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.

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