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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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-
a blue broken hemisphere.
What do I do with my limbs now?
How do I sit and regenerate in a porous night?
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.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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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.:)
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.
Scissors often draw a diagram
On my cold slender hands,
A light peeks in, as if to tell something new.
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.
If a thing dies, let it be.
Let the hand sink.
Let the light go.
Let things go.
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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.
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
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.
as if a tree unfolded a leaf so huge
the love rises
it breaks and fills the spaces
with things so small
almost like a hurricane,
there is no place left to make love-
not between such damp sheets, at least.
But this sorrow never ends. The tongue that runs cold due to platonic threads of sins and cold meadows the ache is blooming each day beneath the blue unfolded eyes the colour green- now a tone of burning bodies this is my survival song, you see with lines cryptic sunset on my lap the night never fades away the soil enriched with a glint of my water my heavy overwhelming collapsing lungs. this poem shall not soothe you- instead would ask you to hunt something more some more of air, water, sun , fire. in your neighborhood about the fallen leaves. dry tongues, neck choking. about things so unpleasant you would not otherwise want to know.
Bones indigo, lacking a piece of earth, inside your mouth of stars a tremor of zodiac signs Like a Taurus blooming.
You sprinkle lust on my bosom bubbles of thin colours, a 4 am moonlight sigh. Tender mouths of mud and water, unborn fruits of the ultimate kiss. This is us.
My hips now like a parched lake. I am made up of unpruned divinity, an untamed odorless shadow of sky between the thick sheets of a dark city.
Beautiful sun, how you grow all over me, with a swollen tongue licking my mouth, as if collapsing in his arms. Inside my mind, there is a temple. Rain Sun Earth I will crack my eyelids open, now.
----------------------------------------------- (I wrote this piece a long time ago) I wrote my poetry 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. I would appreciate it. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou