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.
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
I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.
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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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,
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.
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.
P.S- to read some good poetry from different writers check out Olive Skins
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.
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,
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
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.
“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.
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.
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