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.
Often it happens that I am reminded by WordPress to blog here and then I realize do I still have readers here lurking through my mundane words? I know, I too need to catch up on so many lovely writers here that I have known since I started writing here and I definitely will. But…
I am grateful to announce that I have a poem up on Outlook India- the most prestigious magazine that I have read and enjoyed growing up. Here is the link to my poem- Outlook India.
If you are still interested in reading the poetry book that I published during the pandemic here is the link.
Available on Kindle as well.
Longings- these moments of a kiss. Occurring between us. Occults of time and space. Movements along the waistline. You scream again and again about the slightly dehydrated sky.
We – a passage of transparent sky slurps the bees. Wild mulberries pressed against the cheeks. How do you not see this? Movements along lips. Thunder of God’s voice down in my womb. The flexibility of this verb- a shudder: the red Sun. How do you defy this?
Say it- Say something about barren empty nights as life perches. Dissolution in water. This is a mere hallucination. This is what the body desires now- syntax so lost and translated in your postures. This. Biology of each molecule-shuddering useless violence. May I squeeze it further? This- That. The grass is gaping at me. Sun dissolved in Stars.
Get my book on Kindle and on other platforms. Thanks
Crimson Skins- India
Fermenting the swan shaped neck- the tears that merge into cerulean lake. People name it- glorious sunset. Mud holes and sweet limes. People name everything they see, They call names and give them back. Circulation of hopes and the nerves attaching to it. Love- Hate. What all do you see? Ladies at work and men at bed. Men at work and ladies all alone. No new moon shines today. Fermenting the loathed swan shaped body tonight.
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
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
A day in my life.
Releasing this 2020- Crimson Skins
I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.
I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.
Thank you for always reading and supporting me.
Where does it go?
Your unspoken word of lust,
an ensemble of parched dancing words,
Do you let them run?
Or do you absorb the guilt, like a sponge?
Harvest the other sides of pixie lawn now,
Run… run along the shores
embossing a pain onto the sand.
Among the stars is a paper flower blooming,
with a binomial tongue to speak.
The star and the earth do not suffice your sparkle.
Pelican featured sunset glows.
Slurp and slurp.
The agony hides behind the crevices of teeth.
Churn your fear like a betel leaf,
Take a flight,
Like the bunch of sun-kissed memories.
How do I smell poetry?
Enter a room full of dark metaphors,
Stir the analogy with the half baked synonyms trying to disturb your mind.
Stir further, this thought process so ablaze.
Wake up to small neutrons, amorphous floating protons,
Unfurl your sins in each room.
Step by step, take a needle and start stitching your open wounds now.
A long stride of pulmonary sleep. Soak it and walk along with the process.
Ask questions to your mind and heart put together. And you are now in a maze.
Overuse the electricity like a tether. Grab and chew the rim of power to grow like a diffused bulb. Follow the paths which never shook you, you shall never be lost now. You have landed now on the concave slippery object of your face. A soft daydream.
A mystic night. A lover’s touch.
You sit and see yourself here, like poetry melting nad sitting in your womb.
Here is home, now.
Here, you always can come back, now.
An ode to my mother
My mother has paper lips / beautiful, stale pages of love rubbing against each lip.
She sings a dream of a crochet bag, each night, the times when I am unwell.
My mother often dresses in saree that is obscure and restless,
a brown hem of her dress slightly caressing my face.
And I begin to decode her fears/ her prayers/ her clandestine sins.
She is a slime ball of crisp yellow frustration leaking.
Oh, mother, you creature of a goddess!
Your feverish footstep of laid back dreams/ a word which you often can’t pronounce.
You are too strong and surreal to gulp,
with a staircase lost somewhere in your hair-bun,
you walk in your nylon ivory night dress,
fidgeting throughout the pathway.
You stumble and walk.
still, you walk, mama.
A birth giver to stars.
You own this starry night, behind the loop of your ear ring,
too small and fancy
voicemails lost in this sky so empty.
Your foot my home, mother.
My poem your sleep.
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
a prayer so soft
I mumble each time
There is a method I perform my chants
like sticking to the table,
thumping my wrist against my forehead.
I wish to sneeze while praying
to eject sins,
a horror bowl that rests between my toes,
twirling softly and eating me bite by bite.
My prayers are often lullabies.
you scavenge while dreaming.
to sniff a piece of hope.
I do speak in four voices
that swirls my lock of hair.
I repeat my prayers when I am a shadow of a fallen sky
a bird that refuses to watch me.
nature has its way to corner from the human.
Without a shard of primrose,
A scourge of shaved earth.
And I change places
till I see a circumference of white powder
there, inside my mind
blooming the entire prayer
in colors of myth and violet rain.
Submit your writings for Olive Skins. Check out the post here
Change my atoms of body.
make a sin out of this floating skin.
A lotus. Inhale my vapours like a sun kissed windowsill.
A slice of moon sits on my neck watching your toes circling my platonic waist.
a waist that hold your liquids, your solids.
A moment of sigh and resemblance.
Make me your thread of conjectures of dreams and skins.
a poets habitual routine.
Slit my thigh, a green antena.
suck my thoughts, a spiritual dot.
a map depicts your mind, soft and beautiful, here.
Details emerge as a florescent green bush,
beneath my thumb of silver weeps.
Sip my thoughts. Decorate. Redraw my body.
Hold my toenail. Be careful.
Be careful, I might slip like a fallen star.
NaPoWriMo # 16
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