The Narration

Image result for virginia woolf
Nothing has really happened until it has been described”- Virginia Woolf

The sun departs the space, leaving shades of colors
colors that make you vomit about your own deeds.
The sky is bleached now,
Liting and spreading haphazardly
The first kiss should be described as the volatile movements of a poet’s pen,
a bumblebee poking the thin air,

Sometimes it’s worthless.
This continuous fight for survival,
the pervading lies of a head
so I describe a single fall of an ant in the lakes.
I could watch a blooming flower and write poetry in my head.

The fall,
the abortion, the play
the oil lamps,
the puerile laughters of children
they summarize a thing happened once.

Nothing has really happened until it has been described.

Updates on Olive Skins

Sipping my tea, here I am wishing a very happy and prosperous new year to all. I hope you all work harder this year, laugh harder and be more kind to everyone around you especially yourself!

Having said that I would like to start this post with a positive approach for my baby that is Olive skins. I am all ready to start it with new hope and zeal. Last year actually did not go well personally at all, it made me stronger though to deal with my things consciously.

So once again, my that poetry page is all ready to welcome your contemporary, surrealistic poems. I also would welcome any suggestions at @oliveskinspoet@gmail.com. If you wish to join this baby venture as a member, contributor, you are more than welcome!
You can check out my website here and get started with it. This month, there is no theme for the submissions so you can play with your thoughts, creativity and what not!

Let’s roll!

A Four Light Window

Portadas para que uses en tus historias, llevate la que quieras.  {de… #detodo # De Todo # amreading # books # wattpad

1

the first is a spot
through which a night shines
the first is a mouth like a spot
or a spot like a mouth,
this confusion happens to me through the atrocities of words,
the glass beads
of unspoken talks

2
The second is blurred.
a garage of broken lives.
broached interpretations
mark of a garden path,
pale figures of God

3

The third is the grass

you sit here in the colony of ants,
through retractive light,
hopping and walking across centuries,
you become like a shape- shifter,
a brilliant one.

4
the fourth is an Elegy
through the thick of fabric
of the night, you become so bright
suddenly, not any sad song now.
Not anymore.
And you slip from the corners of your mouth,
slipping like an elegy
slipping like a song
Cities are of no one
and I too have no place.

Partially inspired by-`Agnes Nemes Nagy

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.

Elements

celestial love #jewelry  #Celestial #love

 

An old saying I recite,
mapping the distance of my chest to my thighs,
sipping hot tea,
the typical Indian aroma,
the distinctive sniff which makes your crawl  your mind,
to rummage through the orange teal box of old photographs,
the box of stoic flushed postcards.
It happens in a minute.
A sky so distant and full of grays.
The mountains from the Space.
Dry leaves of autumn twirling like homes of the Goddess.
the elements are reconciled,
I see as I am the one producing it.
I speak of the stars, running through my epileptic mind.
I do not joke about it, about the elements anymore.

the elements like soil: the river so mighty…and the elements like my limbs

my nails, my earlobes.

i wait for another day.
Another day                                            another moon
another poetic calendar
to turn a page of the horizon
and i sit exactly on the spot of acidic floor
next to my living :
I who wait for herself
to self loathe
to escape into the unprecedented days of summer
out of all the injuries, now
but more brilliant and more eclectic.

The slip

moldavia: ““ph. Ola Rindal ” ”

Is it still there?
The sound of trespassers,
of purple rains and sweet smell.

A cloud that swings words up in the sky
a hardened shell of a life,
There is a beautiful cottage that I see in my dreams
full of centipedes, vintage mahogany chairs.
A sound travels me up there
in between the unreal beauty of soil.

Life unfurls in the corners of my room,
my small used rooms,
forever palpitating,
my hand roams, kissing the aesthetics of nature,
here,
I dissolve my tongue,
rubbing my elbows,
again and again.
to spit surreal poetry.

My house slips in my dreams like a flower
trapping, my body like silk.
And I would stay here.

The noise

Instagram post by Cloud Hunter by Megan Pearl • Dec 6, 2018 at 1:57pm UTC
The noise,
I hear it from the shallow bush beneath my feet.
Drop by drop. The noise of silence.
an embalmed kiss of spewing night
an old lady combing the hair,
zig-zag, the ghosts on the staircase,
too flimsy,
often too blatant.

I sometimes think
and sniff the ink of other poets,
the others; who wander in lonely nights,
coughing the dust of clandestine tales,
the saucer with the spilled tea,
the thick frame
and the spoiled tunics,
too much I see for it blinds me,

This noise corrupts my hands and bones,
an illusion of reality, such a blunder to occur.
The noise sits in my chest,
fidgeting with the mind, often.
It does not leave,
it stays like an early rain,
too empty yet beautiful.

Read my latest published work here.

Between the waves and trees