I am more than elevated to share the news that my poem The Exit got published in Madras Courier which is a 233 old newspaper and is a reputed brand. Many thanks to the editor for accepting my work.
Read my work here.
I remember the absurdness of clouds spread over my head, hovering. Blue lilies dancing in the sky. A quiet place of porous Gods. I would stare at the sky, releasing my chemical reactions in the thin air. My orange vase neck, oscillating between the concrete human eye and the prism of soil. I would name it Illusion.
Phonetic switch of moonflowers and blurred windowpanes. I saw it all.
At times, I would be a God myself, walking through the soil where the humans sew each other, excavating noises. Annihilation of a cold muse in the sky.
There are shapes and humans walking up above, flickering heir worldly eyes. I have it all,
in my pockets full of moaning psalms,
rolling down my sliding cheeks.
I carry a piece of everything, everywhere I travel.
Where does it go?
Your unspoken word of lust,
an ensemble of parched dancing words,
Do you let them run?
Or do you absorb the guilt, like a sponge?
Harvest the other sides of pixie lawn now,
Run… run along the shores
embossing a pain onto the sand.
Among the stars is a paper flower blooming,
with a binomial tongue to speak.
The star and the earth do not suffice your sparkle.
Pelican featured sunset glows.
Slurp and slurp.
The agony hides behind the crevices of teeth.
Churn your fear like a betel leaf,
Take a flight,
Like the bunch of sun-kissed memories.
Should I ask you how did it all begin?
Was it a transitory joy or the love at first sight,
the moment when you felt the soil spoke to you in a forign language.
How did you move then?
Change of modals of life or the brewing cough of skin?
The body traps itself between the layers of mercury and grave,
where the ankle transpires sweat,
a word of brief love.
These are the translations fluttering beneath the hem of your dress,
Listen to these,
do not yell at them.
These are little words heralding onto your laps.
The slice of pain is where it all began,
the time when you touched my chipped thumb,
the insect uttering a buzz,
an unfathomable language.
The time of despair
and a folded shawl of dirt,
it was then I did not hear words,
groping a slight of everything that pounced on me.
It began during the course of tired nights.
a stone eye,
a rock arm,
all disintegrated somewhere in the cold sea.
Such translations cover my mouth in a dark blue shade of the sky.
Observe the faint freckles between my fingers,
the red polka dot- a hum of my quiet anger,
slithering like thin sheets between two mouths.
lips- a place of complete soliloquy.
What do I see here?
A place of delusional spots,
hallucinations about a place like home.
So, I form a lotus with my hands,
a shape so pure, spitting shades of anger,
spitting again and again.
i form an Ode to the poetry,
through my index fingers, pastel skin blooming
and my knuckles rather happy.
This is a song I create, with a chest- brown light.
not everything stays.
Not people or letters.
i wrap my red poems amidst my lashes
and knitting them in my womb.
Something shall stay,
Here, amidst the wild eyes.
Check out the following link for my published work. Thanks to the team at Spillwords.
I know I have disappeared from my favorite place but please hang on. I am going through a hell off late.
Let's roll our tobacco tongues together, a song so pure, the poetry of cosmos. I have a word stuck on my eyelid to love to walk on the lines of your mind. A world created of seismic waves. And this bedsheet witnessing our lovemaking, I have a love song hidden under my blouse, intricate as my palms, detailed full womb of springs. A song, parallel of being A single light. And we suck this night out of the paper straw, this mulberry night of waves and potions. We suck the air making the atmosphere thin and fragile. This galaxy is now plucked from the hands of our infinite words. check out my poetry published on Vita Brevis.