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.

Meteors

 
 
  
 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.
   
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(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

A concern to self-

And there is almost nothing but this silence
with which I caress my pallid numb thoughts
mud stained- inner knuckles,
fingernails growing all small and ugly
and not just that,
but I sleep with my dirty longings as well.
Bed of misery beneath the flesh of tongue.
Endless field of dark fragmented hopes/
You name it.
I wonder if this will be the season of spring inside my dreary grassland
Of beautiful spring flowers
things that resonate with the Earth, the moon and the stars.
Will it be a hiccup or a lost prayer?
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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

A Memoir about Prayers and Healing

Things do not attach themselves to our void, till we allow it to occur. Things- broken, upsetting they instill our hearts and soul with remorse and pain. A haunting truth about liberation is when we clench our minds limited only to the point we think we need it, it never occurs. What about the next step?

The next step of releasing our fears and not ingesting the feeling of guilt and sadness always. The process requires abundance of acceptance. Acceptance of our mistakes, acceptance of knowing our worth, our dreams as well acceptance to not expect from others.

Prayers can be addictive. I have watched myself for a month not going to the bed without chanting a hymn or “om mani padme hum”…it’s  strange belief or a meditative medium as if I have someone to hold on, I never trusted humans and somehow I suffer from social anxiety and therefore I know how strong my bond is with miracles and prayers. No, the reason is not limited only to this. While addressing about my insanity and delirious thoughts in the form of poetry in my first full length collection- crimson skins, I cried and managed to write somehow.. I later found out my journey with healing. About something beyond pain…something surreal yet realistic. I dedicate each day ever since to my writing process as a slow, healing journey. A quiet, nurturing interaction to my soul. It’s all about the Self!

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 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

Flower and Fruits

These words will arrive in formations

about my sleep

about the morning fresh dew.

about Point of indulgence. Crisp periphery of sliced strawberries.

About dying Flowers and Fruits.

Scratch, fingers across belly button.

Finding appropriate word is almost like flowing incessantly.

Organs fluttering.

My words will occur in shapeless boundaries

with lanterns and lost sheets of clouds.

A few about moments. A few about tiny swirls of acrylic seasons.

_________________________________________________________

Would love to see you reading the poetry collection I published during the last year. Available worldwide now!:)

http://braveandrecklessblog.com/2020/12/30/crimson-skins-now-available-through-pothi/

The dialogue of life-

The dialogues of life,
cold and tiny
making my bosom collapse at night,
with white nakedness of velvet sky
and the paper sniffing my skin,
a hard yawn of the afternoon,
a dark spot on the skin-
The dialogue of life
to my springs, to my sharp scandal of the eye.
This it. This is she.
A massive sea beneath the hand,
beneath your mouth,
a massive ocean
with softness of mornings
This is she, between the eye of sunsets happening.



Links to buy my poetry collection Crimson Skins -  here
Available on Barnes and Noble, Book Depository as well.

Wounds

I just published my poetry collection Crimson Skins on Amazon. Check it out.

/

The night has a soft pattern to dismantle my body<
Quiet a as hushed wound with a flat curvature of a splitting fruit,
my body is a temple to wounds,
a temple to eat things that are fleshy.
The night lamps are soft ointments to soothe this loss .
A state of delirium, a state of despair.
These wounds are like flowers sitting atop my body,
Wounds- a silhouette of a silver limping leg,
a mouth that spreads shade of green fevers.
I have no where else to go now,
I rest my story to the empty nights,
a hollow stone is all that stays.

ALSO, IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO SWITCH BACK TO CLASSIC EDITOR PLEASE HELP ME!

my latest work can be read here.https://www.greeninkpoetry.co.uk/poetry-submissions-all/beginning-devika-mathur

A blank slate

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.)

Subscribe to my newsletter for reading other poetry and artist’s work- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

Hear it once again

 

Imagine me in your room,
the aerial space filled with the sniff of rosemary candles.
Imagine how I sit and lift up my chin to decode a language now,
A voice that breaks the linings of the wall.

When you look at me,
You see my words,
my eyes that unravel the thread of apple juice.
(Understand these lines again)
I am a voiceless creature to the nights that go mad running down the aestetic streets,
not to you.
Not anymore to you.
I saw my mother weep once. A veiled woman.
As i watched, I could see that weeping has no cadence.
This is what language did to us.
Maker of places, kitchen sinks,
empty hallways,
gadens, sea- breeze.
This is what happened since always.

The voice got tore away between the shades of sky.
The voice of not shouting, basically.
The voice wearing the colours that go with red hair.
The voice where the woman held it like an infant.
Absorbing everything, silently.

This is the hour that i love when everything goes off to rest,
the hour of darkness, the hour of metamorphosis,
of a change in the landscape without emphasis.
This is the women I adore,
a hot terrain of soft silk and milky dreams.

1:0’clock. This hour is a sin of raisin skies and doors creaking,
something erupts at this very moment.
Familar figures became curious shadows again.

Cold talks

>

I have seen women in a room
chilled as the mountain,
drowning in a ravenous shelter of heartache.
A feverish leg that jolts in summer.
Women breathe sand and exhale boken poetry.
Women in my town, dessicated in fumes of black clouds,
they do not speak about the evil talks now.
What is it that revolving between their cleavage?
White as their scarred skin,
summer rains blooming between thin eyelashes.
A star slips on their neck, nonchalantly
and they shove it back in their dreams.
a lullaby is eaten and forgotten, again & again.

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P.S- to read some good poetry from different writers check out Olive Skins

Darling

Thunders, in the mouth that we carry
A piquant starlight of your skin.
My darling, you live like . a town in my belly.
Each day, we grow in the circles of sestina.
A sweet nectar of snowflakes,
a silhouette of moist lip.

The retracing footsteps of delusions,
scratching the tip of tongue,
where we sit and drink memories.
and i absorb a glowing blurb,
parched, smudged yet a soft feverish glow

There is a sand dune in making,
we call it a coltish home,
Scribbles from books and hearts
a river, a windowsill peeking another sunset.

I want you telling me how you desire me.
Like the orchids from the backyard,
A spring growing beneath your breath.
colours of you,
colours of concave slippery night.
you have fingers, plastered, decorated
a chant if i must say that i wish to say.
its you darling and things about you,
that i wish to preserve and dig it into the mud.

I wish to preserve you, this ecosystem full of you.’
collecting deepest laments of our moments.

a heart to you

 

for all i remember the morning was obscure,
misty and dewy,
almost like a suicide.

he stood flowing, hopping from city to city
with mirrors broken,
a kiss forgotten.

i drew a circle that day to keep myself safe,
i always do that.
a circle with mangroves, swamps.
fingers / traipsing my mollusc body.

i had a fever.
cold and shaky like a shadow.
i wanted to perch on the footsteps you walked in.
it was that simple,
hallucinating your white-blue shirt.
oh the smell we created like chemicals.

a cadence you left still shines like the moon.
i keep it in the almirah i created,
my staicase.
a circle : of all the beginning.
I sit and fall like meteors.
and i capture your emblematic threads of wilderness.
a point of my sustenance.

---

my poem published on the rye whiskey review

Black pain & walls

i have fallen with troops of maniac
inside this cold body
disappearing jawbones of sins
and masters of death
residing inside this globe,
the pool of ataxia,
the pool of coherence
with red pale evenings
growing,
chilling,
breaking,
falling,

Abstruse thumbs of broken lines
making me thaw,
ice-cold teeth
cracking on black grounds,
with lonesome stars,
knitting my naked body
like a work of brilliance,
spider's- job,
still, i fall this time...
i fall & it hurts.

---

®MVS

Assimilation

“I HAVE LEARNED THAT I STILL HAVE A LOT TO LEARN”- MAYA ANGELOU

Cracking my pieces of delusions, with your fainted memory
like auburn leaves of sun rays,
with autumn diluted in veins of winters,
I wander and travel my electrolyte body,
time and again.

In the wilderness of my pituitary,
tongues of vague currents
erupting from my caged chest
a criss-cross of the eye, a criss-cross of mouth,
inexplicable waves thunder my jaws
and you reside in a big hollow of truth.

I am a summer weed,
waxed and shaved and fainted,
I swell and fell, again with a needle’s spine
to understand the resistance of lies,
My backbone twitches, my moth-shaped eye
I hallucinate, blinded, drugged, erected
and I swivel like a sickle of time.

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©MVS #NaPoWriMo-4

Leftover Nights(A collaboration)

It gives me immense pleasure in finally collaborating with Poems in Coffer girl Chhaya. She is a lovely soul and so is her scintillating writings.
Italics- Chhaya

 

A room full of rancid leftover night
is a reminder of repugnant voids
that conform to the oddities
of a desolate decaying mind

I hear my mind crackling and fading with
whispers gone, numbness sticking
the walls break inside my opaque body,
thrashing and mocking soliloquy wilderness
Pain: the metamorphosis of painkillers, death.
Hold my cryptic thistle cacophonies
Like a lotus scratching a lotus.

the senescent atrophic walls
that preserve banal prosaics
from bromidic tales of love
are a source of an abhorrent odour
clogging conduits of all my senses
and all that permeates my cranium
is an insistent sound of stale knocks
that still linger on brazen panels
placed on fermenting doors of oak

Devoid of a filter,  cupid raspberry, air.
My veins play laconic tunes to deaf poetry
with sinking toes in a pool of madness
my body aches and desiccates, trepidation somewhere.
The wax image of my parched lips,
dribbles till the curtains evaporate.
Icicles of pain pokes my palm
Unheard epiphanies, unheard voices.
Wars occur and I am a black moon swinging.
Under the clock of stingy bees
I dedicate my memories
I dedicate my breaths, mirrors and lost talks.

and I grieve for murky windows
with shrivelled wavering frames
held by creaking rusted hinges
the ones that steadily deflect
every beam of light and hope
yielding layers of mouldy mildew
to spread like a suppurating sore
on the bod of my mephitic room
filled with leftover nights without you.

© Chhaya and MVS

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Journey so far

A year and a half now on this beautiful platform which gave me an opportunity of sharing my writings and reading some brilliant work too. I want to take a moment and say how grateful I am to all the lovely people here who never fail to encourage and support me. A lot happened during this journey as once I also deleted my blog back in 2017 and then made this new one which again you guys flooded with love, thanks for that! Last year also I got featured in various beautiful online journals and with God’s grace, many more are upcoming including my next book.

To be honest, I don’t follow back all my followers for the mere fact that you are not my cup of tea doesn’t mean that you ain’t good. So let’s just say that! I deal with various body illness and often mind slaps which makes me write dark poetry. I know most of you must be like get over with it already…but if you don’t like it step ahead, please. I won’t stop writing what I feel. Oh yeah, I write philosophy too or love poetry too!

I have met some repulsive creeps also on WordPress which I can’t even begin to describe because I don’t want to. I don’t want to make my vibes squalid and disgusted.

And to all you lovely souls, thank you for your immense love, I hit 2K in December and since then I wanted to thank you all. I always shall appreciate you and I shall always breathe poetry.

©MVS

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