The River Dark, The River Deep

The rivulet, the gushing stream bounced and swayed

Like a colicky infant. pic of housewife

Didn’t I love you, sleeping in your banks, pure?

Hiding myself so deftly in your little pockets of silence?

Why then, today, when I ran to touch you, hot, raw, burning,

You ran away instead, fearing my coagulated blood,

my frozen tears, my milk stuck on your door-frame, my breath,

shot up, in spurts, that has known you like the grandma’s old tale,

Like the lone, dazzling truth?


Come, enter through my rich brown, derelict doors,

Still open for you. Settle slowly amid the thickets,

Soaking in the smudged, docile light setting in,

The skyline of my wants still eager, firm with primroses,

Brown, yet not dying still, with music, sharp, yet blurry,

The details obscured, yet the pleading, the little lightning

Robust, plump, hammering.


Will you burn it, like the rest of my thwarted dreams galore,

The pregnant ashes of my sighs

that once I had closed your palms with?

Like the stubborn, wailing infant, eyes rolling, fingers tossed,

You had wanted small tufts of the dried, golden grass

Growing mammoth, fleshy, in a mountainous pile.

Today, between my calloused palms, the ashes dwindle,

And let out an air, musky, choking, yet again.


The verdant spring, the primroses, the half-baked love songs

Burn me like the old, bloody embers, the fungi strong, shadowy

Smeared all over like a beauty in continuum.

Come over, do not run, what is there to hide?

Lie down, flat, on my back, as I float on your scalding waters,

Doused with the dark grey of our self-same songs.


Red: Withering, Flickering

So honored and delighted to have this poem published in the ‘Woman Inc Poetry Project’ today! Thank you, Pooja Garg Singh, editor of WIPP and my fellow writer friend, for this. Do visit Issue 1: Nov-Dec 2014 of the online magazine dedicated to the journey of woman through the art of poetry:


Red lipstick. Image source:

Red: Withering, Flickering

A red stream dances in the folds between my lips
Often cracked, chapped, gliding like a boat
Holding remnants of untold tales and washed out desire.
I have bid adieu to the crimson flowers
Of long-lost calf love, dancing, dangling,
Sailing in thirsty kisses of the summer morn.
My body burns up in flame, in my tattered lips
Fury holds me in his embrace. The lipstick
Is an illusion of poignant tales of romance.
In the peeled, dark tissues of my skin,
A red river flows like an endless, sacred journey.
I slip down in her arms, blown away,
Knocked down by her silken ripples.
I go down the river as I listen to her laugh loud,
I listen to her unveil, mock my long torn pages
Of amorous, blushing beauty.
I dance, I let the river run. I am still a delicious nymph,
Quivering, tender, disrobed. My lips, they are
Faltering, withering, reckless, flickering like candlelight,
In dim light, they still whisper the treason of love.

Author’s Note: I wrote this poem as a response to one of the weekend writing prompts in The Woman Inc Poetry Project’s Facebook group. The images in the prompt, ‘red’, ‘lipstick’, ‘river’ tempted me to write this poem and I am extremely happy to present this poem as a dedication to us women, our physical and inner beauty and our unwavering quest for passion.