On Collective sadness

What amazes me is the notion of sadness bringing us all human together. If we think deeply about it- we might find an insatiable quench to sit and share this massive grief. Instead, we circulate remarks about literature, art, and human minds walking downwards. Where do we then carry forward this collective sadness and grief? Do we spit and spat or do we think of it as a life lesson forever? There has to be an end. An end to this corollary of distinctive yet massive grief. This sadness which human collects and wear in disguise. We do take help from art, literature, but is that it? Is there more? Space- times. There is anticipation. Black redundancy of slipping emotions. Where are we that we are not able to hold them? Shall we sit on this grief? Shall we change the verb here? What should be done with this collective sadness dear friend? Is it ugly? Is it beautiful? Is it the first- born? Stringing wound floating inside the mind.

Link to buy my poetry book- Crimson Skins

Anna

Pinterest

matching pink- stained
lips of mirrors
Anna, sew her flowers to the hair
like an oil-painting smiling,
something conjuring about her patterns,
the wavelength, the folds
all magical maybe.
Anna, in her mid 20’s
auburn ductile head & hair
with sheets of transparent
cling film, susurrus body.

almost a year ago,
a wife & a mother
with tunnels of story
sun-flower hands of mercury
now shifting,
her body movements
inch by inch,
in darkness & solitude
a shape shifter,
a fortune-teller,
rose collector,
anna is all of it,
a crooked truth.
you pluck a flower
& the land becomes barren.

®MVS


Anna

Pinterest

matching pink- stained
lips of mirrors
Anna, sew her flowers to the hair
like an oil-painting smiling,
something conjuring about her patterns,
the wavelength, the folds
all magical maybe.
Anna, in her mid 20’s
auburn ductile head & hair
with sheets of transparent
cling film, susurrus body.

almost a year ago,
a wife & a mother
with tunnels of story
sun-flower hands of mercury
now shifting,
her body movements
inch by inch,
in darkness & solitude
a shape shifter,
a fortune-teller,
rose collector,
Anna is all of it,
a crooked truth.
you pluck a flower
& the land becomes barren.

®MVS


Dreams and talks

I could smell your wine, 
your amniotic sheets
of pure stars and silicon lullaby,
regenerating my outgrown toes and stale stairs.
this head wrap is a lie,
if your nights do not talk to mine.
You become my pool of waters and waters
that kills my dead skin, on repeats.

You wander, like a dream
soft and tiny
in my 4 A.M talks, the moment of collision
I see your swapping legs and arms
kisses and poetry
tears and scars,
A mulberry sheet of dreams.
I could smell you once again
in the words of pillow marks,
in the arch of my windowsill.
Knitting and defying this entire life,
you do it in a pattern.
You do it always.

©MVS

NaPoWriMo#14

Moments

DSC00294
self

I eat the brevity of moments
piece by piece
in irregular, circular motions
like the daunts of rain
the daunts of greys
with cerulean eye- dots.

These limbs are an array of woollen mouths
fragmented and ruffled,
in the moments of despair
in the moments of sunsets.

I conjure and swallow
all that occurred here,
in these moments of pain
in these moments of abortions,

Life romancing fatal nights,
a spider knitting a bridge of paradise
it clicks and time haunts the future.
And, I eat it all…moments.


©image and words- MVS

NaPoWriMo#7