Are you eating? The taste may be blood or bread or poison. A poison as another word for kindness.It is of a kind that when counted under fingersleaves the empty bellyfull, leading the tongue from sand.Kneading the open throat till dry,the hunger, to drown. Are you eaten? Do you feed the walls,the walls that, in […]Black Apple
You’ll be happy you visited. Trust me. His work in unique and powerful.
Firstly, I would be amiss if I did not state how honored I was to be asked to review this wondrous work by Devika Mathur. From what I have come to know of the writer, she is steadfast in her talent, dives into the raw and gritty surfaces of her feelings, and has no trouble sharing them with the world. With a style not akin to many writers I have read, Devika expresses herself with poetically sound language and a definite strength in her prose.
The aptly titled debut book, Crimson Skins, begins with “Olive Skin” which is a surefire opener, with power-packed phrases such as “My mother has a concave slippery mouth, untouchable with the slick tunes of time” and “She stitches her concrete bun as a belt of Ganges.”
The first section of poetry gets even better as the writer continues to deeply express herself using a style I like to call “raw surrealism.” “A fixation” is a good example of this. Two lines I found myself reading multiple times because I loved them that much are: “I have seen the postcards of vintage ink our lotus bodies sinking like air” and “You step on to my body, peeling layers of SCARS.” She is no stranger to poignant line breaks and metaphorical stanzas. Many of her poems, from what I have learned, are meant to be absorbed slowly–savored. It would not be wise to rush through them. And really, why would you want to?
“A swan of longing” is another favorite poem of mine. Devika uses a few nature images in this piece, however, the raw and gritty feel is still alive. “Climb up my knuckles, rest on the mount of flaky skin” says so much while not using many words. It’s succinct and compact yet still sends a punch straight to the gut. Another line that held my attention is, “Sew and move up. Climb to my cheekbones, now”–the imagery is intense and active. Reading it took me to another place, one where I would not mind venturing to more often.
Crimson Skins has a variety of work any reader will enjoy. The book isn’t basic and will be able to go the extra mile for years to come. I will be so bold as to say many of the pieces featured in it has the staying power of words by a few greats such as Sylvia Plath, Adrienne Rich, and Virginia Woolf. It ends just as it began, with an intense piece of writing showcasing the writer’s talent.
“The art of silence” is placed exactly where it needs to be–the best for last. “Quietness, comes to me like sex, wild hum in the lost arid air” caught me off guard and I doubled-back to make sure I read the opening line correctly. I did and it is perfect in every way. The ending lines are as follows: “Cities often collapse while searching another one, and here is my tombstone, polished gold grave, beneath twigs of moth.” I read those lines and I know what poetry is. I feel what poetry is. I will remember what poetry is.
Crimson Skins comes as no shocker to me with its high caliber of writing and a plethora of poems and prose to choose from on which to connect. Devika Mathur shows that she is no novice to the world of writing. I look forward to its debut in June of 2020 and will be one of the first to purchase my copy. If you are a lover of poetry and writing that seeps into your skin and rattles your bones, then you should too.
I will be purchasing the Kindle version before the weekend is out, however, I also am going to purchase the paperback version when it is available too. I had the grand opportunity of diving into this work of art prior to its publication and I assure you, it’s worth every accolade it will amass within the first few weeks. Let’s support a fellow WordPress writer, shall we?
I have drowned myself in work — work that I love, work that makes me happy. And it is in the evening when night slithers its way in that I feel the pain of having loved so many years ago and lost. I know the heart is stronger than the credit we give it, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t take forever to free itself from pain.
And I am tired of waking up to thoughts of you, tired of feeling your lips pressed against mine, tired of wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing, and if I still mean anything to you. I do and don’t want to be a factor. Why is it so hard? There shouldn’t be a plethora of questions on this subject. I should have a degree in broken hearts and delayed healing —
Love’s Recovery, 101.
You have moved on. You did so effortlessly and I am still steering a wretched ship that has no sense of direction without its captain. Throw out the life rafts. Man the exit points. I was bound to hit a few rocks along the way, but I am still out to sea.
Battered and unmanned.
I stare at my phone. I want to take a chance on sending you a text message but every alarm within me is set and red flags pop up whenever my fingers go searching through my contacts. Leave well enough alone.
And I do. I settle into the nightlife, ease myself into an escape route of books and words that are not my own, and remember that spells can be broken.
I am not cursed.
I am not cursed.
Originally published via Medium.
I turn to my listless lover in my banal dreams. The two of us lack lust and passion has run off with the wind. There’s no rain to lament our current state–this drought won’t spring new roses.
Like a dog sniffing determinedly in the rain . . .
I’ve lost the scent of love and I can’t get it back.