The women of my time spend too much time thinking,
thinking about the leftover foods
the leftover oil, cucumbers and what not
The women of my time speak a vacant language
a kind of verbiage which makes you stutter
they have a lost glory eyesight
they wish to see things yet falls on a flat surface.
The women of my time are petite and so full.
Full of things that break a human heart,
a cupboard full of memories disguised as polaroids,
fancy teacups clinging the sounds of romance
Arteries of lust flowing
lust for things beyond your skin.
They do not tuck in emotions in their garments.
Hot spaced cheeks splashing words of mahogany
the hem of skirts always full of raisins and butter.
The women of my time eat wounds like spices
more precious than the silver gems
all shades of the sunset, transformation of a child, maybe.
watching her swath their eyes becomes terrible often
terrible as watching a melting moon.
Women of my time prepare a soft warm water bath for themselves
to eat the sins,
to eat something beyond the plastic walls,
they do shiver
yet they do not pause here.
The women of my time are goddesses: a figurative speech about liberation.
They sit and watch the open sky as if they have the light in their puerile palm.
If you like this do consider checking out my poetry collection on-Amazon. And on Pothi– India
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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
But then you never returned.
And something orphan slipped from my cheek,
A naked dance
full of black solemn love,
round and so full
of evening stars
sitting and sewing a song so pure unheard before
You never came,
so I announced my happy song
emancipating from the almond-shaped walls.
One such wall sits above my slender nostrils.
And then, I revolved & twitched like the galaxy.
a stain stuck to my dress of love.
Look at me,
goddess of rivers and hallucinations.
I create art with my this eternal sea.
A dance I perform today,
with a hiccupping sigh,
transmission lines pressed between my palms.
I am the goddess of Dance.
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.
a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.
Paint it dead.
submit your words here
Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.
This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights.
ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.
Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.
Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.
i come to places where i can stich a notion to my entire body of chemicals.
Strange things happen here.
A women die each day/ there are ways and methods for it/
a loop of sorrow sinks like an abortion.
And a mist encircles my eyebrow, like a wide corridor collapsing.
i visit places that connects me to a numb mind.
I ask a numb air to swallow my left arm,
for it knows the bends and the geometry.
Often, I collect marbles/ potions/ circumstances that live like a vein inside me.
I fix things.
fixing like a plumber of times.
beneath the archaic tenderness of joy,
a butterfly evolves.
a blue coloured life dripping from my body
my entire smouldered body.
i drip and collect myself all alone.
The dissection of women.
Words and pic- MVS
There is color alchemy.
yellow, yellow pavements calling me to collapse.
And there is a bowl, I see reflection, ripples, colors again.
some old memoirs.
a hush and a loud roar.
The wind occupies the ecosystem,
The shapes of water signs as if dancing swiftly.
The sensuous textures I see in the waters.
Crystals, Fountains and a sky full of mirrors.
I bend to pray, to touch it,
that moist lacking words I see,
fluttering kiss of my bare skin,
I see myself like a lantern these days,
a conversation lost and preserved.
There is a formation of orchid on my backbone,
a deep, magenta picture of weeds too.
A color array clinging. I am maybe a star for today.
There is this whole universe wrapping my body today.
A smell of yearning.
i understand that feeling of leaking.
an untold truth from your orange laps,
You breathe deeply, like a concave mirror dropping in shreds.
You wish to be gentle, to be soft.
A smouldering aroma that sits quietly on the bosom, nonchalantly.
I understand the pain and the peeling of throats past evening,
You force a dry smile, day after day on your smitten wrinkled face.
I understand how the walls of your lobby appeared,
lost in ignorance,
where people walked in and they left without a souvenir.
You have many branches, girl
smoke on an ashtray, burning still.
You can feel the hollowness of Earth.
the languid smell it holds, it carries us,
we the dead morbid souls.
I understand that lisp in your backbone,
your words burning inside like a leaf dying,
A point of everything comes for everything.
Accept it, girl, you are the voice.
Watch the sunset, you can swallow it all.
when you step your foot on the thin film of the sheet,
there is a red lampshade, moist and speaking mute voices.
you take a right turn then and you see a pill of god.
you slurp it backward, at the tip of your tongue,
thinking it shall slip softly down in your stomach,
hushing the coiled noises.
you always step backwards,
at night, like dirt, dust.
a morphed arm,
for you were a burden throughout the day
and you sulked too backwards,
life eating the humans.
my lips curled, bitten like half-lit moon
speaking up things bizarre, backwards,
into the sky that spreads between my white legs.
i finish reading, walking all in a backward motion.
often i survive in this perfection.
i rub my hands, to circulate a thread of warmth onto my cheeks.
i live like that. Backwards.
it’s that time of the month
when the earth blooms like a bride,
and a thumb of life splinters.
fragments of the earth, the moon
like a mahogany autumn kiss,
divides my body into two beautiful halves.
I am a blossom now,
a dew on the foreheads of Gods.
Those gods who created a dimension of soil inside me.
Blueberries that speaks a truth about springs.
I give births, i take births
a circle of life.
effeminate blisters chiselled onto my hip.
I do not take rest like the sun, the moon.
i am a supernatural flower of crumpled anxiety.
So, I gather and gather, sunbeams, lilies
a soft thorn, honey, raindrops.
as much as i can,
to slip it all into my jaws,running
through the streams of loneliness of this fish-shaped eye.
cold hands meet me like temples,
adjoining bodies of splash.
a mother, a sister,
a verb, a noun,
it all begins with me,
a feverish touch of mine,
endless spots of joy and birth.
a door often conjures murmurs.
continuous, ephemeral drops of dreams,
hanging like autumn leaves,
a transitory position slips beneath me.
i stay quiet as a hawk,
pure as hot wax.
A body rocks its arms in blue stench,
and i bask in.
for there are things growing, a weed
for no reason.
hope you are doing great.
P.s My recent poetry got published here.
Link to my poem in this amazing anthology
can be checked out on amazon.
i have a body that whizz like a circus
two eulogies of sanguine madholes
clifts and wars of a drunk man
Loss of vision.Loss of words.
repercussions produce hollows
as deep as a cactus.
My knees producing floating amphibians
Slid my copious throat
you will have two minds again there,
savaging my body
like it's a loss of nothingness.
streaming hot heads of loss.
As already stated this is a collection of some profound writers and a web of survival stories that always make me proud. Proud of the fact, that I am part of this stunning community. The writings here are strong and makes you feel your bones like never before.
The writings not only intrigues one’s mind but also acts as a safe heaven for the survivors and the warriors. If you are a feminist or even a part of it, it’s the exact place for you and your tales.
The collective is currently seeking out for some RICH, EARNEST yet POWERFUL writings against Women exploitation and a lot more in honor of National Poetry Month. You can find the further details here.
Please do read the previous writings of our collective before submitting to Whisper and the Roar in order to avoid any rejection emails. We can be a bit choosey when it comes to some real writings. So give us some real voice, something that makes us go breathless.
Till then keep reading – the Whisper and the Roar!
Curator of Whisper and the Roar.
I’ve been ripped and raped
with ferocious water ripples,
Blood- bookmarked souls
rummaging through my skull
black&grey, still, molten.
The people are stale and ash
clicking wet tongues
dipped in morgues
and shadow of the death
With spits of fungus and moss
decoding their faces of hunger,
the world is a shit hole
anger and anger.
This place is a hoax
and a drop of glinting blood
on your chin,
on your hands,
on your rose opening.
The violence eats you
mental brewing of skulls and cracks
and this polka dot frocks, skirts
ripped and raped.
Tonight, I shall smirk and produce cactus in my bones. Reverberating your conjured beds exhausted me. Tonight I shall not be a bean of pelican feathers, a china crockery. With the burial of your carbon mouth, I burn till the sky thumps. And then you shall explode the way I did.
Your clandestine face is like a green moth today. Pulverizing. Torrential.
The language of lonesome affairs strikes and burns my ginger thigh, moisture resides, phosphorescent sigh.
Scream and watch that burning sky. Swallow the eclipse. Revolve and rotate like wild sharks. A stack of lipids and liquids shall only entice you. You leap and crawl. Your skin is that of marine molluscs, fidgeting, concealing.
Tonight, I refuse to entertain you.
The burning wax is still my favourite companion.
®My Valiant Soul
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