what makes my skin so bright

 

I chop a slice of moon
of an excellent shard from a mirror,
I take a dip in a splintering winter well,
the well of charm & despair,
the evening air does the rest of the job
the apricots stitched onto my lips
my lips forbid to tell your secrets
there,
there is nothing inside the gateway to chivalry,
a half-eaten fruit
a half-read poetry
a half- kissed muse

There it is
I can feel it freely
a gallop of a hysteric wave,
a sunrise, so distant

you need the recipe?

see my knuckles, the hard egg shaled nails,
a fever running through my belly,
they all bow to my cheekbones,
my cheeks ingest your lies too.
How about it?

Will it be a part of the regime too?

and a salt-glazed cup
of electric moon

it didn’t take long,
to be like this.
i wept also.
I wept and wept
till my skin floated in the air so pristine,
and here you have my secrets
for what makes me glow
like mountains, valleys
You never noticed, never, fool!

Dimensions of Pain

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Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.

Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.

i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.

A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.

I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.

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