Welcome to Olive Skins.A literary platform for surreal and abstract poets and artists. You may find beautiful and brave writings here which shall stir your heart, will make you feel the pain, the words, the essence of poetry, prose. Olive skins indicate the underlying solid layers of things unspoken of, things that haunt you. So tell us in your words about pain, loss, life, in the most surrealistic way.
The first time I met her,
I met her eyes instead of her
and the sweating palm
that didn’t go with her charm.
Oh, how she managed to remain calm.
But as I stood among the audience,
each trapped in their worlds
with stories and histories
and hysterics that filled the air
they kept breathing,
I listened to the million voices
raging in my ears, each demanding attention
each pushing me a little to the edge,
petrified, I stood in the crowd, misplaced.
…when you think you can’t take it anymore,
she was reciting,
as if saying what I dared not speak,
but beyond the strength and the zing
I could see in her eyes,
the makings of the same cliff.
This cliff that demands my fall,
enticing me with its heavenly call,
to take me to a place that will be mine,
without a soul to judge, without anything divine.
And I knew I could hold on to her and stayed,
but to succumb, to lose myself clinging to her,
meant both of us that I would have betrayed.
It has been years and many such recitals
till she gave up and started to fade away.
But I remember that first afternoon after the event,
when among the dust motes
the sun-kissed air smelling of spent love,
lying next to her, I didn’t take the offered hand,
thinking it was me who had to take the leap.
And every time the thought fills me with a pang,
a slap on my soul it strikes me with a bang,
if she was instead the one
who was stretching her hand for me to pull her back,
yearning for me,
in her poetic interludes,
maybe she wanted to hold on
and I let her slip away,
so that instead of us, our cliffs stood together,
but finally defeated as they faced
the union of our towering solitudes.
Dunking a cookie,
O, sweet Fika!
You happened to possess perfect timing.
You came at the right time
And vanished at the right time too.
I thank the gods we didn’t meet earlier,
The consequences would have been disastrous.
I simply wasn’t ready for someone like you,
Back in the days.
Dunking a second biscuit,
You left all of a sudden
We didn’t even argue.
I wish to thank you.
In ghosting me, you left me with my new best friend
Scilicet my loneliness.
The one I embrace
Who constantly reminds me that besides you,
The rest has always been a waste of time and energy.
I tend to cling to everything we talked about
Diving in a cathexis of you,
My main drive towards my goals…
I dunked the biscuit for too long,
Half of it sunk to the bottom of my cuppa
Let it be, it is still a Fika!
I’ll not wake up, no,
swimming here in this conch shell
of life, shadows tickling my ear,
playing house while the real
the world assumes it’s won.
I’ll not confront it, no,
kicking up the remains of reality
swept under expensive furniture
when we could afford the luxury
of not caring.
I’ll remain in my head,
enveloped by this conch shell,
closed to those sounds desperate
to encroach, honking displeasure
at deaf eyes shut.
Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. A husband and father, he finds happiness in family, friends, reading, and of course, writing. He enjoys creating expansive worlds in as few words as possible. His writings can be read at http://www.phillipkscott.com.
The rain has to convey a million words of abandoned worth,
To the lonely, desolate soil and my soul, stabbed with their judgmental different ways,
This hole making me feel devoid in my hollow chest cannot be stitched by someone,
For company, I don’t seek for I find satisfaction within my hollow chest.
A mist of forlorn fogginess prevails with the breadth of every mortal creature,
I desire these distances as they are symbiotic,
My distance appeals them of a pleasurable world better off,
And my loneliness makes me happy for I never defined it as one.
It’s not a disease, but a cure knowing that the only thing that should matter my mind is me,
A cold mist and shock jolts down the numb veins of my body when I’m in the presence of someone,
And all my desire from this fire of their criticism of my ways and beliefs,
Is my isolation from their reality, which by God’s mercy I’m well provided with.
I’m engrossed in a novel all day,
I sip my tea and immerse myself in a scent of calm chamomile, as my fingers turn the mottled, dust-colored pages,
I hear the rain pitter-patter on the shelters of unknown homes,
As if they try to imply the silent wishes of the dynasties above,
And I feel my soul can understand their bluntly unheard voices beckoning to me,
As if intended from the creator of my hollow chest.
I observe their ways and that difference is undoubtedly crystal,
That difference which drugs me of my own unique world and perhaps blinds and binds me,
With the chains of isolation tied to my barren soul devoid.
But I’m happy, I’m at peace, I’m not sad.
I’m different. I’m okay.
From reality, I’m away.
But that’s the desire of my hollow chest,
To isolate and self-heal, and be me.
Niharika Gursahani is thirteen years old and she is into writing poetry since she was ten years old. Her work is completely amateur and this is the first time She is writing a poem without a rhyme scheme. She blogs at @theniharikadiaries . She likes to play the piano which is another passion of hers.
The last couple of days were a bit hectic and I am sorry for not keeping up with Olive Skins. But I am back and we are excited now to read some more good surreal or abstract poetries and prose work. The theme for our upcoming issue is ” Solitude”. Write poetry, prose around the theme and wait to hear back from us.
Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall us at all.
Send your work in a word file only.
If you wish to be a contributing writer please mention the same in the subject of your mail.
Tectonic plates move
Under my feet
Eerie sounds of the ground shifting
Shifting my soul and my
sense of self
Hope eludes me as the root cause of my uneven understanding of self
Swimming in sea fog and black suns
A mile deep
into the Earths core
Magma is bubbling over
An electric jolt hits my mouth
as the black sun rises
No moral compass found
in this deep canyon just inertia
As feelings of hurt spread and drip down to my purpling heart
I can’t hide the sadness it fills my eyes
It drips down to my mouth where I taste salty tears disguised as stars of hope
As the earth shifts, I run to grab tree branches, but instead,
I float by in a sludge
my life in words and desolate scenarios.
Joann Cohen is a desert dweller from The Southwest. She enjoys
painting and photography. Writing has always been at the
forefront of her creativity since she was in her teens. Joann
enjoys finding inspiration for her poems and stories from the
world around her. Read more of her work at https://jomillyblog.wordpress.com and at Free Verse Revolution
The rain is suffocating inside the clouds
The leaves are burning in agony
I pluck flowers often
and place them in my books
wondering anything beautiful needs to be preserved.
My eyes have begun resembling a museum
because every time I close them
death falls like an art.
Sometimes it hangs above my eyelids
and researchers introspect in awe.
Everything that was once alive
has touched the sand or wood
before embracing death.
Everything we love is protected by touchwood.
The skin I carry isn't dark
but a fair shade of brown.
Maa never told me to apply cream
until I was down with fever
and started looking like a wilted flower
a lover holds my hand often
and memorizes the marks on my skin.
He says it looks like a fallen autumn leaf.
We both smile at the connection
and weep at the metaphor.
Maa tells me to apply cream
the fever hasn’t left me yet.
I have nothing to show you more than these two things,
I have nothing to carry on my spine.
My back is a coffin
where flowers bloom sometimes.
A graveyard isn't dead
but full of life that embraced
peace too early.
Life is a great job until it starts to underpay,
We regret what we don't choose,
we cry for what we often choose.
The rain has begun to fall
I hear Azaan mixed with splashes of water
petrichor diffuses in the air along with
the camphor from the temple next door.
I close my eyes when I hear the Gurbaani
and wish for the brother who works in the Church.
My skin is a brown country
My eyes a forgotten history
The steps that lead to the prayer
are often heavy and lost
God was last found in a dead fetus.
2-Losing voices like blood
mother stitches wounds into poems
her words buried deep under the sky
sometimes when it rains
I hear metaphors knocking on my door
a faint petrichor diffuses in my room
choking the paper flowers I made yesterday.
the origami sheets lay like autumn leaves
this marble floor beneath my feet
is no less than a graveyard
I often pluck flowers,
one by one.
this summer appears like monsoon
taking its first breath,
my arms almost shed the pain
but winter is all about aches
and that's all I await.
If mother ever comes back to the earth
to take her pride
she will encounter it hiding in a closet
behind the collection of summer dresses
the floral ones she once stitched.
I would allow her to take everything
in the hope that she will take me away too.
But the walls of elegy have already started
building up grief around my house
her garden of words
are forbidden territory.
we often write about loss as again
but no one cares to look beyond the clouds
that brings rain
no one knows that at midnight
they often weep and wail
but thunder falls like a judgment
and silence spreads itself.
in this way or another
there’s always a loss
we never express.
I am wearing her floral dress
the last one she could stitch
her words hang like a necklace
around my turtle neck
her poems adore my waist
no one cares to touch my skin
I am her poetry
and at this hour
the world will never get metaphor
the sky outside is bleeding
I remember mother's silence
over the last phone call
when I confessed that I am not happy
her sobs hid themselves
behind the sound of thunder in my ears.
I am slowly becoming a poet
she would have fallen in love with
but you should not search for the spark in my eyes
A poet always burns her muse alive.
mother stitches wounds into poetry
while rain falls as a metaphor in my palms
silence echoes in the paper flowers
and unstitched wounds lose their voice
like a blood,
like a memory.
A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant lookout for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favorite
Nameera Anjum is a nineteen-year-old aspiring poet who loves to pen down her thoughts and feelings as fearlessly as possible. She believes that the utmost liberation comes to her through words; writing is a part of life she wishes to keep intact until the very end. Gothic fiction is her absolute favorite genre. It comes as no surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.
Grief always find its way
like the water under the door
an anxious child lost in the maze
seeping quietly to places unknown
it will sink and seep in your soul
evade you at times.
You cannot force tears of joy
like a thief
a house abandoned,
sand slipping through the fingers
my eyes have run dry
every loss leaves an impression
sometimes the grief is dichotomous
like the balloons slipped through
those tiny fingers
a loss intermixed with wonder.
You have left long before the last spring
a dying songbird in my hand
reminds me of the broken prayer
once we were.
I still find pieces of your
broken memories, shards
lodged in me
pulling out your claws from my supple body
pieces and sieved with pain,
my pain impaled on the stars in the nightly sky.
Pain shines brightly in the darkness
this pulverized pain
reminds me broken pieces I foraged together
to make a whole of me.
the painstaking process of keeping this soul together
when like a hungry vulture
you are shredding and scraping bits of me
sometimes I think you scooped
and carved out the light out of me
this ache in my bones
stripped of light
the pain feels different in darkness than in light
like a million feathers burning
still not leaving soot
Your existence in me in invisible
this pain is invisible.
Megha Sood lives in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is a contributing author at GoDogGO Cafe, Candles Online, Free Verse Revolution, Whisper and the Roar, Poets Corner and contributing editor at Ariel Chart.
Her 290+ works have been featured in 521 Magazine #Sideshow, Oddball, Pangolin review, Fourth and Sycamore, Paragon Press, Royal Rose, Visitant Lit, Quail Bell, Modern Literature, Visual Verse, Dime show review, Nightingale and Sparrow, Piker Press and many more. Her works have been anthologized in “We will not be silenced” by Indie Blu(e) Publishing, (“All the Lonely people”, Blank Paper Press) and upcoming in 12 other anthologies by US, Australian and Canadian Press. Her poem “Survivor” was selected for the “Survival is Insufficient” series by the Jersey City Writers as part of the event sponsored by the National Endowment of Arts.