life · poetry

The itch



the itch,
the orange glass ceilings always fail my existence,
an inhuman thing sinks beneath my eyelids
walking abruptly, in patterns unknown,
there are things which makes no sense
a loose river like madness
a loose butter like sky slipping from my white hands,
my hands which are now counting the marks of my footprints
making a spiral knot about this moments,
this momentary void inside of me,
this permanent injuries inside of me.
as everything engulfs everything
the violence in its own chest
the cold murder of my hands
and the body still counts the days left to breathe.
 I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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life · poetry

This Moment

I got Hipster

Inspired by- Eavan Boland

A balcony.
Brewed tea. Things are getting ready.

a neighbour folds her dried out clothes.
Another vendor strolls across the streets.
Oranges and papayas , he screams.

Stars and moon,
things become raw at night.
Opaque tunes of the clouds distorting,

things pause as the sun sets in.
This moment,
a women walks in the kitchen
to get things ready for dinner.

A bizzare hustle,
Fruits ripening,
An old painting getting chipped.
This moment.


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life · prose

A Memoir about Prayers and Healing

Things do not attach themselves to our void, till we allow it to occur. Things- broken, upsetting they instill our hearts and soul with remorse and pain. A haunting truth about liberation is when we clench our minds limited only to the point we think we need it, it never occurs. What about the next step?

The next step of releasing our fears and not ingesting the feeling of guilt and sadness always. The process requires abundance of acceptance. Acceptance of our mistakes, acceptance of knowing our worth, our dreams as well acceptance to not expect from others.

Prayers can be addictive. I have watched myself for a month not going to the bed without chanting a hymn or “om mani padme hum”…it’s  strange belief or a meditative medium as if I have someone to hold on, I never trusted humans and somehow I suffer from social anxiety and therefore I know how strong my bond is with miracles and prayers. No, the reason is not limited only to this. While addressing about my insanity and delirious thoughts in the form of poetry in my first full length collection- crimson skins, I cried and managed to write somehow.. I later found out my journey with healing. About something beyond pain…something surreal yet realistic. I dedicate each day ever since to my writing process as a slow, healing journey. A quiet, nurturing interaction to my soul. It’s all about the Self!

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 I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.

Crimson skins – US

Crimson Skins- POTHI

Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

life · poetry · prose

The Night

And after the things have been quiet,
a slow nocturnal pause returns
a pause to collapse again,
There is an endless whistling,
with a bleached sky
a bleached portion of the sunset
I can still touch it,
the surface of things breaking apart,
the nuisance of the blood vessel
the hanging canopy of faces: dry/parallel.
The night takes everything within itself,
abandoned by all,
it has not the face of love.
I know the sniff of abandonment
where the night spews distorted loneliness
through my body – a pool of flustered pink love.
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I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.

Crimson skins – US

Crimson Skins- POTHI

Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

life · poetry

Wounds

I just published my poetry collection Crimson Skins on Amazon. Check it out.

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The night has a soft pattern to dismantle my body<
Quiet a as hushed wound with a flat curvature of a splitting fruit,
my body is a temple to wounds,
a temple to eat things that are fleshy.
The night lamps are soft ointments to soothe this loss .
A state of delirium, a state of despair.
These wounds are like flowers sitting atop my body,
Wounds- a silhouette of a silver limping leg,
a mouth that spreads shade of green fevers.
I have no where else to go now,
I rest my story to the empty nights,
a hollow stone is all that stays.

ALSO, IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO SWITCH BACK TO CLASSIC EDITOR PLEASE HELP ME!

my latest work can be read here.https://www.greeninkpoetry.co.uk/poetry-submissions-all/beginning-devika-mathur

life · poetry

Beginning

Feb 19, 2020 - This Pin was discovered by M B. Discover (and save!) your own Pins on Pinterest.

the sun is a quiet watcher
absorbing walls of sins i produce
and so I sit here on the grounds
so cold and mute
listening, the squealing voices of birds.
The sky that paints a web of corollary
about things lost and things preserved.

the nights abandon my grief too
they have pockets full of primroses
and a chipped river flowing,
I do not wrestle for peace,
i inherit the red sirens that this air produces.

adoring these black nights too
that gulps the sore throat of a desecrated womb,
a picture painted with grief maybe too sickening for the Gods above.

I do not weep
or produce a rhyme about loss, rejection
wandering in eternals lands of pain
my chin sinks in this cacophony
to absorb the air, the light of the sun,
the darkness of the moon.

What is left of me?
Abandoned by all
the final leap of hope.

life · poetry

A song so bright

Love this. One with nature, nature & me

and you need to know
the music of love
silently, dripping from the sky.

Take your time
to know the flower,
the process of assimilation
mulberry touch of the warm earth.

Silence comes in surreal ways.
drink the nectars of blue lips.
Let it be,
the hanging clouds or your numb Cheeks.

Nature injects sweet nights often
disguised in a tunnel of metamorphosis.
Let it sit and evaporate slowly,
a skin so fresh and sublime, now.

A murder of a cold night
for grief is a slumber of dead skins,
unkept, insoluble.
The whole of purgatory is a lie of pale belching mouth.
Sip the nights now,
A tomorrow so bright, hanging on your verandah’s rope now.

life · poetry

A purple picture

Stuning! - #planodefundo #Stuning
What is that sits on my backbone?
a dissection of reality/
Look around. Pause. Breathe,
 walk across this painted room.
A purple heartbeat,
veins of the neon moon glowing,
a facet of criss-cross dreams,
amniotic sheets of sun-baked earth,
observe, wait, observe.
It's an alchemy of genius masterpiece.
life · poetry · prose

Things that slip

Napowrimo#9

Where I walk, where I sleep Flowers bloom, ivy creeps The turning world, the gift of life Mine

Whirl like topaz,
hear exhaustive voices, all like a mother-daughter relation.
Watch a point of Stagnation. Reverberation. Too much cold.
and carry the footsteps behind,
live, live like a flower on a naked body.

There are no cloying questions of life.
You will fail if you swallow life.
Don’t.
Don’t fidget about the atmosphere.
Observe these crazy annoying things in your mind.
Lillies blooming and dying.

Things as soft as a petunia.
Things are as dark as my mind.
Let them slip, oiled and kneaded
into the stack of insomnia and other wild things.
Do not think.
Conjunction of mind is a beautiful process.
So let it be.

Speed creating a sliced illusion,
you cant’ defy filthy chipped minds and nails.
Let the process of leaking begin.
Watch it once again.
How your body floats, finger evaporates up in the sky.
That glorious sky, now.

Watch it fall again.
Things that make you full.
Rains, flowers, mushrooms
bouncing like peals of laughter of unborn.
hear it… hear it again.
Let things crack in your small aperture.

life · poetry

A day like this

Oh! Audrey
Another day has gone.
I sit and pray like a maniac,
with a white smile, you can count on.
I prepare breakfast and prepare a story to tell.
I prepare so many wild things often.
Bricks on bricks, and soft wool of tales.
You left like a reptile in a hibernation.
with floors slipping beneath my china body.
i pray and pray. That’s what i know the best.

I once prayed during my abortion,
beating the sweats and my blood.
my blood was thick as a waxed cloud.
Oh, how i wish you stayed!

What is that flows and flows behind my ears?
A life. A full stop. An endless conversation with life.
Over the years I have developed a harpoon of olive skins.
Skins that are cleaved too.
They haunt me in moments of despair.
They haunt me in these bright shiny days.

And here I am sitting, sunbathed, moth running on this fungus swiveled hands.
Eating and flapping my heavy bosom.
It speaks beautiful anatomy to me.
Oh yes, it does create a map on my toes,
a map on my mind.
Here I traverse, sideways like a waterfall. A soft and a quiet one.
I am not in a sad mood today!
Autumn is my favorite season.
It speaks only the truth, the brown fallen truth.
And I swallow it like a sincere patient, popping a pill to be alright.

 

#NAPOWRIMO-2