Updates on Olive Skins

Sipping my tea, here I am wishing a very happy and prosperous new year to all. I hope you all work harder this year, laugh harder and be more kind to everyone around you especially yourself!

Having said that I would like to start this post with a positive approach for my baby that is Olive skins. I am all ready to start it with new hope and zeal. Last year actually did not go well personally at all, it made me stronger though to deal with my things consciously.

So once again, my that poetry page is all ready to welcome your contemporary, surrealistic poems. I also would welcome any suggestions at @oliveskinspoet@gmail.com. If you wish to join this baby venture as a member, contributor, you are more than welcome!
You can check out my website here and get started with it. This month, there is no theme for the submissions so you can play with your thoughts, creativity and what not!

Let’s roll!

what makes my skin so bright

 

I chop a slice of moon
of an excellent shard from a mirror,
I take a dip in a splintering winter well,
the well of charm & despair,
the evening air does the rest of the job
the apricots stitched onto my lips
my lips forbid to tell your secrets
there,
there is nothing inside the gateway to chivalry,
a half-eaten fruit
a half-read poetry
a half- kissed muse

There it is
I can feel it freely
a gallop of a hysteric wave,
a sunrise, so distant

you need the recipe?

see my knuckles, the hard egg shaled nails,
a fever running through my belly,
they all bow to my cheekbones,
my cheeks ingest your lies too.
How about it?

Will it be a part of the regime too?

and a salt-glazed cup
of electric moon

it didn’t take long,
to be like this.
i wept also.
I wept and wept
till my skin floated in the air so pristine,
and here you have my secrets
for what makes me glow
like mountains, valleys
You never noticed, never, fool!

A Four Light Window

1

the first is a spot
through which a night shines
the first is a mouth like a spot
or a spot like a mouth,
this confusion happens to me through the atrocities of words,
the glass beads
of unspoken talks

2
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
broached interpretations
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God

3

The third is the grass

you sit here in the colony of ants,
through retractive light,
hopping and walking across centuries,
you become like a shape- shifter,
a brilliant one.

4
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
Not anymore.
And you slip from the corners of your mouth,
slipping like an elegy
slipping like a song
Cities are of no one
and I too have no place.

Partially inspired by-`Agnes Nemes Nagy

Dimensions of Pain

Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.

Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.

i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.

A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.

I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.

Elements

 

An old saying I recite,
mapping the distance of my chest to my thighs,
sipping hot tea,
the typical Indian aroma,
the distinctive sniff which makes your crawl  your mind,
to rummage through the orange teal box of old photographs,
the box of stoic flushed postcards.
It happens in a minute.
A sky so distant and full of grays.
The mountains from the Space.
Dry leaves of autumn twirling like homes of the Goddess.
the elements are reconciled,
I see as I am the one producing it.
I speak of the stars, running through my epileptic mind.
I do not joke about it, about the elements anymore.

the elements like soil: the river so mighty…and the elements like my limbs

my nails, my earlobes.

i wait for another day.
Another day                                            another moon
another poetic calendar
to turn a page of the horizon
and i sit exactly on the spot of acidic floor
next to my living :
I who wait for herself
to self loathe
to escape into the unprecedented days of summer
out of all the injuries, now
but more brilliant and more eclectic.

Winter

Quietly, winter sets in
like a bride so pure,
a porcelain teapot full of warmth,
a dandelion brushing against the skin.
The kitchen lights shine on my bare skin,
producing a glimmer of my mind.
The grass is cut short. Precise and anorexic.
The air is not the same anymore.
Bulbs of sophisticated figments produce jasmine in cold.

There is no other way for us to gulp a wound here,
the pain may be stuck like a pendulum inside.
Winter germinates other chills in mind, often
into me, an evening of inked breath.

The fission of music
getting stuck to my earlobes,
a song,
a pyre,
an abortion,
a mishappening
all shapeshifting instabilities of life.
Cherry Blossoms
of ordinary life, it is.
Ankle length Winter- skirts swaying across the room
ingesting
everything at once.

---

P.S – Sorry for my disappearance also I am currently not at all in a writing sphere, exactly. Please let me know what did you all feel reading this one.:)

The slip

Is it still there?
The sound of trespassers,
of purple rains and sweet smell.

A cloud that swings words up in the sky
a hardened shell of a life,
There is a beautiful cottage that I see in my dreams
full of centipedes, vintage mahogany chairs.
A sound travels me up there
in between the unreal beauty of soil.

Life unfurls in the corners of my room,
my small used rooms,
forever palpitating,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
here,
I dissolve my tongue,
rubbing my elbows,
again and again.
to spit surreal poetry.

My house slips in my dreams like a flower
trapping, my body like silk.
And I would stay here.