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.

Devika

Hear it once again

 

Imagine me in your room,
the aerial space filled with the sniff of rosemary candles.
Imagine how I sit and lift up my chin to decode a language now,
A voice that breaks the linings of the wall.

When you look at me,
You see my words,
my eyes that unravel the thread of apple juice.
(Understand these lines again)
I am a voiceless creature to the nights that go mad running down the aestetic streets,
not to you.
Not anymore to you.
I saw my mother weep once. A veiled woman.
As i watched, I could see that weeping has no cadence.
This is what language did to us.
Maker of places, kitchen sinks,
empty hallways,
gadens, sea- breeze.
This is what happened since always.

The voice got tore away between the shades of sky.
The voice of not shouting, basically.
The voice wearing the colours that go with red hair.
The voice where the woman held it like an infant.
Absorbing everything, silently.

This is the hour that i love when everything goes off to rest,
the hour of darkness, the hour of metamorphosis,
of a change in the landscape without emphasis.
This is the women I adore,
a hot terrain of soft silk and milky dreams.

1:0’clock. This hour is a sin of raisin skies and doors creaking,
something erupts at this very moment.
Familar figures became curious shadows again.

monsoon in winters

NaPoWriMo-8

There is this pond at the back of my backyard,
filled with kerosene and knots of pale moonlight.
I drink summer drops from the systematic cold windpipes.
There is a blurb.
Short. Precise. Like a mother’s gentle touch.
A glistening path of nothingness. Absolute silence.
Here, my body sits and watches the dance of the gods.
Dance of gods up in the sky, monsoon in winters.

I rest, I rest like an eternity on the vertex of this pause.

A women’s spring

i have a mouth of needles and feet like albumen,
peppermint walks of my body deliver a soft voice,
I squeak often and break like vintage china,
leaking is the catharsis, moon or the sun, we leak sideways.

Ferment tales on my pillows,
sliding a perforated cup of talks to my own self,
(my own mind is hell)it has fungus and roses both.
so i talk and conversate,
slipping into the darkness of my broken fingernail.

this body rotate like dwarves on sherry,
with a flower in my womb,
fever fever fever
i am wild now.

so my body has another light,
a vacuum instilled inside a vacuum,
what does it make me do now?
Ingesting my mouth, perhaps?
Chills beneath these grey lips
lead like shadows dwindling.

a little love

i do not say i want your metaphors all the time. I need your bowl of reflections, white and pure. Thick fog running through my backbones, i am tired of feeling this red colour inside my body. Dilute it, maybe?Splash a mute word, spreading like a fungus, onto my body. You see, i don’t want wildflowers, today. I am insane, and i want your insane, dark, rough love. I have nothing else to hide beneath.i can slice unhappy moon, anthills stretching this cold evening.

can you rustle, beneath the cold sheets of chills? And enunciate the dimensions of love, rainbows for me in an oblivious way? Sequins of art-work. I know your ways are more like a cobweb. A fire extinguisher, is all i wish. something that cures the sore tickle of my back, my bosom and mouth.

i don’t want¬† berry nights from you, i want your white shirt, to cling. I have been doing that and i shall do it. I want it to hold on like a brush on a canvas, sliding a blurb of emotion. Like a bulge on my skin towards more of left. Crimson skies full of earth.

I want that little love, that little home.



P.S -for a change I have written a romantic piece, after a hiatus now. (to my love)

Greys and black

Elis has a paper ball texture, crisp and crumpled veins of love. Her nakedness is the march towards the fruits of springs, countless motions of time. Her liquid lips, cryptic to herself. She neatly defies the existence of frailty.
The frailty of summer’s hope and frailty of meadows spring.

The heaviness of swamp and linguistic seizures weighs her down, sinking her hand and arm. Missing parts of reality. A cocoon of dissatisfaction. A body of uncountable heavy eyelids. Elis does not speak of her curves and eyes, she dedicates her body and sacrifices her tongue. Rituals of greys and blacks.

Elis curls up her lips like a slice of burning orange peel. Her breaths, heavy, dissected, summoned like a stone eating her tongue. Her thigh eating her faith.

Elis craves and prays. For solitude to be her only stay.


©Image and words -MVS

NaPoWriMo#6

You can taste pain like this

Pain. The most inexplicable beauty of humans. Masked and tattered. Orange peel-like surface. As you begin to walk, you feel the blurb of suntanned skins. Lack of juices. ShOrtening of breaths. And there is this pain, gazing your throat. Knuckles break, like the liquids of body evaporating.
Rancid platter of nostalgia. You try to walk away and so you pop pills.
splashing your face with haze- with a spot as black as a pupil.

It has a demure, an oval semblance to shadows. Silk eyed folds. Beneath the nocturnal facets and crevasses, you leak just like that. And you leak until you begin to daydream. Until you are broken and unpleasant to taste. Your juices stink. Your pool of paradise is dried up. Here comes the itch. The itch to bend and smell the distant whiff of loneliness. What does night eat after its done pleasing? Pleasure ends like that.

Vacant voices

A moment elongates itself like a thick sleet of froth
thin as a membrane often,
it’s a horrible need to ingest the petals
something that slits the skin and tongue,
watch the phantom of atmosphere,
how incorrigible swirl waft the cheekbones.

Often voices stuff my vacant rooms with leftover light.
Voices like “Oh you love”…voices with intense roots.
I retrace footsteps back in my lawn, trying to discover my untamed breaths,
trying to burn the unlit clump of log( wet and careless things are beautiful).
I often feel like a ghost, entrapped like a white air
tip-toeing in quiet hush old house.

I am broken. i am pale with an ever-growing quench of burning thighs.
I am what i am anyway. Lost. Amorphous. Melting.