The wound is where the hurt has lived and been nurtured. How do we plan to discard it now? Are we enough to understand the fragility of emotions- certainly we are. We are the sinners and the bearers of its entrop, of its magnanimous callous injury. We swallow pain each day and night. I wonder what does it become once it injects our bloodstream. Does it pinch and ache further? Or does it swirl in the air- like a thick cloud of a giant's saliva.The air must be lukewarm. With softer lotions of time for time must tear the air inside the chest. The heaviness must inflate further. Invisible sewing machines. The most intriguing part of human is perhaps his fear and love- imagination in paper. We perhaps always come back to aberrance. To ambuguity of life and people. We come back, eventually to nights with fallen jasmine on floors.
Tag: art
Singing songs through a poem
I hear a quiet shout, screeching under my eyes- How long do I float, anonymously? to declare is what I want- space and time stars and grass, look at my one hand, the one that stares you- curvatures of my body= lotus. Lotus that spews water from its body again and again. Call it life. Give it a name- Air, will you be a space to my existence? Water- will you sing songs to my graveyard? Fire, burn along. Do not resist anything further. This day inhales "me" in the most blasphemous way. I do it through a circular band on forehead. I soak everything like a sponge. Watering lilies and eating oatmeal. Please be mine- You, the ferocious 'eye'. Apply a cold balm all through my body- know my persistence of time and know what I mean. ----------------- To read my book- Crimson Skins- India Crimson Skins- US
Hi! I am seeking artists/ poets for my monthly newsletter
Dear readers,
As you all are aware I run a monthly newsletter which I started last year to celebrate my daily chores, hurdles, art, poetry, music and things related to mindfulness, I am now blessed to have more than 150 readers as I would like to say.
In order to break the monotony, I need a little help. I am looking out for some artwork, essay, poetry and things so that can go well with my newsletter. If you are interested please contact with your work on the email id-oliveskinspoet@gmail.com If you wish to submit a short essay make sure to write anything related to productivity/mindfulness/nature watching or anything that goes well with the newsletter.
You can read my past issues by checking out the link-
https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
Thanks
Devika
interview with Pooja
I am delighted to announce that recently I was a part of an interview done by Pooja of Lifesfinewhine. We discussed a few aspects of Art in a short, crisp way. Head over to her blog to read my interview and all the lovely things she writes there and do show your love to all her blog posts.
thankyou for reading my poetry!
Love
If this is us…
But the thing is everything shall be depleted. This. Us and our stay. What if, I could hold the habit of loving you for once? My eyelids dipped in lemon peel thinking of ways to dream about you. The rooms that still roar about our love making. The walls still cracking a semantic, quiet low noise of our moans and fight. Erratic evenings, whereby we submerge our small elbows in the auburn breeze. I want to cling to the habit of just that. Your coconut hair, small long talks, talks so mellow and crisp almost like I ate my fruit bowl. To hold your poetic words and brown moments of paper noise is all I had dreamt of all this while. To stay connected to your face, slender neck always popping and mind / spring quartet. Nothing else. That’s my habit/ a ritual that I perform each day to listen to the music of things staying lost between us. The Art of a singular dialogue. A singular atom of love. A single You.
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.
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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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
On Dreams
The dreams have started to spread
thudding under my chin and elbow
the dance of a song,
a bridge of warm laughter.
We lick each other
in warm oil and nights,
wet sheets and trees of hope
A final leap
and a levitating scratch on skin,
it crawls under my slippery neck
the loose, aging skin
lost in parameters of transcendence and sins,
Abandoned by all
it has not the face of people,
of mundane , temporary people.
Brown, molten and crisp
in eternal restlessness,
always rising
traversing night and days.
_______________________________________________
A few years back, I was lost in the era of pain and wound, emotional and physical reverberation. Times that made me crippled, head full of variety of aches and then I decided to print my emotions into a voice louder than my pain. I wrote my book with labor, love and sweat. I am grateful for the lovely, heartfelt reviews it received. If you want you can still read my book Crimson Skins on Amazon, Kindle available worldwide. I would appreciate it. Thanks.
How it ends
Flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies, cactus in December
spaces silted with darkness
I didn’t know I liked the Sun
Until today
A multi- coloured chart without boundary
The day
Not quite dawn. The plain white stare.
I go out for walking
somewhere along with my loneliness
narrow streams running through
decayed tooth
River water mixed with my eyeballs
Somewhere is
Someone
saying my poems?
Traces that stir
the waves of an old affair.
All day is stoic,
At dusk i wake with eyes wet.
I carry that and go off to bed again.
Things that happened
Things happened in the past
with a reckless sigh of breath
with madness screaming above the shore.
Things happened between the sky and the Earth.
Climate / Conditions,
Between. Stone. Tank traces,
a poem got saddened,
quenching and reaching,
split and tear.
Like frozen apples and bananas
I hunt them, roll them
from the pines in the beginning.
Snort on them, put them in my veins,
old things,
Forlorn ankles. Bruised. Soft. Slow.
I have songs from the Island,
that I never share.
Things happened between the day and the night.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
P.S- I AM GOING TO READ A LIVE POETRY SOON ON INSTAGRAM ALONG WITH A FEW OTHER TALENTED ARTISTS. LET ME KNOW IF ANYONE IS INTERESTED, I WILL SHARE THE LINK.
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-
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-
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
From Olive Skins
As you all know, I have started this lit magazine especially curated for abstract and surreal poetry which means a lot to me and so I urge you all to head over to this link and read this amazing poetry from a fellow poet.
Please like, share and follow if you appreciate the work.
Greys and black
Elis has a paper ball texture, crisp and crumpled veins of love. Her nakedness is the march towards the fruits of springs, countless motions of time. Her liquid lips, cryptic to herself. She neatly defies the existence of frailty.
The frailty of summer’s hope and frailty of meadows spring.
The heaviness of swamp and linguistic seizures weighs her down, sinking her hand and arm. Missing parts of reality. A cocoon of dissatisfaction. A body of uncountable heavy eyelids. Elis does not speak of her curves and eyes, she dedicates her body and sacrifices her tongue. Rituals of greys and blacks.
Elis curls up her lips like a slice of burning orange peel. Her breaths, heavy, dissected, summoned like a stone eating her tongue. Her thigh eating her faith.
Elis craves and prays. For solitude to be her only stay.
©Image and words -MVS
NaPoWriMo#6
Music of pain
a voice is creating a map inside
breaking my legs, my arms
into the eye of nothingness
i see nothing.
i feel nothing.
my lids are dropping day by day
i considered rescuing poetry,
the pale fonts, tampered words
and it ate me, slurping mouths,
Vermillion floating mirrors,
stuck to my lips
and cracking the pain
on the floor for you to dance,
it’s a pattern.
it kills and kills
obdurate music of pain.
such coldness slipping,
stopping the clock of gods,
speaking or praying.
this coldness is chilling
with a hint of a lone heart.
i die here.
©Image and words-MVS
A vintage truth
Photographs are blurred memories, of faked, chipped, plastered walls cracking like walnuts, eating its own body- Walls & bones dissolving inside the tooth of dust, memories can be fatal, if picturized or vandalised. All memories collide inside flaky cheeks producing abhorrence of stars, photographs stick like a parasite to your naked soul & exposes the flimsy spots of your entire galaxy. Like the black spots of a beautiful bird. Wax droplets memories afloat.
this poem is a liquid moon
My nights are inked
to the soiled sheets of tears
where the callous jaw bleeds inhuman poison,
or a thing pale as your heart
i sew it up to my nostrils, cold
the fragrance, shrieking my inside pits,
its dark, like blank spaces
Everything seems to be a show- off
your hands, your lips
my intelligence to care,
my cravings,
the nights turning them into molten pieces,
i die and become a ball of clay,
stuck to my body,
a parasitic drop of blood.
And there i lie
all dead and black,
with hemisphere dwindling,
and mouths missing
white thick slurp of warped words,
darkness runs in my heart,
like a lighthouse to my dreams.
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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