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=
resulterror! Where are the rest of mutual eyelids. collateral loss or perpetual blossom? This eye is an observer for things crawling underneath the teeth. ------------------------- Get me book all over the world. Crimson Skins
There is perhaps no name to my redundancy that occurs
The noises I hear are blasphemous
without an address or a paper face
I call these flutters- 'fermentations'
and 'vapourized dreams'.
I consider my half sagging bossom
perched upon life- somewhere giggling
with open mouth
I imagine toothless girl in a desert with red balloons-
an aesthetic that we can talk about.
You see- this poem is not about my illusions
but talks about the crisscross roads
even the ocean
even your eyes-
This poems sounds like a buzz- a burp or a hiccup perhaps?
Shall I call it after my sickness? Or just let it be?
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.
Mother, I make fire. from toe to toe- Horizontal shivers. Mother- you ask 'Who am I'? I ask the same- the inheritance of glory is perhaps a groaning knock? I am a walking grief- a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn an adjective which stands nude- s t r a i g h t in parrallelism . Mother, what are these things around me? These objects, people- fungus in pickles- spit it out, immediately- spit and spat- You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry, bearing negations for an absolute face of mine you replicate me mother, or do i do you? Is my face not enough? Is my weakness too shallow? Mother! Oh glorious victory- You know all of it. You do. You do. You do.
On hard days
Sustenance. Life. breaths. But how do we collect it? How often our communication deliver us that symphony? Intimacy, thoughts and bonds.. how often do we count on it? Where is hope? Is it a bird still flaping it's wing while sitting? Do we walk with torches lit under the ocean? Or we do not swim completely- for the safe side. The mind is a mess of discarded old vintage thoughts. For a moment- we can disguise our minds with a great shield of book- a wise thick book, but ultimately it will fell down- and then there is thin chiselled sad face- forever, striving hard each day to replenish about the old bliss. The bliss of nostalgia. Of not knowing abundant vague discrepancies of life.I utter in parts. I bleed in parts. Trotting each day about wounds and swallowing the gutter of life.
This is what we crave. Collective mirth and fragments of life. Even the water seeks shelter, trees look for companions- we the social animals, what else do we require if not intimacy and love? The ripples of the sky amidst the dark cauldrons-but it indeed shines abruptly. Partially crooked with foam in a fist and mud in another. The roads are man. Who walks onto them but? I see these oddities almost everyday. My sentiments leaking from my either cheeks and merging into the clavicle. The shoulder often freezes to think of strong bond- numbness followed. How do people structure it perhaps? A two level- multi-faceted hoax. I hold pittiness in one fist and air in another and think of animals and their supremacy in a few sense. But as an artist, we see light and observe darkness almost in everything- so why this void? A barren shape, contour, a detached light- these small elements not falling into right place. I consider my mouth as an window instead of a door-It wanders abruptly-looking for attachments and dreams. Dust and salt. All things small and sweet. Blisters and stomach. Spit and skin. Yet, I fail to strive this opague density of life.
To the poets, I have been reading all these years.
I might have trembled a bit with my words before but there is no dimension to art. We create what abstract images look like in our thin membranes of mind. Some say it is- art- a way of living. I am unsure what it should be named. There is eternal power when we feel satisfied doing something- a thing that delivers solace and creates an abstruse anomaly of questions. A stack of melting rainbows. We need to catch all the colors and hold them in our palms to define the dimensions of life as we continue living this vivid, weird phase of life. Not every heart will remain the same- so dear artists- whatever side of the story you have- it should produce distinctive behavioral and mentalist satisfaction to create and to quench your own truth. There is no truth but you.
the body is a loose powder longing through the rooms, vacant mountains of chills. bare chest- a throbbing slitting moan. the moon kisses and watches over linguistics of a body. decoding cacophony of amorphous substance. unwrapping a flower- the body is dream, you must say. it slips and sticks to the wall- a whorl of pink tongue. I sit and produce words during the daytime as I watch over my window for a twig to be stuck to my throat- instead I have maroon dreams and floral nights - sore limbs now, sore words- I shift to a different paradigm, I shift to lotus from rose. The arrangement of bones has a purpose now.
How have you been?
I do not believe in new years- a new beginning. I have a different mindset related to it and I do not want to sound gloomy but here I am to know how you all have been?
If I have missed some stunning work, I would love to read it. Let me know what are your goals, plans, habits etc for this month, this year, or anything which fixes in you in a good way. A reminder- that I am not talking about toxic positivity but anything which enhances a soft corner in your heart. Let me know in the comments.
I have given a theme to my this year- “Satisfaction”. I am trying to connect my works with the theme. It’s not a resolution ..because there is nothing like that, I guess. I believe in mindsets and habits rather.
Recently- I shared this issue of my newsletter here which throws more insight on this topic-
The Weekly Shine- a newsletter wherein I curate poetry, mindful lessons, soulful artworks- basically something for everyone. Come read and subscribe maybe?
Lots of love
The existence of an unknown-
Finger's spread through walls licking the green fear a moist mayhem spreading onto my chest chewing the dead society people give names to my existence a continous dreary process I feel oblong and circular shouts rummaging through the ceiling fire in my neck, movements occur as pulse during the time curtain of this thought who am I? A passage or a full stop- a dreamlike stay a touch a vapour mud..earth..mud..earth. The mind stays softer, mine like sweaters in summers, fresh tangerine juice. Who am I? -----------------------------------------------
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
My body underneath
You- a nectar of the moon,
gliding through the gleaming sheets of orange moans
atop my waist
that slips through your feet
and a long stare-
a reverie of blooming seasons
horizontal touches of galaxy,
A walnut cracks open,
a fidget through the bones
a sweet summer song- soil, soil,soil
I see raindrops through my belly, now-
a grasshopper twirling through the toes
you- a carrier of everything that my eyes sews
my body that wraps underneath.
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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
the rivers that speak of us, warmer bodies nectars of jasmine and hibiscus- a lady from photograph, biting a strange loneliness sitting onto her bosom a strange memory of distilled longings- a lady that sulks and pronounce everything watery, dreams of wildfire and river-beds I travel through her caricature, her oblong drifting fingers, eyes of pain and despair- eyes- a mirage of limbs too, I watch her and think of this pregnant sky day and night. She- a soliloquy od soft pastel dreams. ------------------------------ Read the newest newsletter here- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
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
sense of staying- a poem
Hi, Welcome to my poetry world yet again. I guess we all have no better solution rather than staying positive and hopeful. I am glad to feel this positive vibe yet again after all that India has been through and is still dealing. I am trying to do as much as I can and that includes taking care of my mental health as well.
Sharing a poem. Let me know your views and in general how life has been treating you all?:)
And maybe this shall never end- Here, I rest my palms along with the stars, honey-suckled, twigs of sunsets hoping for tree of wishes a spoon of lukewarm winters which sits beside my small mind a roar of summer breeze, producing so much that only my heart can see, and maybe this shall never end- yet I long for coral sweaters, grass attachment layered sky above and below- the dreamcatchers in the grainy rain. Our mouths unravelling and spitting a tongue of hibiscus growing scrubbing: scrubbing all the sins away lights spinning- gold, poppies in a bathtub and leaves fluttering across our bodies- we want this, a human touch a human being, indeed.
If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it is soon going to be an year for my book 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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
a thing of loss
I am coming back to my writing my poems after a while
a lot changed during these times.
(Pandemic- second wave)
My yellow tree remained un-watered all this while,
relatives, families submerged with tears/ fears
see my poem has started to rhyme, even.
Keep on reading
you will sense no sensibility
a bunch of lost flowers now
razor sharp like tongue of cries
bodies once warm now muted,
cold, without a twin flame.
the situation has become small and painful
like a setting sun, only that it is not beautiful.
I have not written here since last month. As you all know, India is dealing with the second treacherous wave of pandemic and somehow i managed this . While my parents are still recovering my heart goes out to every life lost, every soul that departed too early. It will take time to accept this loss. The body is in a state of archaic , numb loss.
This emptiness is a sullen sky
droplets of opaque women tears
with lanterns so bright, it almost blinds you.
next to my body rests a stack of another human forms
degenerated, transparent as the rain
with no family left, words lost
bruised up thigh, femur now disjoined.
next to my breath, is a women gasping already
for a husband, gasping for the open sky.
The surgeons of my city are tired, breathless and full of insomnia
they stammer and talk about open wounds
about lungs so swollen
screams of air- air-air across the hallway,
screams about ventilators, one more oxygen cylinder.
the screams are bluish tint
of fever so high now
almost strident with trees growing up in the sky.
The floors have gone mute,
the child is lost counting a mute, tongue less dance: left with nothing.
The tampered cassettes are stuck already
tethered onto something less painful.
Where does this merge to?
Where does this lead us now?
Shouts , screams and lungs still infected.
Time collapsed inside my mouth of fear.
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