poetry

People like light rays, leave.

People like light rays, leave- Inspired by Sylvia Plath

______________________

Between the ribs,

arched,

the glow disappears into a surreal thing.

A wavy black mirage appears on a crushed paper

/  the piquant distance now,

    Slipping between the cellulose air of void/

 a mayhem of loose threads,

a dawn kisses by a hurricane,

Will things occur in heart now?

Or will the sit and devour the morbid mind?

Copper fields,

of dust- laden mouths

filled with anger/ sins,

Oh humanity! The disavowal of sodden eyes,

almost each night, in darkness.

People like light rays, leave.

_________________________________

I have a book out for you to read. Available on Kindle too.:)

https://www.bookdepository.com/Crimson-Skins-Devika-Mathur/9781951724030?ref=grid-view&qid=1605538028495&sr=1-

poetry

Sunburn

Where do I stick flowers now?
The empty faces,
the mundane eyes.

The silhoutte of a dark river
shifting its path across my face,
turn by turn;

Where do I paint red shades of sunset now?
A myth of potpourri,
a lake of setting cold nostrils.

I pray and repeat my rituals,
a soothsayer of my belly now,
a tale forgotten.
A night of crippled stars.

Where do I sit and attach these sunflowers now?

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

poetry

The Lovers

/ A R Y A / pinterest: @riddhisinghal6

Walls of the air do not crack
as there exist our stories lingering across the streets.
Our thin cucumber bodies/ oiled between a decade of romance
speak nothing but of arid lips and concave lust
The brooding sniff of the moon
to sink between my large womb.
She often speaks to me of you.
Your abstract ways of unraveling things
behind the layers where mockery hides.
To pleat the abhorrence of life,
your bones are my memoir.
my spot of expanded prints & rainbows..
Make me bend and scream,
your coral colour creaks on my tongue.
To the tress, I wish to announce
a twig suddenly has fallen.

poetry

A poem so sad

3:09 a.m

I think the ache begins at my lower back,

The hurt that I got due to an accident

Or a muscle collapsing.

Things or two it taught me about distraction,

and wholesome love.

The pain shift to my left angular hand.

The palm unfocused, floating in the air

  • a pendulum song.

The knee doesn’t stop there,

It bends & cracks

with a peel of medieval ache,

The old vintage era of swollen eyes.

I see it all through the staircase of my dizzy body.

But what about the eyes?

Will they shut the spineless playlist of brown air

or soak in some more tears?

They refuse to talk. To sleep.

Eyes are the biggest culprit any era can produce.

They twitch, itch but won’t eat up your wound.

My anxiety is a shapeshifter,

until i put my fingers through the sheet of night.

®Devika

poetry

A spotless space

I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.

I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.

It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.

I have spot to cry to myself,
Winter tangerine,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
Motionless,
Body apart.

The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
Weeds growing,
Stories knitting,
I stare at this spot of mine.

poetry

A spotless sight


“I see nothing”- Virginia Woolf

There lies a bed of moisture.
purple hearbeats uttering a syllable of nothingness.
They talk about mad- men, apples and half eaten berries.

For I see wet pastures of land,
moist like mother’s bosom,
fresh and pure.
i see a dot placed in the universe,
a huge platter of yellow potatoes.

inked & full of a queer silence.
People talk of silence as a sin,
and this remains in your grave,
hoping for a tear of melancholy.

i see nothing across my windowsill.
a bird mocks at my crooked almonds,
a burned Poetry.
Or are the people burned around?

A pothole in the eye opens the pathways forward.
A tender desolation.

I am like a feeling of soft romantic fiction.
love that never stays. Brutal.
A panned picture of a pastel tree.
I see a hollow curvature of my elbow,
looking at the sight of black thread.

i see nothing. I am moving & absorbing
as an infant does.
The light shades are my paper prism,
clinging the arbutrus of your sacred space.

poetry

A slipping poem

An entire life wraps itself
beneath the curtain of my orange mess.
You see few things here biting me like a void,
a fist to feel the pain
I have things half-written over here,
a half-written aesthetic journal
hammered down with sunburnt phases.

I have twigs of my memory
packed in a box of despair somewhere.
A point of subservience.
But then,
a poem falls
from my rinsed, soaked skin of spring.
I call it catharsis.

How my words dance around my convex neck,
how my creased papers sigh like a downpour.

And I all have is memories
of blue-bathed cloth
of sins& bottle-brush
All I have now is
rest
rest for my eyelids,
rest for my empty body,
my dancing, elliptical body.


Submissions for my collective olive skins here