the rivers that speak of us, warmer bodies nectars of jasmine and hibiscus- a lady from photograph, biting a strange loneliness sitting onto her bosom a strange memory of distilled longings- a lady that sulks and pronounce everything watery, dreams of wildfire and river-beds I travel through her caricature, her oblong drifting fingers, eyes of pain and despair- eyes- a mirage of limbs too, I watch her and think of this pregnant sky day and night. She- a soliloquy od soft pastel dreams. ------------------------------ Read the newest newsletter here- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
Tag Archives: writer
Blue velvet sighs
Body of coral sunsets slipping underneath,
and I think of your curvatures, silhouettes of water- lotus
a heavy mass of flower spinning upon the moon,
a daydream and slow night
slow as far riverbeds, moaning
quick and slow.
the fingernails hide a slippery naked climate,
fermented by the shiver and body on body
dirty tablecloths:
dirty walls, kitchen sinks melting away
melting like the throbbing blood
blood: so warm and luscious now
as a river riding a star.
I squat in the evening, on the fresh, frozen floor
like a rose, budding and blooming.
The pink air laughs and shifts incessantly
between our pastel love, our growing thick bites
the hollows of tongues
dancing.
Mermaids in heaven.
I stare and stare and become the large junction
(Bodies rhyming)
Longings
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? ---------------------------------- Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me. Crimson skins – US Crimson Skins- POTHI
To all the dead trees-
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.
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
To my readers- thank you
I am writing this post to express my gratitude to all those who recently bought a copy of my book ‘Crimson Skins‘ and left such heartfelt messages, emails etc about the impact of my book. My poetry collection was written during the more coarse phase of my life and I am glad, you all loved it.
It’s a request if you have read it please leave a review on amazon/ goodreads as it helps indie authors like us.
“she entraps the sky in her fingernails” (A goddess)– (From my collection.)
You can buy your copies here-
Crimson skins- US
thankyou.
The Awakening-
If I could,
I would evaporate through your mouth
a doorawy to dreams
and tiny dots-
wild mushrooms dancing atop our bodies
as if we have trapped the moon in our eyelids-
eyelids that do not utter a word,
flowers on terrace,
static noises
we scratch water with nails,
dirt on our palms
to know the film of our memory
floating in the lake
through breasts, heaviness
and Autumn that still looks upon us and smile.
smile to see us vacant
and full, altogether.
An awakening of God's music
temple bells- gongs
negating everything else/
but this stays
this blooms.
---------------------
Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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The sad picture-
It’s about us. Our static atmosphere which keeps changing its dimension. Through the clandestine mouths of river and a dark cloud. At times, there is nothing but a tainted shadow our love growing a thick layer of fungus. We grow, anyway.
We grow and talk about the leftover meals, the swollen flowers of our garden, everything falling apart. Hush! We do not speak of the silence that lingers our throat sitting like a huge wound on our chest. The sad, forlorn shackles of stark grief. What goes beyond is treacherous, as if. A landscape dipped in the shades of sunsets and piquant feelings, a leaf coiling into a serpent. A flower wilting into a moth, things happen, just like that.
The screams are a reflection of an unslept sky. The dying women in neighbours. The abhorrence that is a moisture to the nature. Nature- it often mocks our grilled love and considers it a green fever. We grow anyway. We grow through the carcass, a catastrophe of splitted existence. Through kitchen sinks, chairs and through people, we grow like melted wax. A sharp body shedding its skin through and through.
Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
Summer-
The collarbone cracks open,
a petal of your name,
a thick cloud of lust
sounds that speak only of splitted grass
I see you
and I think oh 'home'
honey-suckled touch,
tongues:
tongues interwined into sheets of desire
of lukewarm, misted talks
about us and hopes to stay.
It is Summer now,
a season of orange hope,
golden grass grinning through the wind.
It is Summer.
I am inhabitated by the scent of it
that twirls my skin and turn it into faces of love.
I am a Summer-myself
bleeding through my cold sphere
daylight:
water on my toes
a gossip you all want to hear.
I am Summer for you-
for you to cling onto
for you to breathe the scent.
I am stoked to announce that recently Indie Blu(e) Published its another beautiful anthology Through the Looking Glass– which includes my poem about Mental Health as the theme was the same. I urge you all to check out the same here .
Have you read Crimson Skins yet?
If not please check it out on Kindke, Pothi, Amazon etc.
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
sense of staying- a poem
Hi, Welcome to my poetry world yet again. I guess we all have no better solution rather than staying positive and hopeful. I am glad to feel this positive vibe yet again after all that India has been through and is still dealing. I am trying to do as much as I can and that includes taking care of my mental health as well.
Sharing a poem. Let me know your views and in general how life has been treating you all?:)
And maybe this shall never end-
Here, I rest my palms along with the stars,
honey-suckled,
twigs of sunsets
hoping for tree of wishes
a spoon of lukewarm winters
which sits beside my small mind
a roar of summer breeze,
producing so much that only my heart can see,
and maybe this shall never end-
yet I long for coral sweaters,
grass
attachment layered sky
above and below-
the dreamcatchers
in the grainy rain.
Our mouths unravelling
and spitting a tongue of hibiscus growing
scrubbing:
scrubbing all the sins away
lights spinning- gold,
poppies in a bathtub
and leaves fluttering across our bodies-
we want this,
a human touch
a human being, indeed.
If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it is soon going to be an year for my book and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.
sharing links-
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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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
My newsletters are filled with poetry, worksheets, mindfulness etc.
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
a thing of loss
Hi, Thankyou for sending your prayers through my last poem. I am reading poetry again and getting to Art as it keeps me going.
I am coming back to my writing my poems after a while
a lot changed during these times.
(Pandemic- second wave)
My yellow tree remained un-watered all this while,
humans burnt,
relatives, families submerged with tears/ fears
see my poem has started to rhyme, even.
Keep on reading
you will sense no sensibility
a bunch of lost flowers now
archaic, frenzied-
razor sharp like tongue of cries
bodies once warm now muted,
cold, without a twin flame.
the situation has become small and painful
like a setting sun, only that it is not beautiful.
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
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.
Stillness
the voice cracks in the summer sun I hear things falling apart underneath my door knob behind the cobweb- almost gone now i hear things decaying, distorted as the morning yawn the leaves so parched the sun , cold and warm there is a music that stops playing as i write this the music that speaks about fallen dreams, listless curvature of atmosphere. stillness is what i observe 'stillness in my body, my toes and lips the earth so happy and warm now almost like a cerulean sadness torn into threads of bruises into diverse sects of lemon dried faces. the hands so small and white with my bosom hanging restlessly on the table. there are things so peculiar occurring everywhere. restless yet a still monochrome pattern of life
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
Subscribe to my newsletter- https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_sou
no space to love
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.
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