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?
Tag: poet
Meeting in Monsoons
As long as the juices slips through the chest the body smells of you- the colours of enchanted wrist, thawing thigh upon the quivering night. We, the inked words of soil breaths What callous strangeness is this that you speak of? I know nothing- just the land of marigolds blooming underneath my vagina- a homeland to all the poets, to all the musings and lanterns of dreams. you- the late tide of the monsoon- is this not a reality? This damp sheet. This mosaic floor tiles- Are we not really here? ---------------------------- Crimson Skins- MY book
Horizontal Mirror
Mother,
I make fire.
from toe to toe-
Horizontal shivers.
Mother- you ask 'Who am I'?
I ask the same-
the inheritance of glory
is perhaps a groaning knock?
I am a walking grief-
a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn
an adjective which stands nude-
s
t
r
a
i
g
h
t
in
parrallelism .
Mother, what are these things around me?
These objects, people- fungus in pickles-
spit it out, immediately-
spit and spat-
You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry,
bearing negations for an absolute face of mine
you replicate me mother, or do i do you?
Is my face not enough?
Is my weakness too shallow?
Mother! Oh glorious victory-
You know all of it.
You do.
You do.
You do.
In a fist
My father never knew my emotions honestly. Seldom do I write about him. He has nothing much to deliver yet he is an average participant. I would not blame him for the entire drowned city inside my head. Everything stays partial with me- a lotus decaying or a night shifting its paradigm. I hardly controlled anything- but the toes would outgrow always- they would not stop the impeding thrust to ingest the tangerine flavours. His constant punch to make me aware of everything is where I stopped knowing him- probably- a constant gumption of moulds. Rustic elbows with disjointed pain- arthiritis .
A constriction of words flavoured with mediocricy is how I knew it-
But I tried. I tried learning in Sanskrit and other syntaxes. Vehement morose days swelled up in eyes. Lungs – punctured. Then we would often spent days on our dingy terrace, aquatic telephone lines disconnecting the shivers between us. I assume to float and probably I failed. Now, I have forgotten everything- the city departing, funerals marching forward and parks all well- lit even when it rained. I am unsure of this knot of emotions corrupting my clavicle still- a memoir of an old photographh speaking: uttering an untoched sentence.
Intimacy-
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.
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Crimson Skins- India
Momentum of Language
Language. Who needs it? It’s nothing but a scattered pretty way of illusionary numbers. Romancing with minds and tongues. Shifting bones of vertigo sky. Across my white bare body and this vibrating fall—language stops existing suddenly. Linguistics is nothing but a way the syntax of my paper heart breathes. Water condensed, without any stabilizer. I understand I must stay happy as I have been asked. I must walk.
I must love and I must sleep. I understand I must chew my food a thousand times before it punches my gut to vomit a disappearing fever. But friend, life is more than this- more than survival, existence, wounds- more than interpretations. More than the yeast of existing . Swelled up library inside the eyes. We can not win anymore nor can we lose- it’s the language that laughs all throughout life- hiding underneath the shades of glory. It’s the language of abyss between the voids. To be or not to be. To celebrate or to loathe.
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A conundrum
The opposite of hurt is not healing, rather- a distinctive synonym of becoming a vague object. Poached skin tones with multiple tars jammed on a tongue. A small shiver inside the handprint- the bruises not always becoming a temple- bell. They require a screenplay and observance of a sponge. Hurt is parallel to grief. Screeching veins spreads throughout the bedsheet and the bedsheet always remain jarring. We collect and put it all in a single bowl and wait for the doctor to arrive along with a pill and stethoscope. Does it help? Does it defy your existence? Your sorrow? Hope- a lament which people talk about is nothing but a soft matchstick burning from either end. Where does voice become visible? Flesh- so vulnerable yet covered in darkest colour. We want it to glow and glow hence we speak of lives, mundanity, love, and kindness but our body is nothing but a parenthesis or storage that covers everything missed upon.
On hard days
Sustenance. Life. breaths. But how do we collect it? How often our communication deliver us that symphony? Intimacy, thoughts and bonds.. how often do we count on it? Where is hope? Is it a bird still flaping it's wing while sitting? Do we walk with torches lit under the ocean? Or we do not swim completely- for the safe side. The mind is a mess of discarded old vintage thoughts. For a moment- we can disguise our minds with a great shield of book- a wise thick book, but ultimately it will fell down- and then there is thin chiselled sad face- forever, striving hard each day to replenish about the old bliss. The bliss of nostalgia. Of not knowing abundant vague discrepancies of life.I utter in parts. I bleed in parts. Trotting each day about wounds and swallowing the gutter of life.
On intimacy
This is what we crave. Collective mirth and fragments of life. Even the water seeks shelter, trees look for companions- we the social animals, what else do we require if not intimacy and love? The ripples of the sky amidst the dark cauldrons-but it indeed shines abruptly. Partially crooked with foam in a fist and mud in another. The roads are man. Who walks onto them but? I see these oddities almost everyday. My sentiments leaking from my either cheeks and merging into the clavicle. The shoulder often freezes to think of strong bond- numbness followed. How do people structure it perhaps? A two level- multi-faceted hoax. I hold pittiness in one fist and air in another and think of animals and their supremacy in a few sense. But as an artist, we see light and observe darkness almost in everything- so why this void? A barren shape, contour, a detached light- these small elements not falling into right place. I consider my mouth as an window instead of a door-It wanders abruptly-looking for attachments and dreams. Dust and salt. All things small and sweet. Blisters and stomach. Spit and skin. Yet, I fail to strive this opague density of life.
On Collective sadness
What amazes me is the notion of sadness bringing us all human together. If we think deeply about it- we might find an insatiable quench to sit and share this massive grief. Instead, we circulate remarks about literature, art, and human minds walking downwards. Where do we then carry forward this collective sadness and grief? Do we spit and spat or do we think of it as a life lesson forever? There has to be an end. An end to this corollary of distinctive yet massive grief. This sadness which human collects and wear in disguise. We do take help from art, literature, but is that it? Is there more? Space- times. There is anticipation. Black redundancy of slipping emotions. Where are we that we are not able to hold them? Shall we sit on this grief? Shall we change the verb here? What should be done with this collective sadness dear friend? Is it ugly? Is it beautiful? Is it the first- born? Stringing wound floating inside the mind.
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To the poets, I have been reading all these years.
I might have trembled a bit with my words before but there is no dimension to art. We create what abstract images look like in our thin membranes of mind. Some say it is- art- a way of living. I am unsure what it should be named. There is eternal power when we feel satisfied doing something- a thing that delivers solace and creates an abstruse anomaly of questions. A stack of melting rainbows. We need to catch all the colors and hold them in our palms to define the dimensions of life as we continue living this vivid, weird phase of life. Not every heart will remain the same- so dear artists- whatever side of the story you have- it should produce distinctive behavioral and mentalist satisfaction to create and to quench your own truth. There is no truth but you.
Mundane words
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 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?
Autumn Lovers
the yellow stark trees
smiling through the purple grass
with a nocturnal tether to hold us
US- a portrait of clay and dust
full of small longings,
growing and congregations bending
Late autumn, and at night,
we melt-
melting through skins and teeth
through fever and blossoms-
We speak of ripped earth
and a few things more.
Autumn, a kiss of lovers.
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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
I need some love and support.
I am writing after a long time . As I was having a rough time with my life, life patterns etc and in the process I stopped writing almost everywhere. Even the acceptance letters from great magazines did boost up my mood but it did not stay for a long duration and hence I was always feeling almost numb and lost.
Meanwhile, I am writing this to ask a favour- as you all know I have a published book Crimson Skins” published last year, I need to keep it working too! I need your support. Please share, get a copy or just share this post if you can’t get a copy of my poetry bok. I have worked really hard for that one and it took almost 3 years to make through the entire publication process. If you love my surrealistic style, work, please consider getting a copy.
A kind friend of mine has something to say about the book-
Crimson Skins has a variety of work any reader will enjoy. The book isn’t basic and will be able to go the extra mile for years to come. I will be so bold as to say many of the pieces featured in it has the staying power of words by a few greats such as Sylvia Plath, Adrienne Rich, and Virginia Woolf. It ends just as it began, with an intense piece of writing showcasing the writer’s talent
Book review by- tre
Here are the links-
Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/Crimson-Skins-Devika-Mathur-ebook/dp/B08GCWK4D5/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=crimson+skins&qid=1631955409&sr=8-1
Much love
Devika.
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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.
sharing links-
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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