My poetry is my religion.
I am delighted to announce that recently I was a part of an interview done by Pooja of Lifesfinewhine. We discussed a few aspects of Art in a short, crisp way. Head over to her blog to read my interview and all the lovely things she writes there and do show your love to all her blog posts.
thankyou for reading my poetry!
Love
the voice cracks in the summer sun I hear things falling apart underneath my door knob behind the cobweb- almost gone now i hear things decaying, distorted as the morning yawn the leaves so parched the sun , cold and warm there is a music that stops playing as i write this the music that speaks about fallen dreams, listless curvature of atmosphere. stillness is what i observe 'stillness in my body, my toes and lips the earth so happy and warm now almost like a cerulean sadness torn into threads of bruises into diverse sects of lemon dried faces. the hands so small and white with my bosom hanging restlessly on the table. there are things so peculiar occurring everywhere. restless yet a still monochrome pattern of life
Hi, Do check out my published book, available on Kindle also. Let me know what you think of this one?
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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Napowrimo#12
the poppies won't die tonight
I sense the drama through the bleeding faces again
the parched vase of you and me
the horizon of us-
a hallowing question to that equation
the fields seem opaque,
dreary, with white sunflowers
I run and burn
to sniff your presence
to sniff the existence
the love equation to the sky
and to things beyond
my feet seem to be the carrier of our love poems,
enthralled and quiet
almost like a woman lost in translation
Chips in frost.
cold barren
as if a tree unfolded a leaf so huge
the love rises
and sinks
and stinks,
it breaks and fills the spaces
with things so small
almost like a hurricane,
moths fluttering,
there is no place left to make love-
not between such damp sheets, at least.
But the thing is everything shall be depleted. This. Us and our stay. What if, I could hold the habit of loving you for once? My eyelids dipped in lemon peel thinking of ways to dream about you. The rooms that still roar about our love making. The walls still cracking a semantic, quiet low noise of our moans and fight. Erratic evenings, whereby we submerge our small elbows in the auburn breeze. I want to cling to the habit of just that. Your coconut hair, small long talks, talks so mellow and crisp almost like I ate my fruit bowl. To hold your poetic words and brown moments of paper noise is all I had dreamt of all this while. To stay connected to your face, slender neck always popping and mind / spring quartet. Nothing else. That’s my habit/ a ritual that I perform each day to listen to the music of things staying lost between us. The Art of a singular dialogue. A singular atom of love. A single You.
Napowrimo#2 Not just this: there is excess of daydream floating around, a toothless, opaque body of light what do we name it? A house full of sighs/ gasps/ swollen people where objects assume outlines But who are you? To raise a question? The minute I saw you, I could not escape. On the sea floor, a sea- bell tolling A multi- coloured house without a boundary. All i see is you leaking from sideways. You, numb/ like the trees that stop growing. Everything in you is blue and in excess Blue lakes& lagoons Blue islands in the blue lake. You Gathering/ grinding/ mixing everything in excess but love.
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
my body is a quiet place
it's about flowers stones a silent theatre
green threads of the blue sky
wet body of motifs and beautiful soft wildflowers
today,
the mind wanders for a soulful soul
a shade of velvet love- making,
golden embers, a glint of partial sunlight
my limbs are imagery, as if
my hands my poetry
this womb, a season of creation,
like sea, quickly as breath.
Stars of piquant desires.
.
Hi all !
I am just planning to engage in a new aspect of blogging and writing my heart out. For sure, I will be doing poetry, Poetry is my heart and religion but for some reason I want to connect deeper and would love to dig in more. I would love to discuss Art in all forms here. Surrealism and things so related. I am skeptical these days about my writing a little so giving it a small hold but apart from that I would love to be tagged for anything new or would love to check out your amazing diverse blogs. Please hold onto my blog and keep coming back to my new aspects of blogging which could be a simple life routine, a few updates anything at all. I am taking an off from my social media accounts once again because I want to stay connected with YOU ALL TOO MUCH. Recently I did a collab poem with the stunning writer Lucy. Check out that here.
Attaching a poem from my collection of poems Crimson Skins. If you have not ,you can check out the same on all the major e commerce sites. Shared an Amazon US link.
My poetry is a portrait
And there it bleeds
with a straw of life
slipping
soaking a system of events
day by day
in the space of tectonic air.
My poetry is stuck
like a motif obeying no order
no smell of fear.
It stands on the wall
and watches it all happening.
A mouth like an operation room
choking on all supernatural paintings
floating, quietly
transforming into noise
Sending love and light
Devika
I am more than glad to have stumbled upon Lucy’s gorgeous blog and we both decided to do a collaboration together. Please read and let us know of your opinion in the comments. Show some love to her blog as well.
It happened again
the dead sea full of dried emotions
and the charm to write about withering winters
happened again,
from my arms to my toe nails
with colors and with a paint- brush
the knuckles are red due to migraine,
the bosoms are sagging due to age.
The concept of time throws my memory into a massive ocean
of sins/ fears/ aches.
And I think of myself as a soft folktale,
lost somewhere,
occurring due to occult or a greasy lovemaking.
I count the days back and front
to defy the mouth in exasperation
to write about the shivering body.
Madness is what keeps my soul intact,
I can talk to my mind for longer hours often
with dead bumblebees right beside me,
here- with leaves falling upon my chest
my mahogany textured hair
clinging to a sad tree. (Devika)
If this is bliss,
please don’t leave; silhouettes
played by sculptural midnights
is a song and dance
of memory; the opus rises like god's rainwater
of tragedy and embrace—
it entrances my bones kneed into pride
like a strange dream; a legacy of my footing
in the stone, I saw it today in the past
to defy the orgasmic cult, prime and prime shadows
in the back of my mind,
as messianic blood drops
from my feet
it had crushed the late moon
on its garden bed,
almost thieving the sleeping bear
mentioned for its own season;
the eucalyptus wilts
in my asylumned winter, the violence within my dreams
and the uncoiled warmth of the thorn
into my side, claws into my first
breath.
(Lucy)
Lucy's blog
Dear readers,
How have you been all?
Even though I write my poetry and words and keep on doing so many various projects to help the writing community and people in general
why is there a sudden urge to relax a lot? I agree I need to take a pause. I believe in slow yet productive growth but somehow my mind is getting tired to easily due to all the works I am managing and no its not the stress that I have. It's something else.
Anyway, I wrote a short poem about how I feel.
The air burns,
with a punctured sniff.
the breeze sits on my chest
counting my eyelids, backwards
and the body swells up
without a notion of cold blossoms.
The air petrifies my nail,
the tears stink, often.
It's the forehead,
it's the arm
or is it my lips that hallucinates?
A cobweb, so brutal on my chin
blooming like a flower.
What do I call it now?
The season of spring or a particle of dust.
The other day I thought of writing a poetry about healing
About self- love, growth
Nonsense.
My tone is still abrupt, crooked, melancholic
Orange like the winter sun
My hands are yet pale.
Yellow as the home cooked oil,
The other day I thought of writing
about memories that soothe me
Motionless.
About the barren walks
Only to find how my head still bleeds
The mind that has empty grass,
Wild flowers not beautiful my friend,
Everything wild is not beautiful
for things need a foundation too.
Everything I know is rust
Everything I know is blue rain,
Forgotten like the rains so beautiful
Forgotten like the winter chills in the Summer.
Healing is a slow process
Coiling into a watery prayer.
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
