There is perhaps no name to my redundancy that occurs
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
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-
This poems sounds like a buzz- a burp or a hiccup perhaps?
Shall I call it after my sickness? Or just let it be?
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
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.
Mother, I make fire. from toe to toe- Horizontal shivers. Mother- you ask 'Who am I'? I ask the same- the inheritance of glory is perhaps a groaning knock? I am a walking grief- a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn an adjective which stands nude- s t r a i g h t in parrallelism . Mother, what are these things around me? These objects, people- fungus in pickles- spit it out, immediately- spit and spat- You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry, bearing negations for an absolute face of mine you replicate me mother, or do i do you? Is my face not enough? Is my weakness too shallow? Mother! Oh glorious victory- You know all of it. You do. You do. You do.
The wound is where the hurt has lived and been nurtured. How do we plan to discard it now? Are we enough to understand the fragility of emotions- certainly we are. We are the sinners and the bearers of its entrop, of its magnanimous callous injury. We swallow pain each day and night. I wonder what does it become once it injects our bloodstream. Does it pinch and ache further? Or does it swirl in the air- like a thick cloud of a giant's saliva.The air must be lukewarm. With softer lotions of time for time must tear the air inside the chest. The heaviness must inflate further. Invisible sewing machines. The most intriguing part of human is perhaps his fear and love- imagination in paper. We perhaps always come back to aberrance. To ambuguity of life and people. We come back, eventually to nights with fallen jasmine on floors.
Often it happens that I am reminded by WordPress to blog here and then I realize do I still have readers here lurking through my mundane words? I know, I too need to catch up on so many lovely writers here that I have known since I started writing here and I definitely will. But…
I am grateful to announce that I have a poem up on Outlook India- the most prestigious magazine that I have read and enjoyed growing up. Here is the link to my poem- Outlook India.
If you are still interested in reading the poetry book that I published during the pandemic here is the link.
Available on Kindle as well.
Your clear eye is one such beauty haunting for days - this body that dwells on it your each visison- birds perching on my balconies and not disturbing my burnt pancakes. I see. I annihilate. I wash face. I know what my grave shall be called - with one tree and all about 'waiting for Godot' This world may heal sometimes soon with it's funny pink sins it's funny politics and gender of skies. I must not speak thereafter,the tingles of auburn dirt that fills my nostrils are too many, symmetrical and ferocious. The closed drawers in my room chatters all about my loneliness and nothing still infects me. You- the one who sparks lucent moon into my breaths. I say this this too. the notions of morality and absurdism tickling cellophene above our eyelids.
I was asked to deliver a poem on a special call of submission for the theme- ‘Colours of love and barriers’ and I am so grateful to my lovely friend Candice for thinking of me. You can read the poem in the link below.
My father never knew my emotions honestly. Seldom do I write about him. He has nothing much to deliver yet he is an average participant. I would not blame him for the entire drowned city inside my head. Everything stays partial with me- a lotus decaying or a night shifting its paradigm. I hardly controlled anything- but the toes would outgrow always- they would not stop the impeding thrust to ingest the tangerine flavours. His constant punch to make me aware of everything is where I stopped knowing him- probably- a constant gumption of moulds. Rustic elbows with disjointed pain- arthiritis .
A constriction of words flavoured with mediocricy is how I knew it-
But I tried. I tried learning in Sanskrit and other syntaxes. Vehement morose days swelled up in eyes. Lungs – punctured. Then we would often spent days on our dingy terrace, aquatic telephone lines disconnecting the shivers between us. I assume to float and probably I failed. Now, I have forgotten everything- the city departing, funerals marching forward and parks all well- lit even when it rained. I am unsure of this knot of emotions corrupting my clavicle still- a memoir of an old photographh speaking: uttering an untoched sentence.
Longings- these moments of a kiss. Occurring between us. Occults of time and space. Movements along the waistline. You scream again and again about the slightly dehydrated sky.
We – a passage of transparent sky slurps the bees. Wild mulberries pressed against the cheeks. How do you not see this? Movements along lips. Thunder of God’s voice down in my womb. The flexibility of this verb- a shudder: the red Sun. How do you defy this?
Say it- Say something about barren empty nights as life perches. Dissolution in water. This is a mere hallucination. This is what the body desires now- syntax so lost and translated in your postures. This. Biology of each molecule-shuddering useless violence. May I squeeze it further? This- That. The grass is gaping at me. Sun dissolved in Stars.
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Crimson Skins- India
Empathy. Discorded vermillion loops of human emotions. One must know the end of attachments. The lasting effect of expressions. But do they ever end? The language and syntax between the hurt and the healer? The strange connections of despair souls and longing eyes- the connectivity. Sadness is in unity. It clings to a verbose effigy, below the torrential glow of your elbow. We think we have time? But do we? We think we will be happy? But are we? The pain demands empathy and unity in sadness- a collectve circle of pungent healing. Longings are vapourized flowers. They stench and bloom bothways.
Longings are sadness- a temporary floral cloth that covers your nude body so that the body isn’t nude to anyone else. But one knows. Polythene eyebrows. Fermented cheeks. Eyes- swelled up. So we tend to connect- share- heal and proclaim our healing is in sharing.
Clueless black itch
Scrapping against the mud-
the noises of ‘what if’..
and so much more.
The mind of a poet is that of a delirious day dreamer- wobbly feet and scrapped tongue.
My spleen is swollen- it does not weep further
but my hand does- they produce movements,
curvature( black & blue)
We poet are fearless rock.
We swim through mountains and remain hurt always.
We are imaginary songs- figurative drawings.
Language. Who needs it? It’s nothing but a scattered pretty way of illusionary numbers. Romancing with minds and tongues. Shifting bones of vertigo sky. Across my white bare body and this vibrating fall—language stops existing suddenly. Linguistics is nothing but a way the syntax of my paper heart breathes. Water condensed, without any stabilizer. I understand I must stay happy as I have been asked. I must walk.
I must love and I must sleep. I understand I must chew my food a thousand times before it punches my gut to vomit a disappearing fever. But friend, life is more than this- more than survival, existence, wounds- more than interpretations. More than the yeast of existing . Swelled up library inside the eyes. We can not win anymore nor can we lose- it’s the language that laughs all throughout life- hiding underneath the shades of glory. It’s the language of abyss between the voids. To be or not to be. To celebrate or to loathe.
Buy my book- Crimson Skins
The opposite of hurt is not healing, rather- a distinctive synonym of becoming a vague object. Poached skin tones with multiple tars jammed on a tongue. A small shiver inside the handprint- the bruises not always becoming a temple- bell. They require a screenplay and observance of a sponge. Hurt is parallel to grief. Screeching veins spreads throughout the bedsheet and the bedsheet always remain jarring. We collect and put it all in a single bowl and wait for the doctor to arrive along with a pill and stethoscope. Does it help? Does it defy your existence? Your sorrow? Hope- a lament which people talk about is nothing but a soft matchstick burning from either end. Where does voice become visible? Flesh- so vulnerable yet covered in darkest colour. We want it to glow and glow hence we speak of lives, mundanity, love, and kindness but our body is nothing but a parenthesis or storage that covers everything missed upon.
Sustenance. Life. breaths. But how do we collect it? How often our communication deliver us that symphony? Intimacy, thoughts and bonds.. how often do we count on it? Where is hope? Is it a bird still flaping it's wing while sitting? Do we walk with torches lit under the ocean? Or we do not swim completely- for the safe side. The mind is a mess of discarded old vintage thoughts. For a moment- we can disguise our minds with a great shield of book- a wise thick book, but ultimately it will fell down- and then there is thin chiselled sad face- forever, striving hard each day to replenish about the old bliss. The bliss of nostalgia. Of not knowing abundant vague discrepancies of life.I utter in parts. I bleed in parts. Trotting each day about wounds and swallowing the gutter of life.