poetry

Advance Review of Crimson Skins, Devika Mathur

Advance Review Of Crimson Skins!!

My Screaming Twenties

This week on My Screaming Twenties celebrates the release of Devika Mathur’s collection of poetry and prose, Crimson Skins.


Devika Mathur is loved and known for her celebration of the abstract and surreal; she plays with words like toys and bites into them like ripe fruit. Everything Mathur yields is original and unique. Even when her voice is so reminiscent of Sylvia Plath, she remains a woman and poet unto herself, through and through. Crimson Skins is a testament to Mathur’s talent; through poetry and prose her brilliance is depicted again and again.

The opening to this collection is stunning. Immediately after a dedication to her mother, Mathur establishes the foundation of looking inward and skyward. You are swiftly taken by atmospheric pieces like ‘Olive skin’ and ‘I die each night’ as Mathur paints worlds and portraits with emotions. Whenever I read Mathur I imagine kaleidoscopic colours tinged with shades…

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poetry

Through the Front Door by Devika Mathur (MY FRONT DOOR Series)

Published On Silver Birch Press

Silver Birch Press

mathur 1Through the Front Door
by Devika Mathur

I have a wooden structure that looks after me,
a thick shield of elastic worries,
a poet’s mind locked inside the carving,
I often stare at my front door with a madness slapping across the air,
the room stands empty with a fever of different music
and a lullaby of painted comfort stands there
disguised as this door.
My left arm often collides with the knob,
strange to me, I see myself through different holes of the door,
I eat my sins as I perceive my mind through it.
This door talks to me during vacant nights
I remember a visitor coming once and praising the carving of this front door,
I did not listen to any of it
I had my own notion of things floating through its hole,
the swollen memories of the past, the bruises I had, the velvet dreams…

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poetry

Published on Olive Skins

The Poetic Elixir

A day with an illness.

Earlier I wrote every day about almost everything
now I do not.
I wait for the paper to drain all the sorrow.
The filtered content then goes under the lens,
where I try to bake a muffin.

You do not write as long as you are happy.
I go to the well only when I am thirsty.
We read in the books about growth,
where cells occupy the space
left by separation of walls.
I search for a path within my blocked mind.
I do not write.

Read more of it here.

Grandmother’s Quarantine
My tongue is learning to spell a new word.
Quarantine.
It’s everywhere,
floating like a small bubble.
across the streets
it echoes in children’s voice
it is stuck in my grandmother’s throat
a sharp cry leaves her lips
inside we know,
it’s the end
but somehow we pretend it isn’t.

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poetry

A silent conversation – Devika Mathur

On FVR.

Read.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

I open one pebble eye,

and there

Yes, there

the rattling leaves,

whistle in the garden

Thrust

water springing

and the red loneliness of the fallen leaves.

A final step, they declare

to emerge into a nemesis of nights

the flowers indicating

yawns of  the sweet afternoon

leaning towards a fallen bush.

They do not hesitate,

they paint the other fallen one,

flooding my mouth, my hands, my lungs.

each pigment a shade lighter.

I see the lavender tree,

the one where our own hearts blossomed

amongst the thick smoke.

The palm remembers the desperation of air.

The palm remembers the floral touch of your lips too,

The delicious time stops here,

webbing our love on the laps of a lemon juice.

We are just an ordinary stone

what stays is the mind of a flower blooming

rugged wind,

cold dew of a coral rose.


Devika Mathur resides in India…

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poetry

Appearance – Devika Mathur

Come read me here.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

I carry generations of memories and mementoes

the unmade bed which once remained futile

I call myself by names like “Spring” “Autumn” “Rain”

the Earth : precisely.

together in my compromise,

lights on a cave wall

often a soil that is way too parched,

I walk here,

on the barren land of lonesome despair

knitting  a quiet dream of my irrevocable silence,

The air never sits on my lap,

it touches my throat and sinks vehemently

as if I am the injured summer

With me, the garden creaks of rain,

with laughter and daughters

and so I carry promises of diluted hope

I am the Earth,

no sap and no color,

a nameless child of an unforgettable father.

Wait

let love be the light

let the air be printed by the leaf shadow

and I shall sniff the appearance

pouring light into the void

fifty feet into the air.


Devika…

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poetry

emitting poems

Read

a beautiful turtle

Zebra mussel on an august window is nice
to rub on cheeks and forehead.
Manifestations are the plums of my mellow.

I pick fruits
and flowers
and hold between fingers. I am pleased to stretch fingers.

The light on everything is going to have my eyes for a long time. My urges are cold steel buttons.
Felt in suddenness.

A tall, wide eyed
doll
hanging on my shoulders

breathes on my neck.

In a blue picture,
penguins dive one after another to save their lives
from disappearing cold.

Reddening sky of red sunsets will be of the blue moon.

Krills in a cascade lie awake on wet stones
Worms gnawing tangerine melodies
and slides down to the belly
gripping the tangerine.
Divisions of taste hang in the air. I reveal art.
Unlike my last poem. This time,
it is a mellow dream and I have let know
what covers whatever…

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poetry

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.

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poetry

Devika Mathur – How I Function Each Day

On SD today!

Sudden Denouement Collective

Wake up,
a Sunday morning,
brush… brush… brush.
A round bottle of face wash,
cleanse
cleanse your soul now,
rub…rub…rub
with your knuckles upside down,
breathe.

Watch the sky,
sip on your tea,
a warm ginger aroma
sip like an old lady,
boredom comes next,
one , two , three

bath now,
shower on,
naked bruises & body
a shower so surreptitious,
calming yet haunting.

What’s next?
A naked observation of life,
galvanizing particles in the air,
splitting & chopping
a few more apples to bite now.
Breakfast done,
sleep now.
Quiet your mind.

Repeat:
these are steps for survival,
steps to knit a cobweb around your empty body.
Collect a few more items,
mosaic dreams, perhaps?
Collect some more,
keep it in your fading garden of memory.
Lighten up your shoulders again,
repeat, you!
Repeat or you die.

[Devika Mathur is a published poetess residing in India. Her works…

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