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!
And I am not the only one thinking of longings,
romance and half- written love poems to my muse.
I am not the only one thinking of rivers, trees and asteroids-
but then where are the rest?
The rest who would weep if I do-
the rest who would swallow the massive blob of shining throughout.
where do I find a stone as heavy as a chest?
An open eyelid. Two for lukewarm talks with neighbours.
Speaking of which- How do people interact so much with humans?
is there a step? a fixed pattern?
multiple then Divide= result error!
Where are the rest of mutual eyelids.
collateral loss or perpetual blossom?
This eye is an observer
for things crawling underneath
Get me book all over the world.
I started my day early a bit early for seagulls to make sound for neighbours to realize what the sunsets look like- a bit early to see my hands and to think about their actions.
I started off my day early to think about the sand in my hands and pink dahlias depressed and standing still. What life must be for them? This triangular air with single handed compost- no motion happening. perhaps the city is best when asleep. The chater is quiet. The banters are percolating.
This hour is newly wed bride for the primroses to smile but nobody watches it. Nobody sees the nude face of the morning. What do they offer now? Or perhaps I am too early.
There is perhaps no name to my redundancy that occurs each night
The noises I hear are blasphemous without an address or a paper face
I call these flutters- 'fermentations' and 'vapourized dreams'. I consider my half sagging bossom perched upon life- somewhere giggling with open mouth playing hopscotch.
I imagine toothless girl in a desert with red balloons- an aesthetic that we can talk about. You see- this poem is not about my illusions but talks about the crisscross roads even the ocean even your eyes- your mouth.
This poems sounds like a buzz- a burp or a hiccup perhaps? Shall I call it after my sickness? Or just let it be?
As long as the juices slips through the chest
the body smells of you-
the colours of enchanted wrist,
thawing thigh upon the quivering night.
We, the inked words of soil breaths
What callous strangeness is this that you speak of?
I know nothing-
just the land of marigolds blooming underneath my vagina-
a homeland to all the poets,
to all the musings and lanterns of dreams.
the late tide of the monsoon- is this not a reality?
This damp sheet.
This mosaic floor tiles-
Are we not really here?
Crimson Skins- MY book
POV- I imagined living in the Victorian Era and had a feeling to write a poem. Hence this came out.
The neighbourhood is a wet puddle.
Across the streets, I see the women having a camp-fire
whispering soft murmurs about the mundanity of life,
into the blue hemishphere
where stays a large apple- tree.
The women of my town are a faint pear-
with whitest bosom and whitest eyes.
the hourglass shapes have moved now-
torn between the edges of languages,
one is cutting the rind of a lemon
while the other makes a lemonade.
They banter vicariously and live through the sky.
rust on their elbow, as if a second skin to their thighs.
The women shaped as exhibitionist
gulping down a massive portion of tranquil shines:
They can't see.
They can't hear perhaps.
They have done the job
when the dark falls,
one word at a time-
one woman to another.
The women are too fast to remember anything the next day.
I make fire.
from toe to toe-
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-
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.
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.
Often it happens that I am reminded by WordPress to blog here and then I realize do I still have readers here lurking through my mundane words? I know, I too need to catch up on so many lovely writers here that I have known since I started writing here and I definitely will. But…
I am grateful to announce that I have a poem up on Outlook India- the most prestigious magazine that I have read and enjoyed growing up. Here is the link to my poem- Outlook India.
If you are still interested in reading the poetry book that I published during the pandemic here is the link.
Your clear eye is one such beauty
haunting for days - this body that dwells on it
your each visison- birds perching on my balconies
and not disturbing my burnt pancakes.
I see. I annihilate. I wash face.
I know what my grave shall be called - with one tree
and all about 'waiting for Godot'
This world may heal sometimes soon with it's funny pink sins
it's funny politics and gender of skies.
I must not speak thereafter,the tingles of auburn dirt
that fills my nostrils are too many,
symmetrical and ferocious.
The closed drawers in my room chatters
all about my loneliness
and nothing still infects me.
You- the one who sparks lucent moon into my breaths.
I say this this too.
the notions of morality and absurdism
tickling cellophene above our eyelids.
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.
Longings- these moments of a kiss. Occurring between us. Occults of time and space. Movements along the waistline. You scream again and again about the slightly dehydrated sky.
We – a passage of transparent sky slurps the bees. Wild mulberries pressed against the cheeks. How do you not see this? Movements along lips. Thunder of God’s voice down in my womb. The flexibility of this verb- a shudder: the red Sun. How do you defy this?
Say it- Say something about barren empty nights as life perches. Dissolution in water. This is a mere hallucination. This is what the body desires now- syntax so lost and translated in your postures. This. Biology of each molecule-shuddering useless violence. May I squeeze it further? This- That. The grass is gaping at me. Sun dissolved in Stars.
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Language. Who needs it? It’s nothing but a scattered pretty way of illusionary numbers. Romancing with minds and tongues. Shifting bones of vertigo sky. Across my white bare body and this vibrating fall—language stops existing suddenly. Linguistics is nothing but a way the syntax of my paper heart breathes. Water condensed, without any stabilizer. I understand I must stay happy as I have been asked. I must walk.
I must love and I must sleep. I understand I must chew my food a thousand times before it punches my gut to vomit a disappearing fever. But friend, life is more than this- more than survival, existence, wounds- more than interpretations. More than the yeast of existing . Swelled up library inside the eyes. We can not win anymore nor can we lose- it’s the language that laughs all throughout life- hiding underneath the shades of glory. It’s the language of abyss between the voids. To be or not to be. To celebrate or to loathe.
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.
Sustenance. Life. breaths. But how do we collect it? How often our communication deliver us that symphony? Intimacy, thoughts and bonds.. how often do we count on it? Where is hope?
Is it a bird still flaping it's wing while sitting? Do we walk with torches lit under the ocean? Or we do not swim completely- for the safe side. The mind is a mess of discarded old vintage thoughts. For a moment- we can disguise our minds with a great shield of book- a wise thick book, but ultimately it will fell down- and then there is thin chiselled sad face- forever, striving hard each day to replenish about the old bliss. The bliss of nostalgia. Of not knowing abundant vague discrepancies of life.I utter in parts. I bleed in parts. Trotting each day about wounds and swallowing the gutter of life.
This is what we crave. Collective mirth and fragments of life. Even the water seeks shelter, trees look for companions- we the social animals, what else do we require if not intimacy and love? The ripples of the sky amidst the dark cauldrons-but it indeed shines abruptly. Partially crooked with foam in a fist and mud in another. The roads are man. Who walks onto them but? I see these oddities almost everyday. My sentiments leaking from my either cheeks and merging into the clavicle. The shoulder often freezes to think of strong bond- numbness followed. How do people structure it perhaps? A two level- multi-faceted hoax. I hold pittiness in one fist and air in another and think of animals and their supremacy in a few sense. But as an artist, we see light and observe darkness almost in everything- so why this void? A barren shape, contour, a detached light- these small elements not falling into right place. I consider my mouth as an window instead of a door-It wanders abruptly-looking for attachments and dreams. Dust and salt. All things small and sweet. Blisters and stomach. Spit and skin. Yet, I fail to strive this opague density of life.
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