Introduction to the Poet:

Dr. Jyothsnaphanija is Assistant Professor of English at ARSD college, University of Delhi, India. Her poetry has recently appeared in Pool, Page & spine, Literary Orphans, Foliate Oak, short stories in eFiction India, articles in Café Dissensus, Wordgathering, eDhvani and others. Her first poetry collection “Ceramic Evening” is forthcoming from Writers Workshop Calcutta. She blogs at phanija.wordpress.com

Unwritten

Reading the in-between states

of happiness and loss,

Clouds kid at nature’s preoccupation

with creative songs.

The sky too speaks

Rain’s language

If not today, tomorrow

Voices of tuberoses

In our time-out memories.

Stop and think

Intimate strangeness.

My secret is

writing the process of being made younger.

Poetry is the simplification of inconceivability.

Wording similar thoughts

That translate the beauty of little things.

Our electronic lives are fatigue of light.

World has enough pictures.

I picked one glass of

Intoxicated conscious

Easthetically poured

On musical nostalgia.

Inconsistency is our response

to fragmentation

We know that everything of the world

cannot be named.

Language

Memory is a translation

Of such ellipsis’s

Carried away by past cold

Atlases.

Plurality elevates music

As it does to revolt

In fairytales

Authenticity is twice rephrased into

Texts sure of their appetite.

Time is a conjunction that erases uncertainty in life,

Filling more blankness in the indexes between pauses.

I wonder! How did I become this much solitary?

I recall such abstractness of the spellings as singular in words,

Singular in wind, singular in pain.

Whose life is a metamorphosis from ambiguity towards loss, the

invisibility is of the ice alone.

Coldness is the accent, thickening the speech.

I recall how my speech remained under the heavy light, lite wind

contrast contractions.

Afterlife

Voices I hear are hypocoristic in the light hazel screens of foamy evenings.

Enacted several times, still nervous at the turn.

The rain can prick, but the dying flowers too prick the sun with no usual returns.

Burning time in the curler, imaginary days are of too much purple ever.

Kabuki roles in my lost diary.

I try to spiral the manuscript again for an aesthetic cover page.

Prints and reprints of a happily ended story

Flowers open where few petals unheard, get drowned in mulberry snow or icy rain.

They die of fever, when syrupy words are inserted.

like tired castanets.

Colours keyed in satin cups

On quilted herbage

Sing in

Moving dreams

Hypnotistic thunder

Pays

The cost of

A hallucinating end

Occurs once in a life.