Who would weep?

And I am not the only one thinking of longings,
romance and half- written love poems to my muse.
I am not the only one thinking of rivers, trees and asteroids-
but then where are the rest?
The rest who would weep if I do-
the rest who would swallow the massive blob of shining throughout.
where do I find a stone as heavy as a chest?
An open eyelid. Two for lukewarm talks with neighbours.
Speaking of which- How do people interact so much with humans?
is there a step? a fixed pattern?
               multiple then Divide= result error!
Where are the rest of mutual eyelids.
collateral loss or perpetual blossom?
This eye is an observer 
for things crawling underneath
the teeth.


-------------------------

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Crimson Skins

Bare mornings

I started my day early
a bit early for seagulls to make sound
for neighbours to realize what the sunsets look like-
a bit early to see my hands and to think about their actions.

I started off my day early to think about the sand in my hands
and pink dahlias depressed and standing still.
What life must be for them?
This triangular air with single handed compost-
no motion happening.
perhaps the city is best when asleep.
The chater is quiet. The banters are percolating.

This hour is newly wed bride for the primroses to smile
but nobody watches it. Nobody sees the nude face of the morning. What do they offer now?
Or perhaps I am too early.

As the dawn sees her

POV- I imagined living in the Victorian Era and had a feeling to write a poem. Hence this came out.

The neighbourhood is a wet puddle.
Across the streets, I see the women having a camp-fire
whispering soft murmurs about the mundanity of life,
into the blue hemishphere
where stays a large apple- tree.
 The women of my town are a faint pear-
with whitest bosom and whitest eyes.

 Look,
the hourglass shapes have moved now- 
torn between the edges of languages,

one is cutting the rind of a lemon
while the other makes a lemonade.
They banter vicariously and live through the sky.
rust on their elbow, as if a second skin to their thighs.
   
  The women shaped as exhibitionist
gulping down a massive portion of tranquil shines:
They can't see.
They can't hear perhaps.
They have done the job
when the dark falls,
one word at a time-
one woman to another. 

The women are too fast to remember anything the next day.

Update

Dear readers,

Often it happens that I am reminded by WordPress to blog here and then I realize do I still have readers here lurking through my mundane words? I know, I too need to catch up on so many lovely writers here that I have known since I started writing here and I definitely will. But…

I am grateful to announce that I have a poem up on Outlook India- the most prestigious magazine that I have read and enjoyed growing up. Here is the link to my poem- Outlook India.

If you are still interested in reading the poetry book that I published during the pandemic here is the link.

Crimson Skins- India

Crimson Skins- US

Available on Kindle as well.

Into the room of everything

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. 

Intimacy-

Longings- these moments of a kiss. Occurring between us. Occults of time and space. Movements along the waistline. You scream again and again about the slightly dehydrated sky.

We – a passage of transparent sky slurps the bees. Wild mulberries pressed against the cheeks. How do you not see this? Movements along lips. Thunder of God’s voice down in my womb. The flexibility of this verb- a shudder: the red Sun. How do you defy this?

Say it- Say something about barren empty nights as life perches. Dissolution in water. This is a mere hallucination. This is what the body desires now- syntax so lost and translated in your postures. This. Biology of each molecule-shuddering useless violence. May I squeeze it further? This- That.  The grass is gaping at me. Sun dissolved in Stars.


Get my book on Kindle and on other platforms. Thanks

Crimson skins- Us

Crimson Skins- India

Momentum of Language

Language. Who needs it? It’s nothing but a scattered pretty way of illusionary numbers. Romancing with minds and tongues. Shifting bones of vertigo sky. Across my white bare body and this vibrating fall—language stops existing suddenly. Linguistics is nothing but a way the syntax of my paper heart breathes. Water condensed, without any stabilizer. I understand I must stay happy as I have been asked. I must walk.

I must love and I must sleep. I understand I must chew my food a thousand times before it punches my gut to vomit a disappearing fever. But friend, life is more than this- more than survival, existence, wounds- more than interpretations. More than the yeast of existing . Swelled up library inside the eyes. We can not win anymore nor can we lose- it’s the language that laughs all throughout life- hiding underneath the shades of glory. It’s the language of abyss between the voids. To be or not to be. To celebrate or to loathe.


Buy my book- Crimson Skins

The end of a lullaby

the shriek of my body,
a purple loose hanging moon
beneath the toes-
a shriek so wild
stretches through the carcass

I have nothing left to weep now
for the moon has taken a dip inside the river.
I hear my village burning,
and see people sleeping so quietly, so wildly
as if nothing ever happened.
A lullaby lost in a path-
mouthless,
a blue broken hemisphere.

What do I do with my limbs now?
How do I sit and regenerate in a porous night?

The Old Body-





with chained ankles,

hush, thrilling lips,

a body floats inside my mind,

dwindling through the carcass,

old and vintage-

a mahogany river of crooked moonlight,

this body blooms and sinks at the same time,

uttering a blob of big sun-shaped tongue

emerging out,

emerging through the stains and walls

through veins and puddles.

this time itches now,

I have wounds all over my barren body

a body- now a pit of marks.

—————————————————————-

If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it has been an year since my book published and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.

sharing links-

Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

The first issue of – All Ears is out now!

As I write this, I am reminded of all the wonderful poetry,prose that I have been reading for All Ears– An ezine for youth which has been edited by me along with five other editors. With an eye of an editor, it is never an easy task to analyse any piece but with the collective effort I am more than happy to present before you our first issue- You can download it here and enjoy it for free. The inaugral issue is filled with some brilliant artwork, poetry,prose etc. I hope you all shall enjoy and consider it for future submissions.:)

Love

Devika

Blue velvet sighs

Body of coral sunsets slipping underneath,
and I think of your curvatures, silhouettes of water- lotus
a heavy mass of flower spinning upon the moon,
a daydream and slow night

slow as far riverbeds, moaning
quick and slow.
the fingernails hide a slippery naked climate,
fermented by the shiver and body on body

dirty tablecloths:
dirty walls, kitchen sinks melting away
melting like the throbbing blood
blood: so warm and luscious now

as a river riding a star.
I squat in the evening, on the fresh, frozen floor
like  a rose, budding and blooming.

  The pink air laughs and shifts incessantly
between our pastel love, our growing thick bites
the hollows of tongues
dancing.

Mermaids in heaven.
I stare and stare and become the large junction

(Bodies rhyming)

To all the dead trees-

Source
swim across
attest the pain
sink into the lake of grief
watch and convulse,
the narration-
the blue oblong face of emotions-
it disappoints me each day,
you and your flattery
my small body,
small, petite chin
that thrusts no life anymore.
Watch a face again,
think about it,
the slippery texture
grains allover the body
blurred, overgown opinions

I am sad flower today, trying to be the moon
but the moon is always sad,
I tell myself to watch the moving crowd
to feel the concrete tree
and the still landscape of stagnancy exists
a pill of loss and convulsions all day long.
-----------------------------------------

I have a book- Crimson skins. Read it if still you have not. on kindle, pothi etc.

I am happy to announce I have a poem in this beautiful anthology-
Hecate Magazine.

Arbitration-





Scissors often draw a diagram
On my cold slender hands,
A light peeks in, as if to tell something new.
A light 
A hope.

A hiccup that stops another hiccup.
This light, a soft tune to my ears.
What do I consider this art of life?
A hummus stain on my sequin dress.
A quiet noise, inside my vase body.

It's interruption.
If a thing dies, let it be.
Let the hand sink.
Let the light go.

Let things go.


Get my book here-
Crimson Skins

Jasmine

The sniff
lingers
between the hills and the mountain
a sniff to overcome a dismay,
a snippet of a saint
through the threads of fragile life.
Jasmine- a floral drop of snow
now between my knuckles,
rubbing
against my pillow
a cry for dreams,
a lotus shaped prayer.
Jasmine- a quiet nostalgic hope,
prayers about fairies and daydreams,
The sun and the waters,
echoing wool of the sunburn.
The sniff-
my mother's voice
an elastic memory
of tales and despair.
Hi, Do check out my published book, available on Kindle also. Let me know what you think of this one?
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
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Stillness

the voice cracks in the summer sun
I hear things falling apart
underneath my door knob
behind the cobweb- almost gone now
i hear things decaying,
distorted as the morning yawn
the leaves so parched
the sun , cold and warm
there is a music that stops playing as i write this
the music that speaks about fallen dreams,
listless curvature of atmosphere.
stillness is what i observe 'stillness in my body, my toes and lips
the earth so happy and warm now
almost like a cerulean sadness
torn into threads of bruises
into diverse sects of lemon dried faces.
the hands so small and white
with my bosom hanging restlessly on the table.
there are things so peculiar occurring everywhere.
restless yet a still monochrome pattern of life
Hi, Do check out my published book, available on Kindle also. Let me know what you think of this one?
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

no space to love

source-pinterest

Napowrimo#12

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.