Poem about a noon

the sniff of the orange crisp air-
figs and the afternoon morose sigh-
vehicles so slow and so is this noon-
the yawns of utterly poor roads
almost cracking through the vertebrae of the moon-
the cracks of the woman- her waist, her lips 
dripping a secular motion- secular yet frizzy
with least interest- what do I call this?
the aftermath or the beginning-
a sestina or a pristine death.

P.S-Writing almost after a decade. 2022 was one happening year for me. Here am I wishing you all a happy new year!

Who would weep?

And I am not the only one thinking of longings,
romance and half- written love poems to my muse.
I am not the only one thinking of rivers, trees and asteroids-
but then where are the rest?
The rest who would weep if I do-
the rest who would swallow the massive blob of shining throughout.
where do I find a stone as heavy as a chest?
An open eyelid. Two for lukewarm talks with neighbours.
Speaking of which- How do people interact so much with humans?
is there a step? a fixed pattern?
               multiple then Divide= result error!
Where are the rest of mutual eyelids.
collateral loss or perpetual blossom?
This eye is an observer 
for things crawling underneath
the teeth.


-------------------------

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Crimson Skins

As the dawn sees her

POV- I imagined living in the Victorian Era and had a feeling to write a poem. Hence this came out.

The neighbourhood is a wet puddle.
Across the streets, I see the women having a camp-fire
whispering soft murmurs about the mundanity of life,
into the blue hemishphere
where stays a large apple- tree.
 The women of my town are a faint pear-
with whitest bosom and whitest eyes.

 Look,
the hourglass shapes have moved now- 
torn between the edges of languages,

one is cutting the rind of a lemon
while the other makes a lemonade.
They banter vicariously and live through the sky.
rust on their elbow, as if a second skin to their thighs.
   
  The women shaped as exhibitionist
gulping down a massive portion of tranquil shines:
They can't see.
They can't hear perhaps.
They have done the job
when the dark falls,
one word at a time-
one woman to another. 

The women are too fast to remember anything the next day.

A prose- “Form”

The wound is where the hurt has lived and been nurtured. How do we plan to discard it now? 
Are we enough to understand the fragility of emotions- certainly we are. We are the sinners and the bearers of its entrop, of its magnanimous callous injury. We swallow pain each day and night. I wonder what does it become once it injects our bloodstream. Does it pinch and ache further? Or does it swirl in the air- like a thick cloud of a giant's saliva.The air must be lukewarm. With softer lotions of time for time must tear the air inside the chest. The heaviness must inflate further. Invisible sewing machines. The most intriguing part of human is perhaps his fear and love- imagination in paper. We perhaps always come back to aberrance. To ambuguity of life and people. We come back, eventually to nights with fallen jasmine on floors.

Into the room of everything

Your clear eye is one such beauty
haunting for days - this body that dwells on it
your each visison- birds perching on my balconies
and not disturbing my burnt pancakes.
I see. I annihilate. I wash face.
I know what my grave shall be called - with one tree
and all about 'waiting for Godot'
This world may heal sometimes soon with it's funny pink sins
it's funny politics and gender of skies.
I must not speak thereafter,the tingles of auburn dirt
that fills my nostrils are too many, 
symmetrical and ferocious.
The closed drawers in my room chatters 
all about my loneliness
and nothing still infects me.
You- the one who sparks lucent moon into my breaths.
I say this this too.
the notions of morality and absurdism
tickling cellophene above our eyelids. 

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.

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 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.

Link to buy my poetry book- Crimson Skins

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

Ayush Kalra

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.

Singing songs through a poem

source- Pinterest

I hear a quiet shout,
screeching under my eyes-
How long do I float, anonymously?
to declare is what I want-
 space and time
stars and grass,
look at my one hand,
the one that stares you-
curvatures of my body= lotus.
Lotus that spews water from its body again and again.
Call it life. Give it a name-
Air, will you be a space to my existence?
Water- will you sing songs to my graveyard?
 Fire, burn along. Do not resist anything further.
 This day inhales "me" in the most blasphemous way.
I do it through a circular band on forehead. 
I soak everything like a sponge.
 Watering lilies and eating oatmeal. 
Please be mine- You, the ferocious 'eye'.
Apply a cold balm all through my body- know my persistence of time
and know what I mean. 

-----------------


To read my book-
Crimson Skins- India 
Crimson Skins- US

Blue velvet sighs

• 

Body of coral sunsets slipping underneath,
and I think of your curvatures, silhouettes of water- lotus
a heavy mass of flower spinning upon the moon,
a daydream and slow night

slow as far riverbeds, moaning
quick and slow.
the fingernails hide a slippery naked climate,
fermented by the shiver and body on body

dirty tablecloths:
dirty walls, kitchen sinks melting away
melting like the throbbing blood
blood: so warm and luscious now

as a river riding a star.
I squat in the evening, on the fresh, frozen floor
like  a rose, budding and blooming.

  The pink air laughs and shifts incessantly
between our pastel love, our growing thick bites
the hollows of tongues
dancing.

Mermaids in heaven.
I stare and stare and become the large junction

(Bodies rhyming)

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
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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.

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