Blue velvet sighs

• 

Body of coral sunsets slipping underneath,
and I think of your curvatures, silhouettes of water- lotus
a heavy mass of flower spinning upon the moon,
a daydream and slow night

slow as far riverbeds, moaning
quick and slow.
the fingernails hide a slippery naked climate,
fermented by the shiver and body on body

dirty tablecloths:
dirty walls, kitchen sinks melting away
melting like the throbbing blood
blood: so warm and luscious now

as a river riding a star.
I squat in the evening, on the fresh, frozen floor
like  a rose, budding and blooming.

  The pink air laughs and shifts incessantly
between our pastel love, our growing thick bites
the hollows of tongues
dancing.

Mermaids in heaven.
I stare and stare and become the large junction

(Bodies rhyming)

To all the dead trees-

Source

swim across
attest the pain
sink into the lake of grief
watch and convulse, 
the narration-
the blue oblong face of emotions-
it disappoints me each day,
you and your flattery
my small body,
small, petite chin 
that thrusts no life anymore.
Watch a face again,
think about it,
the slippery texture
grains allover the body
blurred, overgown opinions

I am sad flower today, trying to be the moon
but the moon is always sad, 
I tell myself to watch the moving crowd
to feel the concrete tree
and the still landscape of stagnancy exists
a pill of loss and convulsions all day long.
-----------------------------------------

I have a book- Crimson skins. Read it if still you have not. on kindle, pothi etc.

I am happy to announce I have a poem in this beautiful anthology- 
 Hecate Magazine.

The sad picture-

It’s about us. Our static atmosphere which keeps changing its dimension. Through the clandestine mouths of river and a dark cloud. At times, there is nothing but a tainted shadow our love growing a thick layer of fungus. We grow, anyway.

We grow and talk about the leftover meals, the swollen flowers of our garden, everything falling apart. Hush! We do not speak of the silence that lingers our throat sitting like a huge wound on our chest. The sad, forlorn shackles of stark grief. What goes beyond is treacherous, as if. A landscape dipped in the shades of sunsets and piquant feelings, a leaf coiling into a serpent. A flower wilting into a moth, things happen, just like that.

The screams are a reflection of an unslept sky. The dying women in neighbours. The abhorrence that is a moisture to the nature. Nature- it often mocks our grilled love and considers it a green fever. We grow anyway. We grow through the carcass, a catastrophe of splitted existence. Through kitchen sinks, chairs and through people, we grow like melted wax. A sharp body shedding its skin through and through.

Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.

Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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a thing of loss

artemisdreaming: “ Malcolm Liepke The color. ”

Hi, Thankyou for sending your prayers through my last poem. I am reading poetry again and getting to Art as it keeps me going.

I am coming back to my writing my poems after a while 
a lot changed during these times. 
(Pandemic- second wave) 
My yellow tree remained un-watered all this while, 
humans burnt, 
relatives, families submerged with tears/ fears 
see my poem has started to rhyme, even. 
Keep on reading 
you will sense no sensibility 
a bunch of lost flowers now 
archaic, frenzied- 
razor sharp like tongue of cries 
bodies once warm now muted, 
cold, without a twin flame. 
the situation has become small and painful 
like a setting sun, only that it is not beautiful. 

Excess- a poem

Napowrimo#2
Not just this:
there is excess of daydream floating around,
a toothless, opaque body of light
what do we name it?
A house full of sighs/ gasps/ swollen people
where objects assume outlines

But who are you? To raise a question?
The minute I saw you, I could not escape.
On the sea floor, a sea- bell tolling
A multi- coloured house without a boundary.
All i see is you leaking from sideways.
You, numb/ like the trees that stop growing.
Everything in you is blue and in excess
Blue lakes& lagoons
Blue islands in the blue lake.
You
Gathering/ grinding/ mixing
everything in excess but love.

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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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!

——————————————————————————————————————————-

 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

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.
———————————————————

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

Tales from the dark

the nights shift incessantly

between the coiled conversation,

about semantics of life

the arrival and departure of distilled solitude

at a point of growling sleep patterns

my words think they are tool

to carve

to emboss a pain onto the strangers arms

about melancholic shifting dreams,

the mosiac vintage art

my nakedness is a cry to the limbs out of balance

they cringe,

they wither away

like soft paper dreams,

crushed under the sinking elbow

again

and

again.

……………………………………………………………..

Thinking of a Christmas gift? My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-

Crimson skins

Crimson Skins- India

lady in white

 

I know of a lady in white
with a mouth full of promises,
spreading a nocturnal path of flowers,
like a longed kiss above the eye,
a lady that slips in my chest,
within the small rim of my fist,
a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist.
a lady with a potato peel,
with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table,
entangled like dust in her bun,
mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder,
a moment of purple sanity,
a lady in white that lives in a suburban city,
with marigolds just in her eyes.
—————————————————————

Find my published collection Crimson Skins worldwide.

Crimson Skins Amazon US

Crimson Skins Amazon India

Crimson Skins Book Depository

Crimson Skins Bookswagon

You can read my collection on Barnes & Noble , too.

A few facts about Loneliness

credits-pinterest

My loneliness spews from the dark curtains

/ fevering beneath a molted lampshade, running

amidst the hanging treehouse, a sharp blue gong of a temple.

Upon the arrival of next month, my tongue develops a sickness,

                           I sit

I stand

                          I sit

In a nonchalant abrupt way,

          Defying the lucid crispness of nights,

I carry a storm of perforated stars in my womb,

delivering a slick wall of hope, again till the next month arrives.

I have a list of ways in which I take care of myself-

                          Practicing gratitude till the eyes die out of numb shocks,

Watching the surreal wings of birds, till I am being judged

And the process never ends,

Till the process of death is shining on my iris.

———————————————————————–

Buy my poetry collection ‘ Crimson Skins’ here- U.S

And for Indian readers buy your copies here-

The book is available as Kindle as well as on Barnes and Noble, Book Depository.

Happy reading.:)

Releasing this 2020- Crimson Skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.

I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.

 

Thank you for always reading and supporting me.

Devika

On Dreams

Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.

Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.

You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.

                       It does not matter
                           anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.

There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.

It does not matter.

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The face of a woman

I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,

yawns in the afternoons,
doping shadows
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth

The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories

by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.

The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z

---

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What we made out of Memories

Prompt- Forgotten Technology

This goes beyond the tampered noises that prevail today
silence ruffle under the sheets of abrupt behaviour.
If I talk,
let me talk to you about the mottled photos
of yesterday’s yellow sun
a wildflower blooming under my chin
spreading across the lunatic nights of hum
Death too had come on many occasions,
looking at your obscure spots in my album.
That did not stop there.
A ligament or two did rupture in the old records,
//Burning. Aching. Burning.//
The body became a range of toxins,
wild with a blue winged heavy eye.
These eyes would flip through rotten memories looking at the old telephones,
Looking at a thing dying so carelessly.
Death is an art- as I do not refuse the facts.
The days were simple on record players with my hesitation staying on top of it.
Loose wires of phones. Vintage blurred memories of hands and cupboards
Of lemons and the sniff of a heavy weighted lady
that filled my room
the time that taught of enormous voices revolving inside the gut.
Pain. A fancy circle of construction of mind.
I do not claim to sew the motion of consciousness here.
Take time to ingest a list of fury.
Screams through hard-boiled eggs and a toaster cracking between the unheard voices of the parents.
It stays in memory. Not in the old stained yellow book-shelves.
Few things travel through drama and enter into a raw state of reality.
A tapestry that hangs, looms in the gloomy corners of forlorn memories.

The night

There are different ways in which i sip my tea
the one that dwells inside my chest speaking of you,
your eyes are my favourite perfume,
a rivetting hiccup that soothes my freckles.
My tea speaks of you in ways indefinite.
The body is incoherent, beating loudly to sit beneath your ailments,
your feverish toe that curls my belly.

Where do you travel during nights?
Like a poem dissolving into the sheets of soil,
amidst the wild sky
where i sniff the patch of cold winter,
you only you can do things to me what the earth does to sky.

The trees have begun to dream again
of embroidered romance and things beyond
of goddess and intinate corridors.
Of lust & prayers.

We lick each other like palpitating cotton candies
then close into our scuped veins
levitating in the air,
We become full into a phenomenal clous of moans.

In transmission lines,
I suddenly become aware,
nocturnal hiss of bed sheets of sounds.

a/ Palette of cycle

What becomes out of a light that perches on the shade?
A coma or a complete sentence?
Does a wound heal if exposd to a skin’s love?
What becomes of a translucent onion that can not be further minced?
A life comes with a moment of quietness through the lens of wet eye.
A doctor’s favourite fruit is perhaps death and a game meddling with his blue arm.
My front doors are always open / so that I may see vintage skyline opening up it’s tongue to dissolve my small limbs into it’s
system.
A gramophone that listens up my cries at the night.
What shall happen to my knuckles once they float in the air?
Oh, don’t be scared right now.. (atleast not for sometime).
I have walls painted in the color of blood, the golden hour of melting pain
The paradoxes of life have a strange sniff attached to it. Life takes no side, it slips in terror and terror. I stare at a flower, and I ask what about you?
Will you live or remain isolated?

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