else

Trust me, she is a genius.

a beautiful turtle

Closer is a look. Worse.
Lizard stares through the khus bundle.
Bright pomanders.
Tangerine tongue.

People eat quietly on the table.
These people don’t know
their beauty
and would like to be told.

I learn about a new color,
Azure.
Rain is of the beautiful.
Lizard only hides in the rain.

I stopped
talking
too much
in poetry.

I break more
lines
than
before.

A man with good taste in everything
told me
that
I don’t know where
to end.

He has come to know
that I know the world
just
through the magazines.
So, I fear.

“For something like a drum
you must use a word
like
dilapidated.
You tear
flowers and papers.
You don’t tear the drums.”

You look at abandonments two years
after.
The look is closer.
You save things and keep looking.
Lizard falls down
from the bundle.

View original post

Exodus

 

After all,
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
crackles,
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,
whimpering,
drawing a night out of the sky,
uttering facts about the exodus.
It roams doused in silver buckets.

A spotless space

I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.

I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.

It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.

I have spot to cry to myself,
Winter tangerine,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
Motionless,
Body apart.

The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
Weeds growing,
Stories knitting,
I stare at this spot of mine.

A spotless sight

---

“I see nothing”- Virginia Woolf

There lies a bed of moisture.
purple hearbeats uttering a syllable of nothingness.
They talk about mad- men, apples and half eaten berries.

For I see wet pastures of land,
moist like mother’s bosom,
fresh and pure.
i see a dot placed in the universe,
a huge platter of yellow potatoes.

inked & full of a queer silence.
People talk of silence as a sin,
and this remains in your grave,
hoping for a tear of melancholy.

i see nothing across my windowsill.
a bird mocks at my crooked almonds,
a burned Poetry.
Or are the people burned around?

A pothole in the eye opens the pathways forward.
A tender desolation.

I am like a feeling of soft romantic fiction.
love that never stays. Brutal.
A panned picture of a pastel tree.
I see a hollow curvature of my elbow,
looking at the sight of black thread.

i see nothing. I am moving & absorbing
as an infant does.
The light shades are my paper prism,
clinging the arbutrus of your sacred space.

The flight

Where does it go?
Your unspoken word of lust,
an ensemble of parched dancing words,
Do you let them run?
Or do you absorb the guilt, like a sponge?

Harvest the other sides of pixie lawn now,
Run… run along the shores
embossing a pain onto the sand.

Among the stars is a paper flower blooming,
with a binomial tongue to speak.
The star and the earth do not suffice your sparkle.
Pelican featured sunset glows.

Slurp and slurp.
The agony hides behind the crevices of teeth.
Churn your fear like a betel leaf,
Take a flight,
Like the bunch of sun-kissed memories.

Leila

And there sits Leila,
a soft concave figure of running temperature.
Her mannequin star-shaped bosom,
a hello she says.

Empty walls,
barren ceilings around,
Her round swirling eyes,
with a distant look
She pinches her knuckle.
She wakes up from a faint dream,
There. There. Where the poem falls in the large solar system.

Leila is a slice of time,
chewing the mint-flavored bubblegum,
like the body of the sea,
running through the empty roads,
floating among the pastel curtains.

And there she sits for a moment.
To gasp and exhilarate.
A wanderer of beautiful things.
like that she escapes into the morality of joy.
Twirling. Twirling. This body a stench of buzzing petals.

---

My poetry published in Selcouth Station. Read here
https://www.selcouthstation.com/single-post/2019/10/13/Devika-Mathur-Goddess

Translations

 

Should I ask you how did it all begin?
Was it a transitory joy or the love at first sight,
the moment when you felt the soil spoke to you in a forign language.
How did you move then?
Change of modals of life or the brewing cough of skin?

The body traps itself between the layers of mercury and grave,
where the ankle transpires sweat,
a word of brief love.
These are the translations fluttering beneath the hem of your dress,
Listen to these,
do not yell at them.
These are little words heralding onto your laps.

The slice of pain is where it all began,
the time when you touched my chipped thumb,
the insect uttering a buzz,
an unfathomable language.

The time of despair
and a folded shawl of dirt,
it was then I did not hear words,
groping a slight of everything that pounced on me.

It began during the course of tired nights.
a stone eye,
a rock arm,
all disintegrated somewhere in the cold sea.
Such translations cover my mouth in a dark blue shade of the sky.