I need some love and support.

I am writing after a long time . As I was having a rough time with my life, life patterns etc and in the process I stopped writing almost everywhere. Even the acceptance letters from great magazines did boost up my mood but it did not stay for a long duration and hence I was always feeling almost numb and lost.

Meanwhile, I am writing this to ask a favour- as you all know I have a published book Crimson Skins” published last year, I need to keep it working too! I need your support. Please share, get a copy or just share this post if you can’t get a copy of my poetry bok. I have worked really hard for that one and it took almost 3 years to make through the entire publication process. If you love my surrealistic style, work, please consider getting a copy.

A kind friend of mine has something to say about the book-

Crimson Skins has a variety of work any reader will enjoy. The book isn’t basic and will be able to go the extra mile for years to come. I will be so bold as to say many of the pieces featured in it has the staying power of words by a few greats such as Sylvia Plath, Adrienne Rich, and Virginia Woolf. It ends just as it began, with an intense piece of writing showcasing the writer’s talent

Book review by- tre

Here are the links-

Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/Crimson-Skins-Devika-Mathur-ebook/dp/B08GCWK4D5/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=crimson+skins&qid=1631955409&sr=8-1

POTHI INDIA

Much love

Devika.

My newsletter- Here you get some mindful thoughts, classic poetry, exercises etc weekly!

To all the dead trees-

Source
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.

Jasmine

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, 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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Open Screams

Hi!

I have not written here since last month. As you all know, India is dealing with the second treacherous wave of pandemic and somehow i managed this . While my parents are still recovering my heart goes out to every life lost, every soul that departed too early. It will take time to accept this loss. The body is in a state of archaic , numb loss.

This emptiness is a sullen sky
droplets of opaque women tears
with lanterns so bright, it almost blinds you.
next to my body rests a stack of another human forms
degenerated, transparent as the rain
with no family left, words lost
bruised up thigh, femur now disjoined.
next to my breath, is a women gasping already
for a husband, gasping for the open sky.
The surgeons of my city are tired, breathless and full of insomnia
they stammer and talk about open wounds
about lungs so swollen
screams of air- air-air across the hallway,
screams about ventilators, one more oxygen cylinder.
the screams are bluish tint
of fever so high now
almost strident with trees growing up in the sky.
The floors have gone mute,
the child is lost counting a mute, tongue less dance: left with nothing.
The tampered cassettes are stuck already
tethered onto something less painful.
Where does this merge to?
Where does this lead us now?
Shouts , screams and lungs still infected.
Time collapsed inside my mouth of fear.

Stay safe.

Understanding Poetry

artist-  Alexandra Levasseur.
How much is too much?
Inosculate, squalid words on your sheet
the layers that speak of my heavy mind
are supposed to be easy to ingest?
How?
The air is as pellucid as my eye of misery.
but the words do not stop here
the words do not stick just to the head
there is death occurring these days
enough for me to write a lament
a lament about this stomach
this body
this hour of existence.

the hour that speaks of loss
survival requires prayer   hope and warriors
who are we, I ask?
the sufferers or the healers?
The syntax is an old odium
I refuse this hour
I refuse the way you swallow my poetry
my half- burnt mind is my solace and a tragedy.
 Disintegrated shreds of light.

Hi! The rise in the pandemic cases especially in India , in my city have taken a serious toll on my metal health and I am sure it is equally bad for the rest. This poem comes out from a place pain, misery. Thank you for reading.

Generally I would attach a link to my book, etc..but I do not feel right now so you can ignore.

no space to love

source-pinterest

Napowrimo#12

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.

Untitled.

Dear readers,
How have you been all?
Even though I write my poetry and words and keep on doing so many various projects to help the writing community and people in general
why is there a sudden urge to relax a lot? I agree I need to take a pause. I believe in slow yet productive growth but somehow my mind is getting tired to easily due to all the works I am managing and no its not the stress that I have. It's something else.
Anyway, I wrote a short poem about how I feel.



The air burns,
with a punctured sniff.
the breeze sits on my chest
counting my eyelids, backwards
and the body swells up
without a notion of cold blossoms.
The air petrifies my nail,
the tears stink, often.
It's the forehead,
it's the arm
or is it my lips that hallucinates?
A cobweb, so brutal on my chin
blooming like a flower.
What do I call it now?
The season of spring or a particle of dust.

Meteors

 


Bones indigo,
lacking a piece of earth,
inside your mouth of stars
a tremor of zodiac signs
Like a Taurus blooming.
 
You sprinkle lust
on my bosom
bubbles of thin colours,
a 4 am  moonlight sigh.
Tender mouths of mud and water,
unborn fruits of the ultimate kiss.
This is us.
 
My hips now like a parched lake.
I am made up of unpruned divinity,
an untamed odorless shadow of sky
between the thick sheets of a dark city.
 
Beautiful sun,
how you grow all over  me,
with a swollen tongue licking my mouth,
as if collapsing in his arms.
Inside my mind, there is a temple.
Rain
Sun
Earth
I will crack my eyelids open, now.
 
-----------------------------------------------
(I wrote this piece a long time ago)
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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

A concern to self-

And there is almost nothing but this silence
with which I caress my pallid numb thoughts
mud stained- inner knuckles,
fingernails growing all small and ugly
and not just that,
but I sleep with my dirty longings as well.
Bed of misery beneath the flesh of tongue.
Endless field of dark fragmented hopes/
You name it.
I wonder if this will be the season of spring inside my dreary grassland
Of beautiful spring flowers
things that resonate with the Earth, the moon and the stars.
Will it be a hiccup or a lost prayer?
———————————————————————————-


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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

The body


The flesh is incoherent
the nuance of this body is sand
all things that sit inside my bones, tremble
like sounds unheard,
from the Indian mountains it begins to crack
piece by piece
as if it is the wail of time
as if there is no neck to this body.
Humans- all that they love, sinks beneath,
somewhere.
And my eyes become wrinkled pomegranate seeds
awash beside the uprooted trees of misery.
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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou

This Moment

I got Hipster

Inspired by- Eavan Boland

A balcony.
Brewed tea. Things are getting ready.

a neighbour folds her dried out clothes.
Another vendor strolls across the streets.
Oranges and papayas , he screams.

Stars and moon,
things become raw at night.
Opaque tunes of the clouds distorting,

things pause as the sun sets in.
This moment,
a women walks in the kitchen
to get things ready for dinner.

A bizzare hustle,
Fruits ripening,
An old painting getting chipped.
This moment.


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The Night

And after the things have been quiet,
a slow nocturnal pause returns
a pause to collapse again,
There is an endless whistling,
with a bleached sky
a bleached portion of the sunset
I can still touch it,
the surface of things breaking apart,
the nuisance of the blood vessel
the hanging canopy of faces: dry/parallel.
The night takes everything within itself,
abandoned by all,
it has not the face of love.
I know the sniff of abandonment
where the night spews distorted loneliness
through my body – a pool of flustered pink love.
———————————————————

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

Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

Yellow- a poem

Yellow – scratched and heavy
an unknown desire to melt between the stasis of the sky.
Yellow,
a color that dissolves inside my thin muscles,
my tongue wired up with your name,
a loose sheet of kiss and melancholy,
Yellow: a quiet tapestry that hangs loose
bearing limbs out of balance
bearing mouths dripping foolish sins.
An external pain of the body,
a pain crisp as our bedsheet

I am a bunch of memories that belong to the sky
patched and cornered.

__________________________________________

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

Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

Countless


 
 
 

 How many times do I shift my bodily postures?
 from a room so cold, so absolute,
 to a room full of hopes.
 There is a never -ending system
 of dying things in here.
 I move like a ‘banjaran’ 
 wishing for dead leaves,
 painted auburn sky
 sunlight hitting my pale, loose skin,
 I move to hide my burnt scar,
 throbbing now
 layers of cold ripped moths biting each other.
 How many times do I slip from this moment?
 wrapped into a crochet woven by memories,
 How many times do I defy my existence?
 Fragments of red – like winters forming on my chest.
 How many I times I become countless?
  
  (banjaran- a wanderer)
  
   

I would appreciate if you could check out my poetry collection Crimson Skins through the links below. Read it on Kindle maybe? Share and spread.:)

https://store.pothi.com/book/devika-mathur-crimson-skins/- INDIA

Crimson skins- US

CRIMSON SKINS- BOOK DEPOSITORY

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On Dreams

carousel image 0

The dreams have started to spread

thudding under my chin and elbow

the dance of a song,

a bridge of warm laughter.

We lick each other

in warm oil and nights,

wet sheets and trees of hope

A final leap

and a levitating scratch on skin,

it crawls under my slippery neck

the loose, aging skin

lost in parameters of transcendence and sins,

Abandoned by all

it has not the face of people,

of mundane , temporary people.

Brown, molten and crisp

in eternal restlessness,

always rising

traversing night and days.

_______________________________________________

A few years back, I was lost in the era of pain and wound, emotional and physical reverberation. Times that made me crippled, head full of variety of aches and then I decided to print my emotions into a voice louder than my pain. I wrote my book with labor, love and sweat. I am grateful for the lovely, heartfelt reviews it received. If you want you can still read my book Crimson Skins on Amazon, Kindle available worldwide. I would appreciate it. Thanks.

lady in white

𝔽𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕤 on Instagram: “Pendants and chains  By @heyhegia ✨”

 

I know of a lady in white
with a mouth full of promises,
spreading a nocturnal path of flowers,
like a longed kiss above the eye,
a lady that slips in my chest,
within the small rim of my fist,
a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist.
a lady with a potato peel,
with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table,
entangled like dust in her bun,
mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder,
a moment of purple sanity,
a lady in white that lives in a suburban city,
with marigolds just in her eyes.
—————————————————————

Find my published collection Crimson Skins worldwide.

Crimson Skins Amazon US

Crimson Skins Amazon India

Crimson Skins Book Depository

Crimson Skins Bookswagon

You can read my collection on Barnes & Noble , too.