Mother,
I make fire.
from toe to toe-
Horizontal shivers.
Mother- you ask 'Who am I'?
I ask the same-
the inheritance of glory
is perhaps a groaning knock?
I am a walking grief-
a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn
an adjective which stands nude-
s
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
in
parrallelism .
Mother, what are these things around me?
These objects, people- fungus in pickles-
spit it out, immediately-
spit and spat-
You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry,
bearing negations for an absolute face of mine
you replicate me mother, or do i do you?
Is my face not enough?
Is my weakness too shallow?
Mother! Oh glorious victory-
You know all of it.
You do.
You do.
You do.
Your clear eye is one such beauty
haunting for days - this body that dwells on it
your each visison- birds perching on my balconies
and not disturbing my burnt pancakes.
I see. I annihilate. I wash face.
I know what my grave shall be called - with one tree
and all about 'waiting for Godot'
This world may heal sometimes soon with it's funny pink sins
it's funny politics and gender of skies.
I must not speak thereafter,the tingles of auburn dirt
that fills my nostrils are too many,
symmetrical and ferocious.
The closed drawers in my room chatters
all about my loneliness
and nothing still infects me.
You- the one who sparks lucent moon into my breaths.
I say this this too.
the notions of morality and absurdism
tickling cellophene above our eyelids.
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.
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.
the poppies won't die tonight
I sense the drama through the bleeding faces again
the parched vase of you and me
the horizon of us-
a hallowing question to that equation
the fields seem opaque,
dreary, with white sunflowers
I run and burn
to sniff your presence
to sniff the existence
the love equation to the sky
and to things beyond
my feet seem to be the carrier of our love poems,
enthralled and quiet
almost like a woman lost in translation
Chips in frost.
cold barren
as if a tree unfolded a leaf so huge
the love rises
and sinks
and stinks,
it breaks and fills the spaces
with things so small
almost like a hurricane,
moths fluttering,
there is no place left to make love-
not between such damp sheets, at least.
It has been a long time since I have interacted with my WordPress readers.
I hope everyone is doing fine or just surviving things at the their best level. It’s okay if this year did not start with a kick for you. Trust your timings! I am trying to reset my mindset with slow living. Trying and making goals at a slow space and it’s a different yet beautiful progress for me.
I am curious to learn about any new life update that has happened to you. Your plans, goals, anything? Recently I enjoyed the book “The Untethered Soul” and it has molded me in such a artistic way. If you need some relaxation, you should check out that book.
Lastly, I am chuffed to inform about my poetry publication in the mammoth anthology ‘The Kali Project’ which includes the poetry/ art of Indian Female poets. The project was a unique call about the power of feminism and goddess Kali. I am grateful to Candice and Megha for this opportunity. You can get your copies through Amazon, Pothi, if interested.
I produced my 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.
Sipping my tea, here I am wishing a very happy and prosperous new year to all. I hope you all work harder this year, laugh harder and be more kind to everyone around you especially yourself!
Having said that I would like to start this post with a positive approach for my baby that is Olive skins. I am all ready to start it with new hope and zeal. Last year actually did not go well personally at all, it made me stronger though to deal with my things consciously.
So once again, my that poetry page is all ready to welcome your contemporary, surrealistic poems. I also would welcome any suggestions at @oliveskinspoet@gmail.com. If you wish to join this baby venture as a member, contributor, you are more than welcome!
You can check out my website here and get started with it. This month, there is no theme for the submissions so you can play with your thoughts, creativity and what not!
Quietly, winter sets in
like a bride so pure,
a porcelain teapot full of warmth,
a dandelion brushing against the skin.
The kitchen lights shine on my bare skin,
producing a glimmer of my mind.
The grass is cut short. Precise and anorexic.
The air is not the same anymore.
Bulbs of sophisticated figments produce jasmine in cold.
There is no other way for us to gulp a wound here,
the pain may be stuck like a pendulum inside.
Winter germinates other chills in mind, often
into me, an evening of inked breath.
The fission of music
getting stuck to my earlobes,
a song,
a pyre,
an abortion,
a mishappening
all shapeshifting instabilities of life.
Cherry Blossoms
of ordinary life, it is.
Ankle length Winter- skirts swaying across the room
ingesting
everything at once.
P.S – Sorry for my disappearance also I am currently not at all in a writing sphere, exactly. Please let me know what did you all feel reading this one.:)
there is absolutely an archaic music ruffling in my ear,
I call it home.
pitter-patter raindrops,
wrapping a ceremony around my waist.
There is belongingness to this body,
with nature being receptive of my patterns.
A short, polka dot marrying the tablecloth.
the small details that you often ignore.
And I surrender my eyes, amongst the worldly chaos.
The chopping of walnuts, the breaking of my patient knuckles,
as if waiting desperately for something abnormal to occur.
Raindrops/ a plural form of tears.
or a. singular verb. to soothe the reaction of popping pills.
I rest my fingertips,
whirling blue pain,
as heavy a s a cotton ball
on the drops of this waterfall.
A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.
I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
too thin,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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