Union of our solitude

vintage love

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.

At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.

the silent shadow

Age 32: The Year of an Authentic Me

 

In a complete and serene silence

we’d walk,

and through our scrutinizing eyes

we’d talk.

Maybe we’d walk for miles,

reciprocating each other’s smiles;

caring not to look at the judging eyes,

pretending to be deep in thoughts,

pretending to be wise.

Or maybe,

it’ll be just a stroll in a park,

caring not if there’s still light or if it’s dark.

 

In complete and calming silence we’d sit,

ignoring the eyes calling us misfits.

Maybe we’d sit on the freshly mowed grass,

staring into each other’s soul in a trance.

Or maybe,

it’ll be in a luxurious restaurant seat,

where slowly will our hands crave to meet.

 

In a complete and pious silence we’d live,

where full trust will we swear to give.

Maybe it’ll be near a city,

where the people surrounding us will be witty.

Or maybe,

it’ll be far away in a melancholy house,

where one day we’d be enthusiastic,

and another, we’d lose.

 

And through this silence,

we’d get to know each other’s strengths and fears,

and give contagious laughs, while wiping the dripping tears.

 

Within this silence,

one day,

will echo your screams filled with pain and agony,

while the sharp knife in my hand will twist unhappily.

“For speaking lies here is a crime”,

My shadow will whisper to you all covered in grime.

 

And then will I wake,

feeling as though through my heart is a stake.

“It’s just a dream”

I’ll convince myself, I’m sure,

but the shadow,

the shadow will lurk there and lure.

 

And now,

as you open your mouth and let the meaningless words dart,

I realize,

how much I want to shove the sharp knife straight into your heart.

 

A nightmare it has now become,

and slyly my shadow whispers,

“Darling, they have just begun.”

(By Anjali Sharma.)

 

Anjali Sharma: She’s 20, lives in New Delhi, India. Currently, a history honors student, who’s also a content writer at Withered Weedy Writers.

Submissions open now!

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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.

Guidelines

Submit your best work, no rhyming poetry, please. We will not accept anything which doesn’t enthrall us at all.

  1. Send your work in a word file only.
  2. If you wish to be a contributing writer please mention the same in the subject of your mail.

Poetry, Prose editor- Devika Mathur

Submit poetry, prose at [email protected] (send up to 3 pieces)

  • Send your work along with a short bio.(3rd person)
  • Deadline- 30th August
  • Currently, we shall not pay our contributors but will do our best to promote your work
  • The theme for our second issue – “Solitude”

Live to die or die to live?

 

Jane Birking 1960, behind her Serge Gainsbourg

Rolling the skin deeply

In the waters, rusting my bones

cold moisture seeps the pores

hits spine, undercurrents discharged

pupil widens, nostrils expand

I breathe in the black smoke

hair rise stiffens the nerves

muscles inflamed; cortisol infused

bloodstream rages like rivers in monsoon

myths dissolve in the violet rain

crumpled boats of paper, sink in puddles

the sky is a stone, grey & opaque

prayers bouncing back

no man in the sky, In seas

tiptoed to the edge

of a slippery rooftop

frictionless, I ask

Do I fall & live?

or do I hold on and die?

 

 

Siddharth is an Engineer by passion, Poet by design. Studying aerospace in France, he occasionally finds some time to reflect in a pond or study the pattern of gulls flying in the beach. Dark & twisted life of his is a concoction of melancholy & joy. He doesn’t stare into abyss; he has a flat there. Writing out of passion, Poetry reflects his struggles to overcome depression fuelled by his trauma & harassment. Sprinkled with a self-assumed sense of humor & a self-confessed love for rock music, he has been featured a few times on the front page of Allpoetry.com (weird flex!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About

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. 

 

Do check out the theme for each month.

 

Happy writing.