I wonder too much.

I wonder too much.
Will the flower bloom tomorrow?
I wish roads to be singular and hassle free.
But maa differs on this. She cracks her muscles and tell me not to fiddle. She asks me to pray every day.
There is a rough piece of glass corroding my underneath skin- it reminds me of my all the lost friends- all the lonely people I have known so far.
My morning  routine  has changed now. Peculiar sparrow staring at me, reminding of my choices. Reminding there is a bush full of primroses just below the window. Do I look it? Am I supposed to?
This neighborhood  is wild enough.
It doesn’t  listen to a Sun’s whisper.
I wonder too much.
Too much to be a mannequin of this eclipse.

Eye Contact- Day 3

There is no where else I would be.
No where but my lover’s lap.
My lover’s body- bluish eye.
Faint noise rumbling through my belly
     His glory of turning my hair into a heaven.
Sweet bliss of thunders.
With canvas of joyous rain splashing all over my clavicle.
His eye contact-
His eye contact with my dreamy skin.
His gaze at my heavy body.
His perforated lips onto my forest feet
under the convex shaped moon.
Turning warm afternoons into a cotton saree- his vastness to slow down my own time and space.
Perhaps everything  has happened with him only- with us.

A poet’s life is a hyperbole

This neck screams of small things.
Water.
Sunshine.
Thunder.

Beneath the floral thigh,
a huge flower opens up-
A goddess of gaze-

Slipped hallucinating moans- it takes me to a place of pious Gods-
But my mother says I am often a rude Sun.  A rude Earth.
For my body has pained all these years. What does she even know?

Is it the forehead or the empty eye stare. Blue clocks melting on my face-
a scary growling night.

My life turns into a hyperbole-
termites
sketches
paper mache-
Scattered sunrays
scathing- muscles tight with hands in air.
Body evaporated. Erodes. Collides.
I look for the mirror. The one which was my favourite. The blood won’t balance.
The blood  won’t  stop.

October screams

pic source- Pinterest

the sky gazes
through the stem of a leaf-
a nectar through rust and soft rains-
a humn for body
a prayer for mind-
We want it all, all things particular and small
a hanging of lukewarm lips muttering a chant
as a wreath on the door-
the balcony shifts and moves through another city.
The balcony often does not open to us-
a sky there/ parts from us-
 We call its autumn here- we say its harvesting time-
 a curious fragility
shifting paradigms 
a curious sharp pink sky 
waiting to be digested as a whole
waiting to be forgiven-
gfor it shouts and wimper about its past-
All we have to offer is - a pressed eyelid of scream.

Wrote this within a few seconds..let me know your feedback!

Nomination for TBOTN

I am more than thrilled to announce that my poem “Scattered” has been nominated for ‘The Best of Net award’ and if you want you can read the list here . I am more than grateful to the editors of Fiery Scribe Review.

A sensory poem

Does this make sense?
this prolonged sense of longing.
You- the dreamer
a knot of seismic star- sinking and floating.
You play with time 
as if catches you as you catch the Sun.
You- the slippery snake-

the coils of magenta Sky.
Spread across my thigh.
How cute my poem looks here- this sound of letters
the jarring image of disgust,
the jarring touch of gadgets.
A wobbly effect of screen.
 It trembles and regenerates
a siren to the oblivion.

Poetry published

I have been writing and expressing less. But when I do I make sure, I get the right audience to hear the nuance of my poetry.

The Visual Verse picture was a challenge this time and I wrote a poem on it.

Read my poem here. Visual Verse

Life Cycle

Hi! It has been a long time since I wrote anything on WordPress. I miss those naive days when everything would come on WP first from my end and those beautiful honest conversations and feedback from WordPress artists. If you remember my ink..here is something to read!

Abruptly it falls over me,

the new moon and its shadow-

deciphering the way into my molar life-

Quiet and a pause.

Life is television I see

entertainment about = self,

Mimic and teeth

eyes and mind-

Abruptly things detach their being –

I am one and suddenly I become two-

the process of multiplication terrifies me-

the process about enunciation of my limbs and mouth.

I eat cardamom seeds when bored,

I put too many in my curry-

They taste like Dal lake-and I simmer myself into it-

Origami papers blooming into Lotus

abruptly my teeth bite my tongue

saying all nonsensical prayers-

But I say it, indeed. I say it louder even if I am a single droplet of water.

Poem about a noon

the sniff of the orange crisp air-
figs and the afternoon morose sigh-
vehicles so slow and so is this noon-
the yawns of utterly poor roads
almost cracking through the vertebrae of the moon-
the cracks of the woman- her waist, her lips 
dripping a secular motion- secular yet frizzy
with least interest- what do I call this?
the aftermath or the beginning-
a sestina or a pristine death.


P.S-Writing almost after a decade. 2022 was one happening year for me. Here am I wishing you all a happy new year!

Who would weep?

And I am not the only one thinking of longings,
romance and half- written love poems to my muse.
I am not the only one thinking of rivers, trees and asteroids-
but then where are the rest?
The rest who would weep if I do-
the rest who would swallow the massive blob of shining throughout.
where do I find a stone as heavy as a chest?
An open eyelid. Two for lukewarm talks with neighbours.
Speaking of which- How do people interact so much with humans?
is there a step? a fixed pattern?
               multiple then Divide= result error!
Where are the rest of mutual eyelids.
collateral loss or perpetual blossom?
This eye is an observer 
for things crawling underneath
the teeth.


-------------------------

Get me book all over the world.
Crimson Skins

Bare mornings

I started my day early
a bit early for seagulls to make sound
for neighbours to realize what the sunsets look like-
a bit early to see my hands and to think about their actions.

I started off my day early to think about the sand in my hands
and pink dahlias depressed and standing still.
What life must be for them?
This triangular air with single handed compost-
no motion happening.
perhaps the city is best when asleep.
The chater is quiet.  The banters are percolating.

                This hour is newly wed bride for the primroses to smile
but nobody watches it. Nobody sees the nude face of the morning. What do they offer now?
Or perhaps I am too early.

seamless words

There is perhaps no name to my redundancy that occurs
each night
 
  The noises I hear are blasphemous
without an address or a paper face

I call these flutters- 'fermentations'
and 'vapourized dreams'.
 I consider my half sagging bossom
perched upon life- somewhere giggling
with open mouth
playing hopscotch.

I imagine toothless girl in a desert with red balloons-
an aesthetic that we can talk about.
You see- this poem is not about my illusions
but talks about the crisscross roads
even the ocean
even your eyes-
your mouth.

This poems sounds like a buzz- a burp or a hiccup perhaps?
Shall I call it after my sickness? Or just let it be?

Meeting in Monsoons

As long as the juices slips through the chest
the body smells of you-
the colours of enchanted wrist,
thawing thigh upon the quivering night.
We, the inked words of soil breaths
 What callous strangeness is this that you speak of?
I know nothing-
just the land of marigolds blooming underneath my vagina-
a homeland to all the poets,
to all the musings and lanterns of dreams.
you-
the late tide of the monsoon- is this not a reality?
This damp sheet.
This mosaic floor tiles- 
Are we not really here?
----------------------------





Crimson Skins- MY book

As the dawn sees her

POV- I imagined living in the Victorian Era and had a feeling to write a poem. Hence this came out.

The neighbourhood is a wet puddle.
Across the streets, I see the women having a camp-fire
whispering soft murmurs about the mundanity of life,
into the blue hemishphere
where stays a large apple- tree.
 The women of my town are a faint pear-
with whitest bosom and whitest eyes.

 Look,
the hourglass shapes have moved now- 
torn between the edges of languages,

one is cutting the rind of a lemon
while the other makes a lemonade.
They banter vicariously and live through the sky.
rust on their elbow, as if a second skin to their thighs.
   
  The women shaped as exhibitionist
gulping down a massive portion of tranquil shines:
They can't see.
They can't hear perhaps.
They have done the job
when the dark falls,
one word at a time-
one woman to another. 

The women are too fast to remember anything the next day.