life · poetry · prose

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.
———————————————————

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

Crimson Skins- POTHI

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poetry

On Dreams

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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.

poetry

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.

poetry

Things that happened

Picture- mine

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-

Crimson skins

Crimson Skins- India

poetry · prose

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-

Crimson skins

Crimson Skins- India

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 · published

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.

https://oliveskins.com/2019/06/head-island-time-and-wave/

poetry

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

poetry

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

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poetry

A vintage truth

Image result for vintage photos

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.