NaPoWriMo [Days 1 – 5]

Sunshine – Day 1
it drops like honey- 

  manna from the sky
it pierces our skin 
   roasting it medium brown 
it lends us a copper taste 
   heating the blood in our veins
 but as much as it keeps us awake
    it takes our sleep and runs away.

it showers the greens,
   feeding it with love
it kisses the trees ,
   blessing it with might
it comes and goes 
   in waves of fortune 
 but as much as it feeds our needs,
    it drinks our up our water and slinks away.

Unsaturation- Day 2
Oh, it is so blue;
Of a cerulean hue
Like the dry sky past noon,
Holding a sadistic crescent moon.

Oh, everything is red;
I can’t hear what’s being said
In the strobing nightclub disco lights-
An atmosphere of headaches and fights.

Oh, where is the green?
Which in trees are seen,
Like the pointy hat of santa’s elf,
With a jolly bell to please himself.

Oh, where is the yellow?
That of the bright sun’s glow,
Petals of buttercups and daffodils’ smiling,
Looking up and spelling, ‘no crying!’

What then is the colour of my soul,
Where a black hand has covered it whole?
What then is the colour of my mind,
Where only machines you can find?

(It’s no colour you can find,
It’s like walking in the blind.)
The Guilt Monster- Day 3
In the fluid of my heart, shots are fired;
And as shots underwater do, they swerve,
Smoothly, silently: breaking barriers.
My blood changes colours, like cauldrons of
Witch-brews on a flame of words.
The fire, the heat in those words plague those
Bloody walls: haranguing them, hurting them:
Guilt is a ricocheting bullet that rests 
Only when you tell your mind to stop
The beating of your heart and capture it cold.

Of Summer- Day 4
Of being waterboarded by heat when stepping out 
of sealed, insulated, metallic boxes;
of being fed green, 
pregnant boulders of juicy blood-red flesh;
of having a new glow 
that adamant, chlorinated water provides gladly 
to sunscreened skin;
of beach posters and sand 
sticking to moisturised soles 
and crabs nipping away at pedicured toes.

Of a man that rubs the white, itchy pads 
of his fingers against dark, angular fragments 
of dying sediments, minerals 
and shattered rocks that once boasted 
of being strong and powerful;
of young eyes snaking their sights to the skies,
looking up expectantly like he’s expecting a new toy
and old eyes guiding their gaze to the wells,
sighing into nothingness for fear of having nothing.

Of revolutions and protests in the Gastric Passages 
that are ignored by primal authority because this nation is not sovereign 
but subject to the nosy meddling 
of the superpower Nature, 
itself plagued,
by the disease of Humanity.

Faith- Day 5

My mother ties black threads around the wrist- a thread blessed by God to ward away the world’s ghosts and demons. She has always been a believer, a staunch griever, and faith is the home for her dreams and fevers. 
It was a thread of many fingers, wound up together- hundreds in number, like the wisps of faith I held in empathy and love- threads blessed in the darshan of a collective conscience of people, having seen suffering’s toll.
With the same strength I wind it around my wrist and ankle and mind, and only hope that those demons stay away from my handshakes and kicks and stop me from going blind.

Submit/Work for an art journal.

Do you make movies?
Do you review art?

Do you dance?

Do you write poetry?

Do you write essays?

Are you an interviewer?

The Litwood Plan is a new art journal aims to bring together the fine arts or liberal arts. We accept amateur films, poetry, prose, performances of dance and theatre, music, visual art, comics and anything artistic you can offer.
We’re looking for people to work with us as well as submit work. (Click the respective links to check them out.)

Inform all your friends who create art!

Floral Floundering

This poem is part of a series titled identity. 

The first piece in the series is Strip.’ 

The second piece is Strut(Walks).’

The third piece is Jazz Hands.’

This the fourth and final piece.

I hope one day to hold a rose and kiss it,

to kiss the thorns on its stem and cut my lips- blood

tastes good.
I wear roses on my body-

I wear roses to hide my insolent hips from swaying too wide;
I adorn my long, droopy arms with sunflowers and yellow 

if my blood isn’t warm enough at least its flowers are;
My back is laced with lilies and jasmine-

its scent masks the trace of fear that blows 

like a wanton wind;
My chest is the mantle to the tulips that rise into my throat, 

stifling thought, stifling expression, 

isn’t it beautiful to look at?

I wear pink on most days, brightness attracts attention– is that what I crave? 

The world is looking for something to make blue every day– is that what I’m asking for?

Well I’m no florist but my body can grow pretty things quite well.

Sweet Sensation 

Check out The Litwood Plan, an art journal for literature, movies, visual art, music and more.

Your words are like hummingbirds 

hovering across the blushing flowers on the sides of my head, 

the flutter of their wings echoing through my auditory passages;

the sound flows across my nerves 

like honey curling around the thumb of a beekeeper 

as he softly squeezes the hive, and your tongue 

presses against my mind releasing oxytocin like pollen: 

and you vapourise clouds of powdered sugar 

into the air around us with your pirouetting eyes that skirt my gaze, 

and like rivers they feed into my ocean; 

oceans that were sitting on the sills of their windows 

looking out at the setting winter sun, 

but are now falling, 

feet first, eyes looking up, 

down, past earth, 

into wells that ran dry only because they were too deep 

to have a bottom — 

and storms rage in their turbid waters, 

fed by rivers flowing through valleys with hummingbirds and bees.
[PS: Wednesday posts seem to be back for now.]

Masquerading Liberty

Photography by the author.
 Check out The Litwood Plan, an art journal for literature, movies, visual art, music and more!

Let dulcet music ride through the tawny 

bells that cling like indifferent babies to 

the waves of paper that mother it. 

Evade all the feces floating in the canals, 

by wearing masks like the water:

a shade of diluted moss or snowy lapis,

with vibrant flowers of apple and rose 

Or apricot and marigold or banana and corn

floating silently like humble spectacles.

Embellish the superficial reflection of 

a cherry-or-cobalt-lipsticked woman with 

a baroque, gold embossment that steals 

away the light of flickering tongues, rising 

from bronzed mouths with ashen teeth held 

by black-eyed men with quivering shoulders 

but stiff hands, and spits it onto the shadowy 

knolls and valleys of the dynamic acqua.

Follow the masquerade along the 

fondamenta and watch faces drawn by 

gods in candlelight-glow along rugas.

Let the plucked and spruced feathers from 

squawking birds that had their wings clipped-

That proudly adorns your head like the dome of 

St Mark- bring a tailwind under your arms and 

help you grow the wings of pigeons that fell 

on the ancient squares of masegni in the Piazza.
[PS: Wednesday posts might be just replaced with one post within every seven days, with atleast 4 a month]

Jazz Hands

This poem is part of a series titled identity

The first piece in the series is Strip.’

The second piece is Strut(Walks).’

This is the third piece.

The fourth and final piece is Floral Floundering.’

This is a stock image.
Check out The Litwood Plan, an art journal for literature, movies, music, visual art and more!

Usually my wrists hang limp,like my bones are broken–

broken like a twig snapped in half,

the leaves on the other end

being starved of their nutrition;

they are the branches of the weeping willow,

stooping low to bend

in the presence of the almighty Sun.

But take a second to hear the

rhythm of my footsteps, 

feel them tap-tap-tap along.

My world is jiving, honey, 

and so are my hands-

they snap up like whack-a-moles

(Oh! You can try to whack me down)

and flash like neon lights:

come watch me!

They send electric sensations

off the tips of my fingers,

be safe lest you should get electrified-

watch these jazz hands, honey,

watch them.