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Vamika Sinha Oct 2015
No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch
Vamika Sinha Oct 2015
The sky, a plate
in kindly blue,
smooth
as the ceramic face
of this, my swimming pool;

the bobbing palm
glazing the back
of my starfish shape
like white liquid icing;

sweet, the water's after-taste;
gently
pungent smell lodged
in the nape of my neck

I will wash the blue
off my skin, in a tiled doll-box
cubicle
I will smell the smell fade
out of my fizzled wet-strung hair
just as sugar dissipates
into the hot
nothingness of drinks.

I will pretend to forget,
then forget
I was offered a plate
in a summery shade, bordered by
tree branches
I was in that half
amniotic vessel -
weightless

as a seed pearl in
an ocean or a lover
exhaling in the depths
of a kiss;

a posy of
air on liquid.
Vamika Sinha Oct 2015
Poetry was just a little hummingbird that flew down to perch on my shoulder. “You’re coming with me,” it whispered in my ear. What if I had not listened? That little hummingbird would have kept on eluding me, taunting me with its beauty from an unreachable distance. But I listened and I learned. And soon enough, I became a poet.
Just a little unfinished something from another unfinished something.
  Oct 2015 Vamika Sinha
Dreams of Sepia
Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that lingers on my mind

that haunts the drunken moon
that lovers whisper in the shadows

Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that rescues us from sorrows & ourselves

that the Sea sings in it's lullabies
& that the oppressor fears

Tis' only poetry, sweet poetry
that lingers after death has tolled

it's dark, dark bell
Richer than the gift of any king-

behold!
Sweet Poetry!
It's National Poetry day today in the UK so I thought I'd celebrate by writing this poem!
Vamika Sinha Oct 2015
The air burns where I sleep;
you trudge in almost-snow.

The resetting of alarm clocks
let the wind slip
through your dreamcatcher.

And my sunset is all
the colours of your fall.

I write a poem;
you will awaken six hours
and countless miles later

in the cold
while I burn.

The ink lies between
the segments of the universe;
unreachable,
incomprehensible

in the fire
while you shiver.

What is it to miss
someone?
I do not know.
  Oct 2015 Vamika Sinha
Dean Eastmond
I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.
  Oct 2015 Vamika Sinha
Dreams of Sepia
There is a storm in my teacup
the one you've heard referred
to so often before

the neighbors want to know
what all the noise is
coming from behind my door

the lightning is fighting
with the thunder, the waves
of Earl grey crashing

on the  fine china shores
There is a storm in my teacup
I don't know what to do anymore

some say it started
with the white lies my friend told
or with me crying that I'm getting old

the tea rose up in
indignation
the sugar screamed as it fell in

this is what I want to tell the nation:
there is a storm in my teacup.
Oh well.

Oh well.
There is a phrase in England ' it's a storm in a teacup' which basically means ' someone's making a lot of noise/fuss over nothing'
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