As I write this, I am reminded of all the wonderful poetry,prose that I have been reading for All Ears– An ezine for youth which has been edited by me along with five other editors. With an eye of an editor, it is never an easy task to analyse any piece but with the collective effort I am more than happy to present before you our first issue- You can download it here and enjoy it for free. The inaugral issue is filled with some brilliant artwork, poetry,prose etc. I hope you all shall enjoy and consider it for future submissions.:)
the rivers that speak of us,
warmer bodies
nectars of jasmine and hibiscus-
a lady from photograph,
biting a strange loneliness sitting onto her bosom
a strange memory of distilled longings-
a lady that sulks and pronounce everything watery,
dreams of wildfire and river-beds
I travel through her caricature,
her oblong drifting fingers,
eyes of pain and despair-
eyes- a mirage of limbs too,
I watch her and think of this pregnant sky
day and night.
She- a soliloquy od soft pastel dreams.
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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
Longings
My days are cryptic
with mellow songs
sunflowers pressed on my bosom,
on my chest.
My days are usually full of lies and loneliness
with a wildflower travelling through my veins,
Where a mind refuses to sleep,
a haunted manor of poetry painted carpets
a garden of lover’s daydream
At sunsets I visit temples,
where my sins could fade away a little
along with the leaves of my hope
along with the tree that grew along with me.
I sometimes wish to marry that tree of hope,
the one that nurtured the oblivious lips of dull moon,
filling it with moonflowers
filling with hanging creases of paper lanterns,
a fading memory wilt often.
Somehow
Somewhere
Where my body trembles like a low music,
a sister’s ritual of love affairs:
I am not sure what do I long the most
the memories or the moments?
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Crimson skins – USCrimson Skins- POTHI
swim across attest the pain sink into the lake of grief watch and convulse, the narration- the blue oblong face of emotions- it disappoints me each day, you and your flattery my small body, small, petite chin that thrusts no life anymore. Watch a face again, think about it, the slippery texture grains allover the body blurred, overgown opinions
I am sad flower today, trying to be the moon but the moon is always sad, I tell myself to watch the moving crowd to feel the concrete tree and the still landscape of stagnancy exists a pill of loss and convulsions all day long. -----------------------------------------
I have a book- Crimson skins. Read it if still you have not. on kindle, pothi etc.
I am happy to announce I have a poem in this beautiful anthology- Hecate Magazine.
Scissors often draw a diagram
On my cold slender hands,
A light peeks in, as if to tell something new.
A light
A hope.
A hiccup that stops another hiccup.
This light, a soft tune to my ears.
What do I consider this art of life?
A hummus stain on my sequin dress.
A quiet noise, inside my vase body.
It's interruption.
If a thing dies, let it be.
Let the hand sink.
Let the light go.
Let things go.
Get my book here-
Crimson Skins
I am writing this post to express my gratitude to all those who recently bought a copy of my book ‘Crimson Skins‘ and left such heartfelt messages, emails etc about the impact of my book. My poetry collection was written during the more coarse phase of my life and I am glad, you all loved it.
It’s a request if you have read it please leave a review on amazon/ goodreads as it helps indie authors like us.
“she entraps the sky in her fingernails” (A goddess)– (From my collection.)
If I could, I would evaporate through your mouth a doorawy to dreams and tiny dots- wild mushrooms dancing atop our bodies as if we have trapped the moon in our eyelids- eyelids that do not utter a word, flowers on terrace, static noises we scratch water with nails, dirt on our palms to know the film of our memory floating in the lake through breasts, heaviness and Autumn that still looks upon us and smile. smile to see us vacant and full, altogether. An awakening of God's music temple bells- gongs negating everything else/ but this stays this blooms.
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.
The collarbone cracks open,
a petal of your name,
a thick cloud of lust
sounds that speak only of splitted grass
I see you
and I think oh 'home'
honey-suckled touch,
tongues:
tongues interwined into sheets of desire
of lukewarm, misted talks
about us and hopes to stay.
It is Summer now,
a season of orange hope,
golden grass grinning through the wind.
It is Summer.
I am inhabitated by the scent of it
that twirls my skin and turn it into faces of love.
I am a Summer-myself
bleeding through my cold sphere
daylight:
water on my toes
a gossip you all want to hear.
I am Summer for you-
for you to cling onto
for you to breathe the scent.
I am stoked to announce that recently Indie Blu(e) Published its another beautiful anthology Through the Looking Glass– which includes my poem about Mental Health as the theme was the same. I urge you all to check out the same here .
Have you read Crimson Skins yet?
If not please check it out on Kindke, Pothi, Amazon etc.
Hi, Welcome to my poetry world yet again. I guess we all have no better solution rather than staying positive and hopeful. I am glad to feel this positive vibe yet again after all that India has been through and is still dealing. I am trying to do as much as I can and that includes taking care of my mental health as well.
Sharing a poem. Let me know your views and in general how life has been treating you all?:)
And maybe this shall never end-
Here, I rest my palms along with the stars,
honey-suckled,
twigs of sunsets
hoping for tree of wishes
a spoon of lukewarm winters
which sits beside my small mind
a roar of summer breeze,
producing so much that only my heart can see,
and maybe this shall never end-
yet I long for coral sweaters,
grass
attachment layered sky
above and below-
the dreamcatchers
in the grainy rain.
Our mouths unravelling
and spitting a tongue of hibiscus growing
scrubbing:
scrubbing all the sins away
lights spinning- gold,
poppies in a bathtub
and leaves fluttering across our bodies-
we want this,
a human touch
a human being, indeed.
If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it is soon going to be an year for my book and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.
The sniff lingers between the hills and the mountain a sniff to overcome a dismay, a snippet of a saint through the threads of fragile life. Jasmine- a floral drop of snow now between my knuckles, rubbing against my pillow a cry for dreams, a lotus shaped prayer. Jasmine- a quiet nostalgic hope, prayers about fairies and daydreams, The sun and the waters, echoing wool of the sunburn. The sniff- my mother's voice an elastic memory of tales and despair.
Hi, Thankyou for sending your prayers through my last poem. I am reading poetry again and getting to Art as it keeps me going.
I am coming back to my writing my poems after a while a lot changed during these times. (Pandemic- second wave) My yellow tree remained un-watered all this while, humans burnt, relatives, families submerged with tears/ fears see my poem has started to rhyme, even. Keep on reading you will sense no sensibility a bunch of lost flowers now archaic, frenzied- razor sharp like tongue of cries bodies once warm now muted, cold, without a twin flame. the situation has become small and painful like a setting sun, only that it is not beautiful.
I am delighted to announce that recently I was a part of an interview done by Pooja of Lifesfinewhine. We discussed a few aspects of Art in a short, crisp way. Head over to her blog to read my interview and all the lovely things she writes there and do show your love to all her blog posts.
the voice cracks in the summer sun
I hear things falling apart
underneath my door knob
behind the cobweb- almost gone now
i hear things decaying,
distorted as the morning yawn
the leaves so parched
the sun , cold and warm
there is a music that stops playing as i write this
the music that speaks about fallen dreams,
listless curvature of atmosphere.
stillness is what i observe 'stillness in my body, my toes and lips
the earth so happy and warm now
almost like a cerulean sadness
torn into threads of bruises
into diverse sects of lemon dried faces.
the hands so small and white
with my bosom hanging restlessly on the table.
there are things so peculiar occurring everywhere.
restless yet a still monochrome pattern of life
the poppies won't die tonight
I sense the drama through the bleeding faces again
the parched vase of you and me
the horizon of us-
a hallowing question to that equation
the fields seem opaque,
dreary, with white sunflowers
I run and burn
to sniff your presence
to sniff the existence
the love equation to the sky
and to things beyond
my feet seem to be the carrier of our love poems,
enthralled and quiet
almost like a woman lost in translation
Chips in frost.
cold barren
as if a tree unfolded a leaf so huge
the love rises
and sinks
and stinks,
it breaks and fills the spaces
with things so small
almost like a hurricane,
moths fluttering,
there is no place left to make love-
not between such damp sheets, at least.
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