My poetry is my religion.
Where do I stick flowers now?
The empty faces,
the mundane eyes.
The silhoutte of a dark river
shifting its path across my face,
turn by turn;
Where do I paint red shades of sunset now?
A myth of potpourri,
a lake of setting cold nostrils.
I pray and repeat my rituals,
a soothsayer of my belly now,
a tale forgotten.
A night of crippled stars.
Where do I sit and attach these sunflowers now?
Β
I know of a lady in white
with a mouth full of promises,
spreading a nocturnal path of flowers,
like a longed kiss above the eye,
a lady that slips in my chest,
within the small rim of my fist,
a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist.
a lady with a potato peel,
with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table,
entangled like dust in her bun,
mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder,
a moment of purple sanity,
a lady in white that lives in a suburban city,
with marigolds just in her eyes.
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You can read my collection on Barnes & Noble , too.
My loneliness spews from the dark curtains
/ fevering beneath a molted lampshade, running
amidst the hanging treehouse, a sharp blue gong of a temple.
Upon the arrival of next month, my tongue develops a sickness,
I sit
I stand
I sit
In a nonchalant abrupt way,
Defying the lucid crispness of nights,
I carry a storm of perforated stars in my womb,
delivering a slick wall of hope, again till the next month arrives.
I have a list of ways in which I take care of myself-
Practicing gratitude till the eyes die out of numb shocks,
Watching the surreal wings of birds, till I am being judged
And the process never ends,
Till the process of death is shining on my iris.
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The book is available as Kindle as well as on Barnes and Noble, Book Depository.
Happy reading.:)
with our bodies colliding
this night sings a song of petunia,
a soft spring blooming behind our feet.
A velvet yawn of a quiet afternoon.
The night is a tiny flower
thumping against the sun-kissed breaths
a hum of summer,
a hum of winter.
The mouth dipped in the greasy elbows,
a pathway to the flowering petals.
Silver droplets of water,
the body shrinks like a caterpillar now,
sparkles of the rain,
Too many screams now,
too many abstract bodily postures.
This night delivers a tangled knot of whispers of leaves,
like salt, the whispers rubbing our elbows, quietly.
Hushed.
A season of moist talks.
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For Indian Readers check out Amazon or Bookswagon.
image credits- pinterest
Thunder,
if that is one big word
I want you to gulp it down.
My walls speaks of you
of a memory we shared
over the sweet sunrise from the balcony
Your percolating memories stir my throat
to think of our blue wise words.
I was always a pebble
a sweet, piquant attachment
from your dreams, father
a moist lost string of a pullover
that you always wanted to cherish.
I think of the sky
as I think of you
of infinite stars
of colours and oceans.
Of letters stuck to the neem trees
as I hold your this lost letter.
Thunder,
this is the only word that you should sleep on
for you remind me of rudimentary silhouettes of trees,
lukewarm peel of laughter.
I just issued a newsletter yesterday on fathers. Check it out-https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul/letters/poetry-on-father
Prompt- Dramatic Monologue
You!
The face of singular lotus
come, let’s evolve
someplace together
with our final dance
Take my hands
interlock it with yours
A strand of light
A strand of gleam
Your face
a yarn of mother’s touch
a cupboard full of old photo albums.
Your body is a shell
a shire of tulips
You have a mind of sunrise.
Look, do not overthink
for you must destroy this marble hour.
Hop!
Do not stare and evolve with me
before you learn to pronounce L O V E.
After all, Queer is this ecstasy!
we slumber through days
of moist observations
of things unspoken of.
An organ. A transparency..
there are things beyond our two nutty eye
to cling a mouth full of love,
Raindrops
that cascade through my fragile shoulders
through my heavy white bosom
that
speaks of you
speaks of sin
speaks of white emptiness
raindrops sweet and soft
unravels a story of mother’s womb.
so much beyond and so much less.
What do I ask for now?
peace or lust from you?
A landscape. A delusion.
I write this to pleat my unevenness
to fool you into believing
about our eloping mad love.
Hi, Hope you all are doing well. Let me know how did you enjoy my this poem in the comments below.
Slow as a neighbour’s plant
vindictive, timid.
Slow as a ripple static
hush.
An oblong wax melting away,
slow,
slow as raindrop stuck on a tree
As a splash of colour unable to blend
a monologue twirling inside my stomach
a song so old
with cough drops all around the drawers
dying
slow
dying
repetitive
insipid
Once a melody
now only an arm
now only a forehead
nothing at all
A nightmare in blue
It knows nothing now
only a flat desperation of air
The feet knows the crevices of life.
Look carefully..
there!
A small dot and a fanned breath of a leaf.
Slow.
I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
separating recklessly.
Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.
I sink
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.
These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.
The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.
I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.
(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)
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I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
No.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.
I announce I am rather happy
but then
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic
But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
and then
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
collapsing
exhilarating
dying
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.
Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.
