Nothing has really happened until it has been described”- Virginia Woolf
The sun departs the space, leaving shades of colors
colors that make you vomit about your own deeds.
The sky is bleached now,
Liting and spreading haphazardly
The first kiss should be described as the volatile movements of a poet’s pen,
a bumblebee poking the thin air,
Sometimes it’s worthless.
This continuous fight for survival,
the pervading lies of a head
so I describe a single fall of an ant in the lakes.
I could watch a blooming flower and write poetry in my head.
the abortion, the play
the oil lamps,
the puerile laughters of children
they summarize a thing happened once.
Nothing has really happened until it has been described.
Temperature as high as this pain,
grief: a dialogue now between this sour body.
A sinister talk to my mind,
threads of summer bright,
Yes, understand this poem now
understand the grief behind the back,
the bareback of velvet love,
the river madness,
my body shuddering like a torn piece of cloth
to miss your teeth on my chest,
your breath on my bosom.
Understand this departure, as well.
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 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!
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.
I am more than elevated to share the news that my poem The Exit got published in Madras Courier which is a 233 yrs old newspaper and is a reputed brand. Many thanks to the editor for accepting my work.
Read my work here.