The sad picture-

It’s about us. Our static atmosphere which keeps changing its dimension. Through the clandestine mouths of river and a dark cloud. At times, there is nothing but a tainted shadow our love growing a thick layer of fungus. We grow, anyway.

We grow and talk about the leftover meals, the swollen flowers of our garden, everything falling apart. Hush! We do not speak of the silence that lingers our throat sitting like a huge wound on our chest. The sad, forlorn shackles of stark grief. What goes beyond is treacherous, as if. A landscape dipped in the shades of sunsets and piquant feelings, a leaf coiling into a serpent. A flower wilting into a moth, things happen, just like that.

The screams are a reflection of an unslept sky. The dying women in neighbours. The abhorrence that is a moisture to the nature. Nature- it often mocks our grilled love and considers it a green fever. We grow anyway. We grow through the carcass, a catastrophe of splitted existence. Through kitchen sinks, chairs and through people, we grow like melted wax. A sharp body shedding its skin through and through.

Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.

Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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If this is us…

Napowrimo continues

But the thing is everything shall be depleted. This. Us and our stay. What if, I could hold the habit of loving you for once? My eyelids dipped in lemon peel thinking of ways to dream about you. The rooms that still roar about our love making. The walls still cracking a semantic, quiet low noise of our moans and fight. Erratic evenings, whereby we submerge our small elbows in the auburn breeze. I want to cling to the habit of just that. Your coconut hair, small long talks, talks so mellow and crisp almost like I ate my fruit bowl. To hold your poetic words and brown moments of paper noise is all I had dreamt of all this while. To stay connected to your face, slender neck always popping and mind / spring quartet. Nothing else. That’s my habit/ a ritual that I perform each day to listen to the music of things staying lost between us. The Art of a singular dialogue. A singular atom of love. A single You.

A Memoir about Prayers and Healing

Things do not attach themselves to our void, till we allow it to occur. Things- broken, upsetting they instill our hearts and soul with remorse and pain. A haunting truth about liberation is when we clench our minds limited only to the point we think we need it, it never occurs. What about the next step?

The next step of releasing our fears and not ingesting the feeling of guilt and sadness always. The process requires abundance of acceptance. Acceptance of our mistakes, acceptance of knowing our worth, our dreams as well acceptance to not expect from others.

Prayers can be addictive. I have watched myself for a month not going to the bed without chanting a hymn or “om mani padme hum”…it’s  strange belief or a meditative medium as if I have someone to hold on, I never trusted humans and somehow I suffer from social anxiety and therefore I know how strong my bond is with miracles and prayers. No, the reason is not limited only to this. While addressing about my insanity and delirious thoughts in the form of poetry in my first full length collection- crimson skins, I cried and managed to write somehow.. I later found out my journey with healing. About something beyond pain…something surreal yet realistic. I dedicate each day ever since to my writing process as a slow, healing journey. A quiet, nurturing interaction to my soul. It’s all about the Self!

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 I wrote my poetry book – Crimson Skins out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here- IT’S AVAILABLE AT HALF THE COST ON POTHI.:) I have posted the reviews for my book in past posts, check it out if you are skeptical. I would appreciate it.

Crimson skins – US

Crimson Skins- POTHI

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the women of my time

The women of my time spend too much time thinking,
thinking about the leftover foods
the leftover oil, cucumbers and what not
The women of my time speak a vacant language
a kind of verbiage which makes you stutter
they have a lost glory eyesight
they wish to see things yet falls on a flat surface.
The women of my time are petite and so full.
Full of things that break a human heart,
a cupboard full of memories disguised as polaroids,
fancy teacups clinging the sounds of romance
Arteries of lust flowing
lust for things beyond your skin.
They do not tuck in emotions in their garments.
Hot spaced cheeks splashing words of mahogany
the hem of skirts always full of raisins and butter.
The women of my time eat wounds like spices
more precious than the silver gems
their robes
all shades of the sunset, transformation of a child, maybe.
watching her swath their eyes becomes terrible often
terrible as watching a melting moon.
Women of my time prepare a soft warm water bath for themselves
to swim,
to eat the sins,
to eat something beyond the plastic walls,
they do shiver
yet they do not pause here.
The women of my time are goddesses: a figurative speech about liberation.
They sit and watch the open sky as if they have the light in their puerile palm.

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If you like this do consider checking out my poetry collection on-Amazon. And on Pothi– India

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Read my new published work here Modern Literature

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Raindrops

we slumber through days
of moist observations
of things unspoken of.
An organ. A transparency..
there are things beyond our two nutty eye
to cling a mouth full of love,

Raindrops
that cascade through my fragile shoulders
through my heavy white bosom

that
speaks of you
speaks of sin
speaks of white emptiness
raindrops sweet and soft
unravels a story of mother’s womb.
so much beyond and so much less.

What do I ask for now?
peace or lust from you?
A landscape. A delusion.
I write this to pleat my unevenness
to fool you into believing
about our eloping mad love.

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Hi, Hope you all are doing well. Let me know how did you enjoy my this poem in the comments below.

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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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Slow

Slow as a neighbour’s plant
vindictive, timid.
Slow as a ripple static
hush.

An oblong wax melting away,
slow,
slow as raindrop stuck on a tree

As a splash of colour unable to blend
a monologue twirling inside my stomach
a song so old
with cough drops all around the drawers

dying
slow
dying

repetitive
insipid
Once a melody
now only an arm
now only a forehead
nothing at all

A nightmare in blue
It knows nothing now
only a flat desperation of air
The feet knows the crevices of life.
Look carefully..
there!
A small dot and a fanned breath of a leaf.

Slow.

A prayer to hope

Cities left like empty vases,
soundless minds,
a spot once full
looks ghastly.

Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,

Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.

Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.

Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
a pill,
a prayer,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.

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Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.

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April

And just like that
between the chorus of the bruised sky,
I slip my set of auburn love.
Sediments of galaxies and rivers
entwined between my outgrown fingers.
Seduction is a way of swimming across your mind, half awake.

These tall trees
perform tensions, fiction,
crickets squeaking,
and a layer of loneliness shifts to the sea of the blank river,

I slide my head against your chest,
the ivory garland of future seasons,
the whistling of galaxies
Bluebells swinging in the thunder of our sheets.

My body shuddering like a torn cloth
arms howling in the wild air.
We lick each other,
a chant for dripping lust
and here I become full and warm.

It is past April
empty corridors of dreams
and I swell upon the memory of
blank sheets,
rattling sky.

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Of Sickness

of moment so despair
a thing i learn about a crooked poetry
my face a sudden elastic string.

Of death
these moments stich a corollary upon my backbone,
stripes so painfully black.

an ache to put metaphors with,
Madness unleashed from the boundaries of my skull
red, uneven, scathed,

women in my room speak of pain more than the patients in the hospitals
a deep blue sapphire cotton pain
splitting throat.

The air wet and humid
of tears and sickness
a dead sky lies under my lids.

I remain quiet, numb, observing like a child.

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A Still Life

My last night’s ritual falls on this table
watching a landscape spread across, vivid blue with raw images
of skies, wrappers of sunsets.
life from life
splitting beneath the heaviness of that sky.

A shadow sits on the curtains,
carefully weeding out
like music
Observing the forms of love that occurs.
Cheeks of orange crepe, cracking
a voice so brave and young I could hear.

A bed with two chairs.
Watching things falling in a syntax
of a molted clay
shaped like rooms inside a room.

I am again pondering
over chilled cold nights
over topic about men & Gods
as the air slips through my lips.

The existence that lives outside the memory.

Empty Spaces

Empty spaces-
blank as a curve
blank as a quiet sky
blank as a hawk
blank a curvature on apex
blank as a haunted corridor.

Empty spaces-
blank as a fallen sky
blank as a single eye
blank as a numb wound.

Do you see such patterns of absolute pauses?
You are as blank as a naked word
baffled each day by air’s uncertainity.

What we made out of Memories

Prompt- Forgotten Technology

This goes beyond the tampered noises that prevail today
silence ruffle under the sheets of abrupt behaviour.
If I talk,
let me talk to you about the mottled photos
of yesterday’s yellow sun
a wildflower blooming under my chin
spreading across the lunatic nights of hum
Death too had come on many occasions,
looking at your obscure spots in my album.
That did not stop there.
A ligament or two did rupture in the old records,
//Burning. Aching. Burning.//
The body became a range of toxins,
wild with a blue winged heavy eye.
These eyes would flip through rotten memories looking at the old telephones,
Looking at a thing dying so carelessly.
Death is an art- as I do not refuse the facts.
The days were simple on record players with my hesitation staying on top of it.
Loose wires of phones. Vintage blurred memories of hands and cupboards
Of lemons and the sniff of a heavy weighted lady
that filled my room
the time that taught of enormous voices revolving inside the gut.
Pain. A fancy circle of construction of mind.
I do not claim to sew the motion of consciousness here.
Take time to ingest a list of fury.
Screams through hard-boiled eggs and a toaster cracking between the unheard voices of the parents.
It stays in memory. Not in the old stained yellow book-shelves.
Few things travel through drama and enter into a raw state of reality.
A tapestry that hangs, looms in the gloomy corners of forlorn memories.

The Affair

There isn’t a sight that does not make me think of you
of your auburn burning skin in the heat-
a poem so soft on your lips,
it almost is center of all light
I produce
an inflammable kiss
awake
with fumes coalescing into fumes of rainbows
The body rises from something so chalky beneath
an enormous restlessness
traversing nights and days

I wish to remember days like these
beneath my frolic skirt
above my trembling belly
I wish to swallow your blank stare
your stare that revolves like a tangerine sky
with leftover peels of my summer orange.

I wish to remember dry afternoons
with a song inserted in my mouth
a bee that rotates like a tulip
between our fingers entwined.
Like all things of love and soft music.

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.

a/ Palette of cycle

What becomes out of a light that perches on the shade?
A coma or a complete sentence?
Does a wound heal if exposd to a skin’s love?
What becomes of a translucent onion that can not be further minced?
A life comes with a moment of quietness through the lens of wet eye.
A doctor’s favourite fruit is perhaps death and a game meddling with his blue arm.
My front doors are always open / so that I may see vintage skyline opening up it’s tongue to dissolve my small limbs into it’s
system.
A gramophone that listens up my cries at the night.
What shall happen to my knuckles once they float in the air?
Oh, don’t be scared right now.. (atleast not for sometime).
I have walls painted in the color of blood, the golden hour of melting pain
The paradoxes of life have a strange sniff attached to it. Life takes no side, it slips in terror and terror. I stare at a flower, and I ask what about you?
Will you live or remain isolated?

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