poems in English. He was a Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry in 2012 and his book Art of Poetry was selected as Best Reads 2012 by Butterfly and the Bee. He has been editor's pick on Camel Saloon thrice and poet of the month thrice in Destiny Poets UK besides often having his poems appear in the highly selected category. Has other international awards, diplomas and certificates to his credit too.

2 thoughts on “Transgression.

  1. Louis Kasatkin

    ” Transgression “, practically hums with barely constrained philosophical discourse that tries to disguise itself in the livery of a poem. Hard edged ,raw knuckled introspection of a calibre not often encountered within poetry make for a satisfying read.

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