Poem about a noon

the sniff of the orange crisp air-
figs and the afternoon morose sigh-
vehicles so slow and so is this noon-
the yawns of utterly poor roads
almost cracking through the vertebrae of the moon-
the cracks of the woman- her waist, her lips
dripping a secular motion- secular yet frizzy
with least interest- what do I call this?
the aftermath or the beginning-
a sestina or a pristine death.


P.S-Writing almost after a decade. 2022 was one happening year for me. Here am I wishing you all a happy new year!

Horizontal Mirror

M.Torrez
Mother,
I make fire.
from toe to toe-
Horizontal shivers.
Mother- you ask 'Who am I'?
I ask the same-
the inheritance of glory
is perhaps a groaning knock?

I am a walking grief-
a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn
an adjective which stands nude-
s
t
r
a
i
g
h
t 
      in  
parrallelism .
    Mother, what are these things around me?
These objects, people- fungus in pickles-
spit it out, immediately-
spit and spat-

You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry,
bearing negations for an absolute face of mine
you replicate me mother, or do i do you?
Is my face not enough?
Is my weakness too shallow?
Mother! Oh glorious victory-
You know all of it.
You do.
You do.
You do.

A prose- “Form”

The wound is where the hurt has lived and been nurtured. How do we plan to discard it now? 
Are we enough to understand the fragility of emotions- certainly we are. We are the sinners and the bearers of its entrop, of its magnanimous callous injury. We swallow pain each day and night. I wonder what does it become once it injects our bloodstream. Does it pinch and ache further? Or does it swirl in the air- like a thick cloud of a giant's saliva.The air must be lukewarm. With softer lotions of time for time must tear the air inside the chest. The heaviness must inflate further. Invisible sewing machines. The most intriguing part of human is perhaps his fear and love- imagination in paper. We perhaps always come back to aberrance. To ambuguity of life and people. We come back, eventually to nights with fallen jasmine on floors.

In a fist

My father never knew my emotions honestly. Seldom do I write about him. He has nothing much to deliver yet he is an average participant. I would not blame him for the entire drowned city inside my head. Everything stays partial with me- a lotus decaying or a night shifting its paradigm. I hardly controlled anything- but the toes would outgrow always- they would not stop the impeding thrust to ingest the tangerine flavours. His constant punch to make me aware of everything is where I stopped knowing him- probably-  a constant gumption of moulds. Rustic elbows with disjointed pain- arthiritis .

A constriction of words flavoured with mediocricy is how I knew it-

But I tried. I tried learning in Sanskrit and other syntaxes. Vehement morose days swelled up in eyes. Lungs – punctured. Then we would often spent days on our dingy terrace, aquatic telephone lines disconnecting the shivers between us. I assume to float and probably I failed. Now, I have forgotten everything- the city departing, funerals marching forward and parks all well- lit even when it rained. I am unsure of this knot of emotions corrupting my clavicle still- a memoir of an old photographh speaking: uttering an untoched sentence.

A conundrum

The opposite of hurt is not healing, rather- a distinctive synonym of becoming a vague object. Poached skin tones with multiple tars jammed on a tongue. A small shiver inside the handprint- the bruises not always becoming a temple- bell. They require a screenplay and observance of a sponge. Hurt is parallel to grief. Screeching veins spreads throughout the bedsheet and the bedsheet always remain jarring. We collect and put it all in a single bowl and wait for the doctor to arrive along with a pill and stethoscope. Does it help? Does it defy your existence? Your sorrow? Hope- a lament which people talk about is nothing but a soft matchstick burning from either end. Where does voice become visible? Flesh- so vulnerable yet covered in darkest colour. We want it to glow and glow hence we speak of lives, mundanity, love, and kindness but our body is nothing but a parenthesis or storage that covers everything missed upon.

The Old Body-





with chained ankles,

hush, thrilling lips,

a body floats inside my mind,

dwindling through the carcass,

old and vintage-

a mahogany river of crooked moonlight,

this body blooms and sinks at the same time,

uttering a blob of big sun-shaped tongue

emerging out,

emerging through the stains and walls

through veins and puddles.

this time itches now,

I have wounds all over my barren body

a body- now a pit of marks.

—————————————————————-

If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it has been an year since my book published and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.

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Longings

Story pin image
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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Arbitration-





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

The itch



the itch,
the orange glass ceilings always fail my existence,
an inhuman thing sinks beneath my eyelids
walking abruptly, in patterns unknown,
there are things which makes no sense
a loose river like madness
a loose butter like sky slipping from my white hands,
my hands which are now counting the marks of my footprints
making a spiral knot about this moments,
this momentary void inside of me,
this permanent injuries inside of me.
as everything engulfs everything
the violence in its own chest
the cold murder of my hands
and the body still counts the days left to breathe.
 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
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Falling Dream

I am quiet too often
like the empty hallways,
humming a song already forgotten
with a tilting toe towards the sun
a sigh: pink fingers dipped in pain
a sigh: pink fingers dipped in hallucination
there is a staircase now
falling beneath my parting head
half towards left,
half towards right
days whistling on sea waves
about my country in flames,
about my city in illusions

watching a cloud
things fall under the feet now
a complete loss of sense
tiny leaflets fluttering

green songs that reflect nothing.
the survival becomes a pungent smell often
with absent glares
and a blue sea that is a part of my dream.

My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-

Crimson Skins- US

Crimson Skins- India
Pothi- https://store.pothi.com/book/devika-mathur-crimson-skins/

A love tale

Beneath my chin
above the nape of the neck
a heralding discover I utter,
a tune of orgasm in sunshine
a tune of roaring diaphragm,
here, I sit and count my fingers dipped
numb and electric,
so much despair
that stares back.
So much to reach
just a hand
cold, cold, cold
and nothing else now.
Limping and stuttering,
between my cold clavicle
with bones so thin and weak
There is a waterfall of endless poetry
dripping from my bosom
a monotone of soft , quiet landscapes.
It spills again,
roaming in a silver night

I produced my 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.

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

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Flower and Fruits

These words will arrive in formations

about my sleep

about the morning fresh dew.

about Point of indulgence. Crisp periphery of sliced strawberries.

About dying Flowers and Fruits.

Scratch, fingers across belly button.

Finding appropriate word is almost like flowing incessantly.

Organs fluttering.

My words will occur in shapeless boundaries

with lanterns and lost sheets of clouds.

A few about moments. A few about tiny swirls of acrylic seasons.

_________________________________________________________

Would love to see you reading the poetry collection I published during the last year. Available worldwide now!:)

Tales from the dark

the nights shift incessantly

between the coiled conversation,

about semantics of life

the arrival and departure of distilled solitude

at a point of growling sleep patterns

my words think they are tool

to carve

to emboss a pain onto the strangers arms

about melancholic shifting dreams,

the mosiac vintage art

my nakedness is a cry to the limbs out of balance

they cringe,

they wither away

like soft paper dreams,

crushed under the sinking elbow

again

and

again.

……………………………………………………………..

Thinking of a Christmas gift? My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-

Crimson skins

Crimson Skins- India

Growing up

I realize I am growing old

with my mother’s home prepared coconut oil,

pressed flowers on the sheets.

I sleep next to her

almost like a ritual now,

I realize

when she mumbles softly in her sleeps

the childhood was different-

It was full of prayers, folk songs, odes, laments.

I see her sleep walking now-

abruptly between the noises in her head

amidst the empty pale rooms,

Circling

Walking

Sitting

I see her sleeping with deep breaths,

a hard name to remember-

I realize, I am growing too old now

to witness the melancholy,

to paint my fingers in the sea of dementia.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Thinking of a Christmas gift? My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-

Crimson skins

Crimson Skins- India

A lost letter to my father

 

1940s vintage photo of father with kids-Fathers Day #1940s #1940slife #vintagephoto #fathersday

image credits- pinterest

Thunder,
if that is one big word
I want you to gulp it down.

My walls speaks of you
of a memory we shared
over the sweet sunrise from the balcony

Your percolating memories stir my throat
to think of our blue wise words.
I was always a pebble

a sweet, piquant attachment
from your dreams, father

a moist lost string of a pullover
that you always wanted to cherish.

I think of the sky
as I think of you
of infinite stars
of colours and oceans.

Of letters stuck to the neem trees
as I hold your this lost letter.

Thunder,
this is the only word that you should sleep on
for you remind me of rudimentary silhouettes of trees,
lukewarm peel of laughter.


 

I just issued a newsletter yesterday on fathers. Check it out-https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul/letters/poetry-on-father