It’s 33 degrees C outside.
I am leaning by the glaring glass window; my irises are caught in a sun glow beaming translucent flames. Suspended in a void, I stand in front of a wall covered in dusty tapestry — dark and minimalistic — like the sky above. Like the hazy age that grips us with the pressing need for everyday sundries.
But that’s the last thing on my mind. Because I’m wondering where you could be.
My waning smile reflexively curls into a churlish laugh. I see you emerge from under the eaves of an apartment balcony at eye…
At the breakfast table my head lays heavy Presently, it’s the only object there oblongated sideways with its hollow-boned cheek jellied empty into cirrus clouds of cold wood inches away from a splintered heart-etched clump of names My eyes sway open and shut sauntering in light beams between blinds until they return to rest in wafts of a mother’s ghost A fly settles at the tip of my ogling nose as thump-thumping goes the army of skillets and bowls A pan marching to the hissing edge of a flame breathes a string of heaving condensations into a ladled lump of…
The evening impales on my window littered
in the effluvium of dull, deriding laughter
Derailing a wanton, wounded sky
in whispers warbling a breeze beguiled
by a plume of light gauzed in blimps
of ripe stars meshed with flickering whims
Whilst we stretch
dissolved in the day’s fleeting beauty
Sprawled like an aria’s symphony
Bedimmed sunset beneath our feet
Slaking the thirst of phantasms
to drench in dewy rain
Waiting on wispy dandelions
to bell the air once again.
Shalini is a thirty-something, aspiring writer and poet from the city of Mumbai, India. She’s an in-betweener and romanticist with…
Thank you so much, Melissa! It's funny you say that cos that was the first line that struck me for this concept :). I can't wait to read what you come up with. May the villanelle god/ddesses be with you :D.
I could have been… soft-puffed lilac confetti heart-shaped leaves of a late spring my fragile blue hems littered in glee to the flapping will of avian wings I could have been … matronly spells of a hilltop sycamore with maple stars hidden all around the crooks of my branches in myth and lore their arrival and leaving unannounced I could have been a deeply wounded thing The muffled pain of thorny prongs the wasted strains of a root’s buried song a dangled fruit rotted to summer’s disdain a life smudged dark and deep into yesterday Instead I’m falling… falling away…
Day 1: Literary Impulse Prompt — Fragmented View
Across an orange sky a school of birds is leaving past the last spurts of the sun and out my pretty window an eclipse softly hobbles in pain into the lap of a tree-fringed street where a lone pup lays licking ripples of idle time A group of friends strays about a park bench their close-hewn silhouettes heedless to where home is Over and about string-cheese whispers of the eve fill the air like a hum of forgotten errands that rouse my dark-haired face from beneath a burnt-paper pile of poems their…
In ruin’s iron feet she passes through realms
her plague-hipbones flanked with sea, wind and flame
a crust of lost lands presses to her womb
spilling blood-seeds light as feathery membrane
Beneath her bulbous lips nimbuses sliver
hymns spit-sigh cacophony of rain
Medusa’s snakes hiss on her sun-temples
facial light refracts in gnashes unrestrained
In the arms of a demigod her lips tremble
her blue-lotus prose in reverence tamed
sloven-breaths stow away the red of chimeras
she maps a new world with firefly exhales
When doubt blooms — her dreams witch-exhumed prayer-palms turn talon, chalices turn poison-blade with Kali’s tongue…
e d d y i n g
of my midnight skin
M i l e s
where we started
d r i f t
You flit through me
in a swerve
of dormant action verbs
o u t s t r e t c h e d
dust and rain.
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Twilight is the color of rust Much has it survived and known of the dissonance of a new dawn — her dripping, shrilly sheen and blinding hues that bounce off white walls in a cheap simulacrum of batting eyelids when with every passing hour she depletes into a form less venerated Beneath the veiled sanctuary of the sun’s excitable buoyancy she is eventually to be emptied into a mound of soil but she will rise again like new flesh proud and strong even when every crack in the skin of dawn is only rushing to atone what it siphoned off…
Poet, beauty-of-words seeker, cook, bookworm. Politically-correct chocolate muncher.