The Look

 

I remember the absurdness of clouds spread over my head, hovering. Blue lilies dancing in the sky. A quiet place of porous Gods. I would stare at the sky, releasing my chemical reactions in the thin air. My orange vase neck, oscillating between the concrete human eye and the prism of soil. I would name it Illusion.
Phonetic switch of moonflowers and blurred windowpanes. I saw it all.

At times, I would be a God myself, walking through the soil where the humans sew each other, excavating noises. Annihilation of a cold muse in the sky.
There are shapes and humans walking up above, flickering heir worldly eyes. I have it all,
in my pockets full of moaning psalms,
rolling down my sliding cheeks.
I carry a piece of everything, everywhere I travel.

Leila

Wild Women Wednesday: Josie Washburn cowgirlmagazine.com
And there sits Leila,
a soft concave figure of running temperature.
Her mannequin star-shaped bosom,
a hello she says.

Empty walls,
barren ceilings around,
Her round swirling eyes,
with a distant look
She pinches her knuckle.
She wakes up from a faint dream,
There. There. Where the poem falls in the large solar system.

Leila is a slice of time,
chewing the mint-flavored bubblegum,
like the body of the sea,
running through the empty roads,
floating among the pastel curtains.

And there she sits for a moment.
To gasp and exhilarate.
A wanderer of beautiful things.
like that she escapes into the morality of joy.
Twirling. Twirling. This body a stench of buzzing petals.


My poetry published in Selcouth Station. Read here
https://www.selcouthstation.com/single-post/2019/10/13/Devika-Mathur-Goddess

A sinned anatomy

 

Legs, 1958 ~ vintage everyday

I am a sound today,
an inaudible gentle drop of a midsummer dream.
Look,
I have a scarred arm,
degenerated now,
An ear so small,
obnoxious ways of survival.
I evolve each day, still melting on toes.
Funeral baths peeling my cold skin.
There is abnormality happening on Thursdays,
and a prayer going on inside my head on Sundays.
I know too much on Mondays and
I become a sinner on Saturdays.

Look, I may slip monthly,
slipping almost like a surreal fall
with patches and band-aids sewed to the body.
I fail to be a silver moon
A hollow void that sits on my lap,
nonchalantly bleeding songs of despair.
I am all at once,
an elastic curve of black fragility.

How do I smell poetry?

20 Quotes from Sylvia Plath

Step 1.

Enter a room full of dark metaphors,
Stir the analogy with the half baked synonyms trying to disturb your mind.
Stir further, this thought process so ablaze.
Wake up to small neutrons, amorphous floating protons,
Multiplying, quietly.

Step 2,
Unfurl your sins in each room.
Step by step, take a needle and start stitching your open wounds now.
A long stride of pulmonary sleep. Soak it and walk along with the process.
Ask questions to your mind and heart put together. And you are now in a maze.

step 3.
Overuse the electricity like a tether. Grab and chew the rim of power to grow like a diffused bulb. Follow the paths which never shook you, you shall never be lost now. You have landed now on the concave slippery object of your face. A soft daydream.
A mystic night. A lover’s touch.
You sit and see yourself here, like poetry melting nad sitting in your womb.
Here is home, now.
Here, you always can come back, now.

An ode to my mother

Hidden Mother Series: Laura Larson's Nineteenth-Century Photos | The New Republic

My mother has paper lips / beautiful, stale pages of love rubbing against each lip.
She sings a dream of a crochet bag, each night, the times when I am unwell.
My mother often dresses in saree that is obscure and restless,
a brown hem of her dress slightly caressing my face.
And I begin to decode her fears/ her prayers/ her clandestine sins.
She is a slime ball of crisp yellow frustration leaking.
A palindrome.
Oh, mother, you creature of a goddess!
Your feverish footstep of laid back dreams/ a word which you often can’t pronounce.
You are too strong and surreal to gulp,
with a staircase lost somewhere in your hair-bun,
you walk in your nylon ivory night dress,
fidgeting throughout the pathway.
You stumble and walk.
still, you walk, mama.
A birth giver to stars.
You own this starry night, behind the loop of your ear ring,
too small and fancy
voicemails lost in this sky so empty.
Your foot my home, mother.
My poem your sleep.


Latest work

A Satisfaction – Poem by Devika Mathur

My fist – a home of dreams

'MENORCA' - SPRING 2018 KINLY

This picture you see is a firework,
a shooter of transparent memories.
A vivid piece of artwork, fumbling across my face
with veins growing up in the sky
outwards and inwards
a low key noise/ stammering through the delicacy of time/
Isn’t it strange?
The oval diaphragm painted so calmly.
I see this pink sapphire picture
and I see my eyes there,
holding green, surreal dreams of a colorful palette
A quiet breeze of stars.
I see this starry studded picture now,
vehemently sipping bridge of cold laughter,
This is my evolution now,
trees beaming in a subservience forest.

Midsummer’s mad song

How many times do I need to die
to keep you awake?
A figure of wax evolves and quietly speaks your name to me.
Your tangerine lips,
a lump of sugar and clove
all dissolved in my ears.

What is your language of love?
You reach my body with chemicals gushing
until the body shatters beyond a dot of oblivion.
I part in five thousand ways,
so vivid and distinct,
A chalice of fiction and midsummer’s song.

Darling,
I breathe you like a ghost now.
With a thermometer put on my bosom
and eyes chanting your name forever.


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