A poet’s origin

NaPoWriMo# 11 Point of origin

It began under the chalice of my mother’s yellow palm.
Point of absolute silence. Her womb carried me like lotus full of vignette scars.
There was a tingling whiff on my small eyes. I was born amidst the petals of soft kisses, soft scars.
A concave chin of mole and anxiety dripped. I had no mouth. My mouth got submerged somewhere in the lost voices. I grew later on like a cleaved peanut.
The rain entered my eye like a century of heavy screams. At times, I was golden, an arched brow of perfection.
I felt my body scattering to the noise of wind. My adulthood held my fingers.
Boys spewing an eclipse onto my face. The winds grew out of my stomach. I vomited like a twig curling and stretching to escape something.
The quiet pulse of white corona silenced my anxiety. I pondered on this reality now how to walk, how to sit, hot to twitch and ache.
An illusion of white farm often blinded me. Shook me.
I evolved like the sun swivelling the painted sky.
Murmuration of thin sheets of god like structure telling me to expand more and more. I became elastic. Sponges of famous time.

I watch those bird now, sitting in my balcony, those fuchsia music they make, it completes my broken system. That orange sky embossing my chest each day.
That open vacant air.
I watch patiently Himalayan snowflakes filling my empty cheekbones. The whirlpool of trees and the fruit they drop. It smoothens my eye for life.

A poet who stood in front of this eternity.
Ingesting walks of thousand of suns and moons.
Secured, the stretch mark of life is a beautiful thing
running through my rainbow body.

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Things that slip

Napowrimo#9

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.

Recover

It’s like a sad part of my levitating body.
My fingers have a soft tendency to nurture, to sense pain.
and I sit on the lonely roads to pick up a saddened heart, to heal it.

sometimes, I have a feeling I am solid.
Solid like a vintage door, unbreakable.
Imperishable, who can swallow darkness inside darkness?
So, I produce light out of darkness.

I act like a mother to him, as well.
With clearwing moth like a skin of his,
sewing the gasps and sighs.
His body is made of a fallen moon, I believe so.
And at times, I am confused with the methods of love.

He is a rotating axis on my forehead.
he has leaked, the times I was leaking too.
And I kept quiet and sewed him again and again.
Like a silent prayer of pure holistic clouds.

I watch,
my clavicle stuttering with the omen of noises.
Nothing is a flattened lie, but a departure.
My eyes are anxious now, to capture your lilting lips.
I watch you as you get healed now,
as I protect you now.
You are now an absent face of simmering smiles of the sky.

#Napowrimo 3

 

Poetry that eats me

I was told since beginning to breathe. Outside the loathing empty voice.
Like a romantic bud blossoming under the clear sky.
I knew i had some issue. I was often mad.
People called me anxious.
And life vomited every disgusted feeling, a black hole on my face.
I survived that.
i survived my anxiety.
The hollow arch of turpentine water did amaze me.
Somedays, the summers ring into my ears like a blade.
i had seizures too in the past. The ones that would burn my entire body
I became a quiet monologue, left to flip through times.

And often, I would swim among the pages of words,
words of my rummaging eyes, seeking nothing but love.
nothing but life,
oh, that life.
Iterative steps to defy this melancholy.
I rest this white clapping body onto the walls of poetry now.
it holds me like a lover.

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In honor of- world poetry day.

Also, I like to keep my punctations just the way it is. (i=I)

cold room

“That stale air you think of
is heaviness surrounding the numb teeth.”

It’s dark, It’s the night.
we slumber with mouths open trying to please.
trying to pick lotus with our heavy lips.
I stare into this earth which holds me like a baby,
and then the flashback of pills and heartaches.
that moment of a swiveled cloud of tears.

It’s done now,
Circling around life needs a solid heart,
a solid tongue to lick,
lick, the translucent powder of fever.

cravings/ THAT KILLS

 

There is the feeling of my wrists slipping oiled lights through my swollen thumb. Hay through pictures of past. A hum of lights and dust.
I turn through the thick air, a vacuum of period spaces. But I am more than this.
more than the grasshopper that sits and eats twig nonchalantly.
washed, wasted, my iris of dreams.
i could sit on the summer grass, the winter sun,
marking the gullets of the path.
something that wants me.

 i remember my small fingers,
enclosed like a dainty lotus
afraid of lights,
for that light killed many people.
it is the thread of old vintage sheet i eat.
i eat memories.
i eat cities.
i eat streets.

All the lonely people- an anthology

veins

i have words, letters , synonyms
hanging like branches of temple.
point of emotions. wars.
i am not alive, i am hanging like joints.
these ephemeral stages that are bulbs during the day.
for no reason, i am damp and moist.
Forest with twigs lit my entire body.

Is it the poetry spreading like a disease now?
i see no moon…i see only a Point.
point of love. Matrices. Sky impregnated with moisture.