Clueless black itch
pendulum songs.
Scrapping against the mud-
the noises of ‘what if’..
and so much more.
The mind of a poet is that of a delirious day dreamer- wobbly feet and scrapped tongue.
My spleen is swollen- it does not weep further
but my hand does- they produce movements,
curvature( black & blue)
We poet are fearless rock.
We swim through mountains and remain hurt always.
We are imaginary songs- figurative drawings.
The bars are white soapy mouth
The sky is an unforgettable moment.
I take out my paper and mention my gratitude list-
I mention
breath
onion
Ketchup
broccoli
Sylvia
rosemary
Pauses
The sun kisses my toes by the daytime
slushing,
suitcases and winter games.
I write too many sad poems, I know.
I write too many absent spirited lives.
Loneliness spews black paint through my crevices.
I bloom too.
I bloom at darker,
soft places
like – a sniff of a mountain or vapourizing lakes.
I must return to my kitchen now-
peel potatoes and count the peanuts
Pink sky-
floral saturn rings of now and before.
I must return now, quickly.
They talk about everything so coarse and grainy-
but not my mouth, empty and cold.
Lukewarm particles of mother’s voice
floating
White/ blue/ grey-
I see shades of attachment and delirium.
Together, through a visceral bone,
Skins aglow- white talcum powder all distorted.
My dressing table is a desert.
A pause. Concrete and blind sun.
I watch my image as strong as an eel,
a pivotal insect preying on itself
frolic, lurid paper towns-
all departing my marigold fingers one by one.
Counting stops and so does the nuptial song
with neon green signs, and yellow street children,
the hem of my lips, spiral now.
Here- I go to my bed..
zig zag,
muted
Collapsed.
She is a small island
A voiceless twig to flutter
A crecent of moon dropped from beneath-
the body is resourceful
spun into a river.
Now I am silent as I watch my window
with angular toes amd face
birds so small and distant,
That is that. That is that.
Bones awaiting the hours to fly by,
And here people like light rays leave
Salt without wrinkle
Ceiling without star.
I am calm. I am sand. I am calm.
It is the calmness that settles, flees and aborts
into miniature beings of discomfort blankets and nap.
A rare yellow minute when the birds die in the womb.
Visceral bones
thrush
thrush.
Tongue of birds
A cluster of sunshine.
Moles of heaviness on my cheeks
I have not been sleeping anymore.
How can I?
I see black moths in my dreams
I am too cood now,
Watery tongues,
flattened bones of evening.
Knock knock
A thunder to sip and watch.
Gaps are collected on my knuckles.
I need R. E. S. T.
A rest as blue pregnant sky.
I have a poem published on The Hyderabad Review. Please do let me know if you read it. Many thanks to the beautiful journal.
Love
Devika
Reading a poem:
Chop, turn and locate.
Stir the dust and sniff the page
No, do not gulp right now.
Halt and watch the words
flossing amidst the golden page
there, a wire of tangent imageries,
a sharp tooth that slurps the pain
wiping faded things,
blossoming into a new Earth-
No, do not stop!
A word you mis-spelled,
just like the rotten limbs of yours
a field of moth & moss,
scratch the page, prick the word again
now scratch your face & swollen head
Yes, there...almost.
Think. Think. Think.
It roams and gossips a false hiccup
a false person into your thinking
But it does not make sense yet, as is this poem to you.
An empty hallway
a barren seed and faces of pale glamour.
So how do you read a poem now?
Do you make love to it
or watch it getting naked
moist as a Sunset charm?
I suggest you chop, turn and locate this poem.
Flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies, cactus in December
spaces silted with darkness
I didn’t know I liked the Sun
Until today
A multi- coloured chart without boundary
The day
Not quite dawn. The plain white stare.
I go out for walking
somewhere along with my loneliness
narrow streams running through
decayed tooth
River water mixed with my eyeballs
Somewhere is
Someone
saying my poems?
Traces that stir
the waves of an old affair.
All day is stoic,
At dusk i wake with eyes wet.
I carry that and go off to bed again.
People like light rays, leave- Inspired by Sylvia Plath
______________________
Between the ribs,
arched,
the glow disappears into a surreal thing.
A wavy black mirage appears on a crushed paper
/ the piquant distance now,
Slipping between the cellulose air of void/
a mayhem of loose threads,
a dawn kisses by a hurricane,
Will things occur in heart now?
Or will the sit and devour the morbid mind?
Copper fields,
of dust- laden mouths
filled with anger/ sins,
Oh humanity! The disavowal of sodden eyes,
almost each night, in darkness.
People like light rays, leave.
_________________________________
I have a book out for you to read. Available on Kindle too.:)
Where do I stick flowers now?
The empty faces,
the mundane eyes.
The silhoutte of a dark river
shifting its path across my face,
turn by turn;
Where do I paint red shades of sunset now?
A myth of potpourri,
a lake of setting cold nostrils.
I pray and repeat my rituals,
a soothsayer of my belly now,
a tale forgotten.
A night of crippled stars.
Where do I sit and attach these sunflowers now?
—————————————–
Buy my poetry collection here-
https://store.pothi.com/book/devika-mathur-crimson-skins/- India.
There, beyond the ripples of mouth,
lovers sits & communicate,
through the sprint in their lashes,
flutter of springs.
a translucent shadow defies time.
for that particular moment.
small things begin to dilate.
too much convulsions,
temperature drop, wrinkled grass land.
A grasshoper watches sky detonating.
laughters circulating the wobbly afternoon.
A visceral face expanding.
There are marks.
marks on the filtered earth,
A wasp of Lilith neck.
Lovers scamper across the evening sky,
floating through the oasis of skin,
flesh, promises, a picture to repeat the art.
the shapes that attach like clay.
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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