On Collective sadness

What amazes me is the notion of sadness bringing us all human together. If we think deeply about it- we might find an insatiable quench to sit and share this massive grief. Instead, we circulate remarks about literature, art, and human minds walking downwards. Where do we then carry forward this collective sadness and grief? Do we spit and spat or do we think of it as a life lesson forever? There has to be an end. An end to this corollary of distinctive yet massive grief. This sadness which human collects and wear in disguise. We do take help from art, literature, but is that it? Is there more? Space- times. There is anticipation. Black redundancy of slipping emotions. Where are we that we are not able to hold them? Shall we sit on this grief? Shall we change the verb here? What should be done with this collective sadness dear friend? Is it ugly? Is it beautiful? Is it the first- born? Stringing wound floating inside the mind.

Link to buy my poetry book- Crimson Skins

To the poets, I have been reading all these years.

I might have trembled a bit with my words before but there is no dimension to art. We create what abstract images look like in our thin membranes of mind. Some say it is- art- a way of living. I am unsure what it should be named. There is eternal power when we feel satisfied doing something- a thing that delivers solace and creates an abstruse anomaly of questions. A stack of melting rainbows. We need to catch all the colors and hold them in our palms to define the dimensions of life as we continue living this vivid, weird phase of life. Not every heart will remain the same- so dear artists- whatever side of the story you have- it should produce distinctive behavioral and mentalist satisfaction to create and to quench your own truth. There is no truth but you.

Bare skins through the night



Bare skins
electromagnetic cheeks- ripples through air,
soil, air all one-
all one mouth
of untamed fizz.
untamed vestibule---- singular space and singular loneliness.
your skin is a fine example of my night time lullaby,
crescent fall leaf's song, onto my nude lip.
one by one- as I call your name,
I sing a choir and stand in the experimental splash of colours.
I think of your mundane time,
solid blue eye- shared collectiveness. 
shared solitude. 
Night- my sodden muse. 
      Outside the window, I think of your sniff
of your favourite sun touched hand,
this space, a white pool of madness,
this is the geometry we stich together,
air in hurdled spaces.

The Old Body-





with chained ankles,

hush, thrilling lips,

a body floats inside my mind,

dwindling through the carcass,

old and vintage-

a mahogany river of crooked moonlight,

this body blooms and sinks at the same time,

uttering a blob of big sun-shaped tongue

emerging out,

emerging through the stains and walls

through veins and puddles.

this time itches now,

I have wounds all over my barren body

a body- now a pit of marks.

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If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it has been an year since my book published 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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The first issue of – All Ears is out now!

As I write this, I am reminded of all the wonderful poetry,prose that I have been reading for All Ears– An ezine for youth which has been edited by me along with five other editors. With an eye of an editor, it is never an easy task to analyse any piece but with the collective effort I am more than happy to present before you our first issue- You can download it here and enjoy it for free. The inaugral issue is filled with some brilliant artwork, poetry,prose etc. I hope you all shall enjoy and consider it for future submissions.:)

Love

Devika

Daisy and the fields

my body is a quiet place
it's about flowers stones a silent theatre
green threads of the blue sky

wet body of motifs and beautiful soft wildflowers

today,
the mind wanders for a soulful soul
a shade of velvet love- making,
golden embers, a glint of partial sunlight

my limbs are imagery, as if
my hands my poetry
this womb, a season of creation,
like sea, quickly as breath.
Stars of piquant desires.

Hear it once again

 

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,
empty hallways,
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.

Sketch in noon

Who would not want to sit here? From the arbor / #arbor #sit

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.

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 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

Translations

 

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.

Halt

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.

NaPoWriMo-4

Recover

“If I’m honest I have to tell you I still read fairy-tales and I like them best of all.” –Audrey Hepburn, who would have turned 85 yesterday. #Refinery29

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.

I watch,
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.

#Napowrimo 3

 

A blue attack

Blue, blue.
My hands leak blue crooked blood.
I tried suicide today.
Walked like a ghost/ a melancholy boiler.

a house that leaks.
wax statues going bizarre.
Bizarre like dissolving inside my hollow stomach.
i am here.
i am there.
A loop of curve, falling on the equinox.
burn this society inside my mouth
i wish death today.
I wish pain to kill my pain today.
blue, blue, this body.
tiptoeing through bones of fumes.
A zebra. A succulent spiral canvas.

Paint it dead.

submit your words here

https://bloodintoinkpressblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/29/call-for-submissions-there-is-strength-in-our-stories/

In the sky.

we look at the same clouds.
the same loose hanging blue tint of our elbow.
we sniff the same sky,
the paper balls of dreams.
ah, it reminds me of your whole body.
a map cascading through your hairline to your hip.

a sky resides there too.
The water. The rain.
The crinkling sheets of staircase.
the steps that go mad.
mad/ inflated/ swing.

i often want to hold your breath
between my palms, a souvenir of Cupid’s.
or maybe preserve and turn in into a vintage burp.
oh yes, i can swallow this sky.
i can swallow you.
for we both are liquid,
between the squirming gasps.

there is a corner of Life.
up in the grey, lava, fat sky.
we shall meet like dust, like a sound.
like a pool of soft indentation.
up there.
in the sky.
between the
calamitous whiff and your black eyes.


blue love

Outfit Ideas – Page 3 – Adored Vintage
it's your light
that sits silently on my ebb
with a swampy eye to observe.
Your branches of a season,
swaying. hushing.
it's your lips on mine,
erratic convulsions,
blue is my eye.
blue is my love.
Doused, my body in lipids.
Scattered, collected, yours.