I am more than elevated to share the news that my poem The Exit got published in Madras Courier which is a 233 old newspaper and is a reputed brand. Many thanks to the editor for accepting my work.
Read my work here.
Tag: words
Of Language & sickness
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Exodus
After all,
the leaf shall die,
evaporating from the inner hemisphere of a tree.
And all that left is plastic,
a rubber ball
which might die soon,
Humans create temporary memories
and watch it detach.
Droplets of June nectar
in the dome sky
crackles,
with one stone eye.
And then you see a tunnel
that stares back.
A nightmare is black
spitting nothing, yet
glancing the beautiful fall.
Fall of things and people.
It is in the end when the soul falls,
whimpering,
drawing a night out of the sky,
uttering facts about the exodus.
It roams doused in silver buckets.
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A spotless space
I have a place to myself,
where I die each day,
a cup of stale titter that
Diffuse my self worth in the corners.
I eat berries and walnuts.
Watching a ductile sunrise,
Slapping fingers of orange rust on my hip.
I see the magic growing.
It is afternoon,
I see thunder & stars simultaneously.
The wispy steps, smiling & morphing.
I have spot to cry to myself,
Winter tangerine,
A spot where my flat heart attaches to a thing,
Motionless,
Body apart.
The others move to and fro,
Catching nothing but a gasp of air.
I stare at the blue ocean,
Weeds growing,
Stories knitting,
I stare at this spot of mine.
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A spotless sight
“I see nothing”- Virginia Woolf
There lies a bed of moisture.
purple hearbeats uttering a syllable of nothingness.
They talk about mad- men, apples and half eaten berries.
For I see wet pastures of land,
moist like mother’s bosom,
fresh and pure.
i see a dot placed in the universe,
a huge platter of yellow potatoes.
inked & full of a queer silence.
People talk of silence as a sin,
and this remains in your grave,
hoping for a tear of melancholy.
i see nothing across my windowsill.
a bird mocks at my crooked almonds,
a burned Poetry.
Or are the people burned around?
A pothole in the eye opens the pathways forward.
A tender desolation.
I am like a feeling of soft romantic fiction.
love that never stays. Brutal.
A panned picture of a pastel tree.
I see a hollow curvature of my elbow,
looking at the sight of black thread.
i see nothing. I am moving & absorbing
as an infant does.
The light shades are my paper prism,
clinging the arbutrus of your sacred space.
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The flight
Where does it go?
Your unspoken word of lust,
an ensemble of parched dancing words,
Do you let them run?
Or do you absorb the guilt, like a sponge?
Harvest the other sides of pixie lawn now,
Run… run along the shores
embossing a pain onto the sand.
Among the stars is a paper flower blooming,
with a binomial tongue to speak.
The star and the earth do not suffice your sparkle.
Pelican featured sunset glows.
Slurp and slurp.
The agony hides behind the crevices of teeth.
Churn your fear like a betel leaf,
Take a flight,
Like the bunch of sun-kissed memories.
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Leila
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
