The Hunt

But this sorrow never ends. 
The tongue that runs cold
due to platonic threads of sins and cold meadows
the ache is blooming each day
beneath the blue unfolded eyes
the colour green- now a tone of burning bodies
this is my survival song, you see
 with lines cryptic      sunset on my lap
        the night never fades away
the soil enriched with a glint of my water
my heavy  overwhelming collapsing lungs.
this poem shall not soothe you-
instead would ask you to hunt something more
                             some more of air, water, sun , fire.
in your neighborhood
about the fallen leaves.
dry tongues,
neck choking.
about things so unpleasant
you would not otherwise want to know.

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

A lost letter to my father

 

image credits- pinterest

Thunder,
if that is one big word
I want you to gulp it down.

My walls speaks of you
of a memory we shared
over the sweet sunrise from the balcony

Your percolating memories stir my throat
to think of our blue wise words.
I was always a pebble

a sweet, piquant attachment
from your dreams, father

a moist lost string of a pullover
that you always wanted to cherish.

I think of the sky
as I think of you
of infinite stars
of colours and oceans.

Of letters stuck to the neem trees
as I hold your this lost letter.

Thunder,
this is the only word that you should sleep on
for you remind me of rudimentary silhouettes of trees,
lukewarm peel of laughter.

---

 

I just issued a newsletter yesterday on fathers. Check it out-https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul/letters/poetry-on-father

The Dance

Prompt- Dramatic Monologue

You!
The face of singular lotus
come, let’s evolve
someplace together
with our final dance
Take my hands
interlock it with yours

A strand of light
A strand of gleam
Your face
a yarn of mother’s touch
a cupboard full of old photo albums.

Your body is a shell
a shire of tulips
You have a mind of sunrise.

Look, do not overthink
for you must destroy this marble hour.
Hop!
Do not stare and evolve with me
before you learn to pronounce L O V E.

After all, Queer is this ecstasy!

Imaginations

For i see a tree behind a house made of clouds
a slow whisper entrapped beneath the soil
that never moves an inch
a state of wellness only getting harrowed
we live
like a static voice losing the soft cotton-like warmth
each day where the bells pause to chime.
We come across rooms full of stars and nights
and things even harsher
Imaginations of people breaking apart
or true maybe

The slice of pain is where it must have all begun
numb and electric
Everything seems on fire
where it ends
where it begins
no one knows.

Thins behind the valley seem plain
with ordinary roses
ordinary people
ordinary chirpings and shadow.

hallucinations or reality?

Those were the days of love.

---

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

My newsletter- Tiny Letter

Dear all,

Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.

You won’t be disappointed.

You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.

https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

thanks.

A gloomy promise

From Olive Skins

As you all know, I have started this lit magazine especially curated for abstract and surreal poetry which means a lot to me and so I urge you all to head over to this link and read this amazing poetry from a fellow poet.

Please like, share and follow if you appreciate the work.

https://oliveskins.com/2019/06/head-island-time-and-wave/

Olive Skins is live now

Thank you for such an overwhelming response for my new literary platform “Olive skins”. We have received some really great submissions and soon would be putting up on the site. Meanwhile, please visit the site, follow and check out the amazing poets we have for now. There is a lot more to come. Some real abstract art!

Ignorance

What does this speak to you?
my lament and a burning tongue
a swamp so full of oiled waters

I have an eye of the tiger
a frivolous running star
and often I sink in the void of blank noon.

They ask me how do I look
when I smile and giggle.
a silk saree well pleated and insane maybe.

I walk in the blazing red zone now,
I am scrupulous little statue of pale city.
I often smile,
I often glorify.

Check your thermometer now,
am I breathing still?
Is life still circulating around my small feet?
Check again, you.
A life sucks dream of one’s mind
and shove it into the loop of insanity.

---

P S-

My recent poems published on two drops of ink.

---

A bevy of stained minds

Halt

A cold mouth of air,
streaming down the rivers up till my painted toes.
I see a circled pair romancing behind the surface of the sky.
A cold distilled breaths.
Pure. Fixating, like a rubber band.

Far away from this orange sunset.
I hear umbrellas holding a hand of a detached one.
They support and smile. Simple.
Slowly, steadily like a geranium blooming after ages of scuffed earth.

Hums heard in the quietness of the diaphragm.
Subtle potions of looped lips,
speaking a language of gods.
Serene and mysterious.
poets standing on the ebb of satisfaction. Halt.
There, you, halt.

NaPoWriMo-4

Darling

Darling,
a bumblebee of your name comes
and sticks to my comatose body
strewing words of your lips,
porcelain slick drops of rain.

There I am, endlessly counting
the threads of time,
your body like chemicals rushing,
talking tounges, flesh sinking in nature.
something surreal we deliver to autumn,
a painted silhouette of love.
We gulp the harrowing throb of time,

inhaling the movements of our doused body,
in a swamp of emblematic sheets of symmetry.
We become a pattern, a floral one,
darling...
this is how i take you,
Afternoon red sun.

to defy time

i sit outside in the incensed moon,
galloping my swallow droplets of fear,
a knuckle breaking knuckle,
what’s the fear of this cricket chirping?
the modals of life.
these hands are burrows of islands,
small and large, a heightened hue of black spot.

I sit and inhale the ambiguity here,
the cracks on the white wall,
plants dying, plants blooming.
Regeneration is about loss: life a flat truth.
These fears came streaming like disguised prayers,
cinnamon hands become prayers often.

I sit and break my fingers,
defying cellophane face of morbid love
over and over and over.
i sniff the air and hunt.
I hunt like sunflower, killing the weeds of infestation.
murdering the portrait scenic chins of nothingness.
i defy times at times.

Things swallow space/time

i am made of paper lines,
bisecting and colliding like a scavenger
Pieces of fire fill my mouth,
my mouth of caves and thunder.
unabashedly walking like circles of planes,
fixed dots often scamper my periphery,
holding the deluge of love
holding a river of memories.

Everything swallows itself-
time / people / deaths / despair
mahogany rusty table sinks
and bees flutter like irreplaceable.

My mind delivers sketches of horror
a ghost-like face
hopping city by city
man by man,
melting into a paradox
and harvesting a dilemma.
A chain of imprints.

©Image and words- MVS

---

Poetry and Ink.

No, it did not start with the extraction of bones and marrow. Neither, there was an epiphany.
I pluck my eyebrow with a sharp pencil, to check the skin underneath. A bizarre.

Mockery of a round square pats my naked back, yelling I have something inside my earlobe too.
So, I prick my navel and join the rummaging polka dots meeting my ankle, eroding the black spot finally.

What is there after all beneath my transparent skin? I burn. I burn.
Enough by now, drinking, smoking indivisible moments. They inundate like ant colonies.

For I have a single eye, a single lip, a single leg, a single tornado
The rest is a stone of Poetry and a wool of Ink.

---

Words

In a circle full of moisture and baked apple pie’s, I crave and hold the periphery of Words like a sullen extension of truth. A point of solitude. I rub my skin to find the unsaid, undiscovered words, I rub my iris, my white thighs like a fiction produced by swallowing catharsis.

Discover. Run. Run in your stockings. Run in your shoes. Find the haze. Catch the molecules. Choke on the existence of W O R D S. Seduction. Dedication. Sanctification. I don’t want to be alive, for I am soiled and drunk. I am married to the drops of inebriation of pale figure.

Magic.

Drop by drop I bleed poetry and imbricate the words on my yellow walls, on the roofs of my cracking teeth. Bites of cold potato shiver me, and hence a word like Intrigue sticks to my milky cleavage.

There lies churning noise of whispers now, a seepage. The thunders on the hills and the thunders of my words are the same. Yes, I OWN M Y W O R D S, clinging its petals to my naked waist and there is an Equilibrium.

Mellifluous. Limerence.

The winter is born.

---

®My Valiant Soul