Imagine me in your room,
the aerial space filled with the sniff of rosemary candles.
Imagine how I sit and lift up my chin to decode a language now,
A voice that breaks the linings of the wall.
When you look at me,
You see my words,
my eyes that unravel the thread of apple juice.
(Understand these lines again)
I am a voiceless creature to the nights that go mad running down the aestetic streets,
not to you.
Not anymore to you.
I saw my mother weep once. A veiled woman.
As i watched, I could see that weeping has no cadence.
This is what language did to us.
Maker of places, kitchen sinks,
gadens, sea- breeze.
This is what happened since always.
The voice got tore away between the shades of sky.
The voice of not shouting, basically.
The voice wearing the colours that go with red hair.
The voice where the woman held it like an infant.
Absorbing everything, silently.
This is the hour that i love when everything goes off to rest,
the hour of darkness, the hour of metamorphosis,
of a change in the landscape without emphasis.
This is the women I adore,
a hot terrain of soft silk and milky dreams.
1:0’clock. This hour is a sin of raisin skies and doors creaking,
something erupts at this very moment.
Familar figures became curious shadows again.
I sit in the open lawn
a lawn full of earth and skeptic memoirs
the scattered Congregation of unskewered mind.
I see a mushroom sprouting here in the garden,
the thick shoots clinging another.
Co-existence must be a plaster?
And then I hear the temple bells,
altogether, the sound similar to my mother’s laughter.
but there are other moments occurring in the noon,
a cry so stuffed with the yellow air,
thick & warm,
moist layers of Earth’s lip.
Other occurings happen
where the housewife takes an oath to fight,
a child who hums the songs of surrealism
There is a hem of nebulous despair lined down my skirt
as if it holds the grief of the entire city,
the tattered brood of paper roses.
I find serenity in the eyelids of pain, too often.
What does it make me?
An artist or a doctor?
Nature, in the noon, spills the seeds of a distant truth
to thy naked eye.
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.
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,
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
Should I ask you how did it all begin?
Was it a transitory joy or the love at first sight,
the moment when you felt the soil spoke to you in a forign language.
How did you move then?
Change of modals of life or the brewing cough of skin?
The body traps itself between the layers of mercury and grave,
where the ankle transpires sweat,
a word of brief love.
These are the translations fluttering beneath the hem of your dress,
Listen to these,
do not yell at them.
These are little words heralding onto your laps.
The slice of pain is where it all began,
the time when you touched my chipped thumb,
the insect uttering a buzz,
an unfathomable language.
The time of despair
and a folded shawl of dirt,
it was then I did not hear words,
groping a slight of everything that pounced on me.
It began during the course of tired nights.
a stone eye,
a rock arm,
all disintegrated somewhere in the cold sea.
Such translations cover my mouth in a dark blue shade of the sky.
A cold mouth of air,
streaming down the rivers up till my painted toes.
I see a circled pair romancing behind the surface of the sky.
A cold distilled breaths.
Pure. Fixating, like a rubber band.
Far away from this orange sunset.
I hear umbrellas holding a hand of a detached one.
They support and smile. Simple.
Slowly, steadily like a geranium blooming after ages of scuffed earth.
Hums heard in the quietness of the diaphragm.
Subtle potions of looped lips,
speaking a language of gods.
Serene and mysterious.
poets standing on the ebb of satisfaction. Halt.
There, you, halt.
It’s like a sad part of my levitating body.
My fingers have a soft tendency to nurture, to sense pain.
and I sit on the lonely roads to pick up a saddened heart, to heal it.
sometimes, I have a feeling I am solid.
Solid like a vintage door, unbreakable.
Imperishable, who can swallow darkness inside darkness?
So, I produce light out of darkness.
I act like a mother to him, as well.
With clearwing moth like a skin of his,
sewing the gasps and sighs.
His body is made of a fallen moon, I believe so.
And at times, I am confused with the methods of love.
He is a rotating axis on my forehead.
he has leaked, the times I was leaking too.
And I kept quiet and sewed him again and again.
Like a silent prayer of pure holistic clouds.
my clavicle stuttering with the omen of noises.
Nothing is a flattened lie, but a departure.
My eyes are anxious now, to capture your lilting lips.
I watch you as you get healed now,
as I protect you now.
You are now an absent face of simmering smiles of the sky.