[cellophane-veins]

talk

talk to you tonight

i wrote this morning

knowing

that you’ll be asleep by then

wrapped up in your washed sheets

while i wait till noon

wrapped up in tulle fog

the whole neighbourhood still

fading

when i slept

i almost this afternoon

knowing

that you’ll be half-awake

irking into my future/current noon

dissolving 

into the haze

before texting me

for clarification

solace

[cellophane-veins]

the indian girl is mute

the radio plays: lata mangheskar sings a mellifluous love song about being bereft of her lover's skin her voice flowing like turmeric and saffron. thanjavur silk. the taste of crisp rotis and spices sizzle in my mouth my exotic glimmering blood. every tongue twisting word I articulate, a poem itself- verbose in syntax. yet I cannot encapsulate even with my brown skin i cannot sing about being bereft of my lover's touch or about playing in the fields of fidelity i can't write about the glass bangles I clad on my wrists or the puranas and alaaps i conjure with sweet Hindustan pouring from my lips see: this poem is in English the words I have been raised with the words of the one that stole the land I threaded and claimed it as his. i wasn't raised with tagore and kabir instead I was introduced to enid blyton and roald dahl i didn't even know how to properly speak my own tongue, until my primary school taught me the basic precision of each curvature and rarefaction. i was raised with obnoxious bubblegum pop instead of the sonorous mukesh and melodic mangheskar. they say I'm exotic my blood is filtered with cardamom and cumin and my soul wanders like a grazing cow on a rice paddy chennai dreams: fighting little chickens with a stick i am a powerhouse, spasms of energy drifting through the third world of my lineage yet I cannot recall my favorite tamil book as a kid. "ஐந்திேல வைளயாதது, ஐம்பதிேல வளையுமா?" "Do you expect a 50 year old to understand what one couldn't comprehend at 5?" we both speak the same language yet one is language deprived.

[poetryriot]

Poetry Riot Prompt (Week Eighty-Nine) 7/11 - 7/17

The prompt for this week is:

Mute.

As always tag your work with poetryriotprompt. If you do not see your work reblogged within 72 hours, please send us a message with a link to it. If the tag is used but the prompt isn’t, your piece will not be reblogged. Please use the tag poetryriot for pieces that are not prompt related. With the success of last week’s prompt, Laura and I will be picking a favorite for the week, and a few honorable mentions.

As a reminder: short stories and blackouts are also acceptable for the prompt. Also, please do not use the tag riotprompts, that’s used to track the old prompts in case anyone would like to do a past prompt.

Good luck and have fun!

S.

[cellophane-veins]

Sry. But i couldnt help but notice that ur poems are becoming a little sadder. R u okay? - Just concerned

oh i’m fine really!! in fact i’ve been the most happy i can be! I was at a creative arts seminar and the theme was “connecting the dots”, which is why i wrote “hikikomori”. the “porcelain doll's conquest for a 情 人 (lover)” poem was inspired by Chinese prostitution. I’m honestly fine really and thank you so much for asking it is really sweet of you- love you loads  💕💕💕💕

[cellophane-veins]

mumtaz still sings

darling wash away your youth for the minstrels song has been replaced by dissonance and the ministers praises are hollow there is seldom time to look back at me again jamuna swept you away east- the water still bleeds lady macbeth played with your head i still traveled with you but my body is ephemeral the aching silence made you build a mausoleum over me but unlike your lust my beauty; your empire; my skin; your wealth; the marble glistened gently against the face of time the wind still carries the bandish to me lingering in the tainted minarets wash away that tear darling before it stains the river again- the reed in my bones still dance under the catacomb you made me eternal

[cellophane-veins]

schrödinger’s cat craves milk before it falls into singularity

"we need to talk” i’m no sentinel-am i? for one form always manifests into more stillness kills space time continuum i read about love from stolen textbooks that once belonged to a palpitating gasping heart but no one told me that the sparks emitted in the big bang actually sting inertia- the state of being unchanged emotions can’t stop earth’s rotation but it can stop me schrödinger’s cat has two paths in it’s fate so do i “goodbye”

[cellophane-veins]

Hikikomori

08 45 ( start your morning with breakfast and depression and pervasive reflection on the shallow connections that i had spent building which made me what i am now- a crumbling foundation ) the coffee is too bitter 12 00 ( look outside and watch the white collars push past each other: “do they know where they are going?” you ask yourself “who am i?” you further question man? human? mammal? animal? savage? you don’t know instead of figuring it out you shut out the light and hide in stained sheets before drowning in reclusive sorrow and isolation ) i’m hungry 16 00 ( think about the weather outside and the secrets hidden under the sleeves of the rain crave for the feeling of warmth under your skin before brushing it off with self-doubt and dissatisfaction get off your bed step on scattered clothes strange belongings clutter as unfamiliar as yourself ) i should clean the room 23 00 ( 23 the number of options you can choose from: the noose is already hanging off your ceiling the gun is by your bedside the window is open and the razor is in your hand no one will notice that you’re gone no one noticed when you withdrew all they saw was a ghost taking a trip to the convenience store who was shrouded in a world of shadow where the only light sourrce was a laptop screen you delete it’s history if only it was as easy to delete old epochs you pick up the gun taste the sweat fear and frantic pleas relief but your tendons tense you fall back and watch the stars fill up your room you’re too far away from the world to wonder you’re too close to the brink the night fills you with gloom and saddness​ you pray then realise it's useless you gave up everything to connect the dots but the process is inert ) tomorrow, i’ll leave ( lie to yourself, then begin again)​

[softstained]

any poetry and writing blogs to rec?

Absolutely! (I did this before but here is a longer list) @inkllngs @fernwehn @jupiterreed @paperharbors @tremblingwarsong @estherliv @ohmoonkid @teamcaptains@crowsummer @selfapologies @oceanvuong @elvedon @flowerburnings @ibuzoowrites @rbcages @inkskinned @starredsoul @afterthelonely @ink-smudgedfingers @girlundrowned @compllexes @tangledhaircollective @supernovaeclub @nepenthenet @inkstay @ocean-blind @nosebleedclub & @shakingwhispers are just a few of the many talented people on here

[cellophane-veins]

my sorries don't compensate my hurt

6 word story

[wnq-writers]

I transcend into a sky of liminal thought. As the stars paint themselves into constellations, I catch myself distracted by the sparks in your eyes-iridescent effulgence. But I shall remain silent, for saying your name will insinuate the night and I need beautiful things in my life.

cellophane-veins (via wnq-writers)

[cellophane-veins]

lemondrops

when we talk, i can feel the sweet off your lips 

quasi-saccharine, bitter 

you try to hide behind lemondrops and happy

intoxicating smells and thoughts flushing down swollen cheeks 

you live in a jewel-ridden allegory 

complicating nothing into melancholy

you choose drudgery over struggle and quell

you can escape if you really wanted to

but you’re addicted to sugar and lemondrops 

[cellophane-veins]

bodies- an angsty spoken word

bodies are beautiful things 

curving and contorting as they seem 

seamless skin lacing skeletons 

comfort homes for hurt broken souls 

yet i have conditioned myself 

to hate the vessel i live in 

my skin confines me from showing my true capabilities 

i can’t trust myself even when i’m right

because i’m always telling myself i’m sickly

bodies are beautiful things 

yet i can’t seem to love mine

[cellophane-veins]

eutrophication

smother me drown me in your spine but promise me that your love will bloom and your lust decline once this was eden the change washed through pipes and we were clean no more your lust kept blossoming spit-kissing in sickbeds you locked me at chokehold i was drowning i couldn't breathe no more

[thatrandomprompt]

THATRANDOMPROMPT [4/5 - 4/10]

The Prompt: Full blown/Full bloom

Choose one

As usual tag with thatrandomprompt. Please include the prompt(s) you chose in the title, body, or tags. 

Happy writing folks!! 

[cellophane-veins]

பரதநாட்டியம் (bharatanatyam)

spaces in the air divides in cyclic patterns to match the grace of thy bell-clad anklets the symmetrical topography of our hips

reminisce simple kalakshetra days where we’d eat ice gola after class your eyes with the subtle sparkle strong ciliary muscles enhanced with the dark kaajal you were a beauty we were beautiful

even after the curtains closed you’d still pirouette every step filled with cosmic opulence the abhinaya in your face- that of passion you were a javali/ lilting gait/exquisite symphony/precise synchronism/perfection

i still feel the lingering of your bell-clad anklets as you dance your way through

[cellophane-veins]

பரதநாட்டியம் (bharatanatyam)

spaces in the air divides in cyclic patterns to match the grace of thy bell-clad anklets the symmetrical topography of our hips reminisce simple kalakshetra days where we'd eat ice gola after class your eyes with the subtle sparkle strong ciliary muscles enhanced with the dark kaajal you were a beauty we were beautiful even after the curtains closed you'd still pirouette every step filled with cosmic opulence the abhinaya in your face- that of passion you were a javali/ lilting gait/exquisite symphony/precise synchronism/perfection i still feel the lingering of your bell-clad anklets as you dance your way through

[fantodsdhrit]

shaanti

with bharata natyam demeanour, you unite your hands; an elegant namaskar—then, move those doe-eyes. divulge the rasas, by pantomime; in polished sketches, i catch your subtle glimpse:

mistress says, the purpose once overcome turns worthless, a lantern without light, and again we set out for another headline. so, on you go; flaccid weary- grape.