An old saying I recite,
mapping the distance of my chest to my thighs,
sipping hot tea,
the typical Indian aroma,
the distinctive sniff which makes your crawl your mind,
to rummage through the orange teal box of old photographs,
the box of stoic flushed postcards.
It happens in a minute.
A sky so distant and full of grays.
The mountains from the Space.
Dry leaves of autumn twirling like homes of the Goddess.
the elements are reconciled,
I see as I am the one producing it.
I speak of the stars, running through my epileptic mind.
I do not joke about it, about the elements anymore.
the elements like soil: the river so mighty…and the elements like my limbs
my nails, my earlobes.
i wait for another day.
Another day another moon
another poetic calendar
to turn a page of the horizon
and i sit exactly on the spot of acidic floor
next to my living :
I who wait for herself
to self loathe
to escape into the unprecedented days of summer
out of all the injuries, now
but more brilliant and more eclectic.
Quietly, winter sets in
like a bride so pure,
a porcelain teapot full of warmth,
a dandelion brushing against the skin.
The kitchen lights shine on my bare skin,
producing a glimmer of my mind.
The grass is cut short. Precise and anorexic.
The air is not the same anymore.
Bulbs of sophisticated figments produce jasmine in cold.
There is no other way for us to gulp a wound here,
the pain may be stuck like a pendulum inside.
Winter germinates other chills in mind, often
into me, an evening of inked breath.
The fission of music
getting stuck to my earlobes,
all shapeshifting instabilities of life.
of ordinary life, it is.
Ankle length Winter- skirts swaying across the room
everything at once.
P.S – Sorry for my disappearance also I am currently not at all in a writing sphere, exactly. Please let me know what did you all feel reading this one.:)
Is it still there?
The sound of trespassers,
of purple rains and sweet smell.
A cloud that swings words up in the sky
a hardened shell of a life,
There is a beautiful cottage that I see in my dreams
full of centipedes, vintage mahogany chairs.
A sound travels me up there
in between the unreal beauty of soil.
Life unfurls in the corners of my room,
my small used rooms,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
I dissolve my tongue,
rubbing my elbows,
again and again.
to spit surreal poetry.
My house slips in my dreams like a flower
trapping, my body like silk.
And I would stay here.
I hear it from the shallow bush beneath my feet.
Drop by drop. The noise of silence.
an embalmed kiss of spewing night
an old lady combing the hair,
zig-zag, the ghosts on the staircase,
often too blatant.
I sometimes think
and sniff the ink of other poets,
the others; who wander in lonely nights,
coughing the dust of clandestine tales,
the saucer with the spilled tea,
the thick frame
and the spoiled tunics,
too much I see for it blinds me,
This noise corrupts my hands and bones,
an illusion of reality, such a blunder to occur.
The noise sits in my chest,
fidgeting with the mind, often.
It does not leave,
it stays like an early rain,
too empty yet beautiful.
Read my latest published work here.
Between the waves and trees