I am more than elevated to share the news that my poem The Exit got published in Madras Courier which is a 233 old newspaper and is a reputed brand. Many thanks to the editor for accepting my work.
Read my work here.
I remember the absurdness of clouds spread over my head, hovering. Blue lilies dancing in the sky. A quiet place of porous Gods. I would stare at the sky, releasing my chemical reactions in the thin air. My orange vase neck, oscillating between the concrete human eye and the prism of soil. I would name it Illusion.
Phonetic switch of moonflowers and blurred windowpanes. I saw it all.
At times, I would be a God myself, walking through the soil where the humans sew each other, excavating noises. Annihilation of a cold muse in the sky.
There are shapes and humans walking up above, flickering heir worldly eyes. I have it all,
in my pockets full of moaning psalms,
rolling down my sliding cheeks.
I carry a piece of everything, everywhere I travel.
I sit here. In the park full of overly grown people.
I see a black sky, lights flickering halfway.
A subtle ripple of a thought gushing in the man’s eye,
standing next to me
I emboss his voice to the sky, somehow.
A bush full of flowers,
sweet nectar from the eyelids
submerging my feet in the lush.
I walk and stay close to this creeper,
sticking to my bosom.
I adore the soft lust it whispers to the ear.
in the winter night,
where do they all go?
here, amidst the wild eyes,
amidst the lilies here speaking a foreign language,
a child’s laughter disappears somewhere.
The trees have begun to dream again,
oscillating between the heaven and the hell,
and in this darkness, I become wild and small.
Like a wildflower on the pathway.
A red dimness hovering my hand,
cold cough of the night
spreading like a red bright flower across the faces.
Where will humans go, now?
A temple, a church, a mosque?
Or will they sleep
with an enormous restlessness.
the leaf shall die,
evaporating from the inner hemisphere of a tree.
And all that left is plastic,
a rubber ball
which might die soon,
Humans create temporary memories
and watch it detach.
Droplets of June nectar
in the dome sky
with one stone eye.
And then you see a tunnel
that stares back.
A nightmare is black
spitting nothing, yet
glancing the beautiful fall.
Fall of things and people.
It is in the end when the soul falls,
drawing a night out of the sky,
uttering facts about the exodus.
It roams doused in silver buckets.