Who would weep?

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= result error!
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

Bare mornings

I started my day early
a bit early for seagulls to make sound
for neighbours to realize what the sunsets look like-
a bit early to see my hands and to think about their actions.

I started off my day early to think about the sand in my hands
and pink dahlias depressed and standing still.
What life must be for them?
This triangular air with single handed compost-
no motion happening.
perhaps the city is best when asleep.
The chater is quiet.  The banters are percolating.

                This hour is newly wed bride for the primroses to smile
but nobody watches it. Nobody sees the nude face of the morning. What do they offer now?
Or perhaps I am too early.

seamless words

There is perhaps no name to my redundancy that occurs
each night
 
  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
playing hopscotch.

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-
your mouth.

This poems sounds like a buzz- a burp or a hiccup perhaps?
Shall I call it after my sickness? Or just let it be?

Into the room of everything

Your clear eye is one such beauty
haunting for days - this body that dwells on it
your each visison- birds perching on my balconies
and not disturbing my burnt pancakes.
I see. I annihilate. I wash face.
I know what my grave shall be called - with one tree
and all about 'waiting for Godot'
This world may heal sometimes soon with it's funny pink sins
it's funny politics and gender of skies.
I must not speak thereafter,the tingles of auburn dirt
that fills my nostrils are too many, 
symmetrical and ferocious.
The closed drawers in my room chatters 
all about my loneliness
and nothing still infects me.
You- the one who sparks lucent moon into my breaths.
I say this this too.
the notions of morality and absurdism
tickling cellophene above our eyelids. 

Singing songs through a poem

source- Pinterest

I hear a quiet shout,
screeching under my eyes-
How long do I float, anonymously?
to declare is what I want-
 space and time
stars and grass,
look at my one hand,
the one that stares you-
curvatures of my body= lotus.
Lotus that spews water from its body again and again.
Call it life. Give it a name-
Air, will you be a space to my existence?
Water- will you sing songs to my graveyard?
 Fire, burn along. Do not resist anything further.
 This day inhales "me" in the most blasphemous way.
I do it through a circular band on forehead. 
I soak everything like a sponge.
 Watering lilies and eating oatmeal. 
Please be mine- You, the ferocious 'eye'.
Apply a cold balm all through my body- know my persistence of time
and know what I mean. 

-----------------


To read my book-
Crimson Skins- India 
Crimson Skins- US

Bare Noons-

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.

The end of a lullaby

the shriek of my body,
a purple loose hanging moon
beneath the toes-
a shriek so wild
stretches through the carcass

I have nothing left to weep now
for the moon has taken a dip inside the river.
I hear my village burning,
and see people sleeping so quietly, so wildly
as if nothing ever happened.
A lullaby lost in a path-
mouthless,
a blue broken hemisphere.

What do I do with my limbs now?
How do I sit and regenerate in a porous night?

The Old Body-

with chained ankles,

hush, thrilling lips,

a body floats inside my mind,

dwindling through the carcass,

old and vintage-

a mahogany river of crooked moonlight,

this body blooms and sinks at the same time,

uttering a blob of big sun-shaped tongue

emerging out,

emerging through the stains and walls

through veins and puddles.

this time itches now,

I have wounds all over my barren body

a body- now a pit of marks.

—————————————————————-

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

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

Courtesy-pinterest

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.

sharing links-

Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

To all the dead trees-

Source

swim across
attest the pain
sink into the lake of grief
watch and convulse, 
the narration-
the blue oblong face of emotions-
it disappoints me each day,
you and your flattery
my small body,
small, petite chin 
that thrusts no life anymore.
Watch a face again,
think about it,
the slippery texture
grains allover the body
blurred, overgown opinions

I am sad flower today, trying to be the moon
but the moon is always sad, 
I tell myself to watch the moving crowd
to feel the concrete tree
and the still landscape of stagnancy exists
a pill of loss and convulsions all day long.
-----------------------------------------

I have a book- Crimson skins. Read it if still you have not. on kindle, pothi etc.

I am happy to announce I have a poem in this beautiful anthology- 
 Hecate Magazine.

Arbitration-

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

Summer-

The collarbone cracks open,
a petal of your name,
a thick cloud of lust
sounds that speak only of splitted grass
I see you
and I think oh 'home'
honey-suckled touch,
tongues:
tongues interwined into sheets of desire
of lukewarm, misted talks
about us and hopes to stay.

           It is Summer now,
a season of orange hope,
golden grass grinning through the wind.
It is Summer.
I am inhabitated by the scent of it
that twirls my skin and turn it into faces of love.

I am a Summer-myself
bleeding through my cold sphere
daylight:
water on my toes
a gossip you all want to hear.
I am Summer for you-
for you to cling onto 
for you to breathe the scent.

I am stoked to announce that recently Indie Blu(e) Published its another beautiful anthology Through the Looking Glass– which includes my poem about Mental Health as the theme was the same. I urge you all to check out the same here .

Have you read Crimson Skins yet?

If not please check it out on Kindke, Pothi, Amazon etc.

Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

Jasmine

The sniff
lingers
between the hills and the mountain
a sniff to overcome a dismay,
a snippet of a saint
through the threads of fragile life.
Jasmine- a floral drop of snow
now between my knuckles,
rubbing
against my pillow
a cry for dreams,
a lotus shaped prayer.
Jasmine- a quiet nostalgic hope,
prayers about fairies and daydreams,
The sun and the waters,
echoing wool of the sunburn.
The sniff-
my mother's voice
an elastic memory
of tales and despair.

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
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

interview with Pooja

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

Stillness

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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou