The-Wrist-is-a-red-hoop-Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Hands-are-Shelves  (  Picture Series ( ii ) )

Wrist by wrist The blood sings Talking of its lives of its many births within the arching sands of death's naked breaths I hear the cackling The blood gone dry red chalk, red rocks in red teeth Dropping, falling, free fall You are Christmas curtains and curtains of red Sleek, silver rubbed on red, raw umber, burnt umber I watch, your only spectator, your faithful companion from the scales of ripped eyes I watch your face, it's wry horizon of white pus cells I know the sound of the fall, it comes to me like sex Like slow gradual hymns of pasted nights on dragging windows and walls Windmills in the mouth shredding every hint of knowledge No language enters here, particles of air standing outside, their red potato faces swollen in shame I know as I am all red A red…

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omfg. yes.

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

These alphabets they cringe, cling and wander

Amidst clouds of circles, in the lining of all light

where the water waits and the mother awakens

These words that arrive in formations

Of distilled solitude      Shared solitude       Collectiveness

Celebrations        Points of poetry           Points of war

Points of indulgence       of conveyance      of transaction

These words that people think that they take and bring

to existence           Plants in cold rain              Talking Too much

never enough         These words they think    are tools

that carve          that emboss          that shake

These words have never been strangers, somehow

But I don’t claim to take them in these soiled arms    Ever

I’m not that alive…

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The Hidden Muse-Aakriti Kuntal/ Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Poets take their pen in the mouth and thread a map a map on the saline stomach of the muse, pour in some cerulean ink, inhale the movements of the iris, as it absorbs, hesitates, gleams Words are sworn, of its curtailed grace, of its fluid tenderness and how it scorches the flesh I am a poetess. Looking for a muse, this perfection of a woman Unfortunately, I ain’t compelled by the thrill of this curving fountain Henceforth, I hunt. I transform into a poetic weapon and start to shoot at the mirror, scales of silver, BAng Drag my bleeding finger along the blooming tip of the nose, the murdered landscape beneath, pink rivulets of colored light, beads and shrapnels, lend them a flavor, a heightened hue of ardor Soak my body in the language of tongue, gluey, lipid screams screams like hurricanes, hurricanes of pleasure of devotion, of curses…

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I-float-until-I-am-hung / I-am-hanging-while-I-float-Introducing New Sudden Denouement Member Aakriti Kuntal

You will often find me hanging loosely

Like structures of dust, under the mattress,

above the mattress, on the shelf, the window,

the bookrack, in the things I touch, in the things

I mirror


Mother said ‘ You should have died sooner ‘


I wonder if I should have plucked my naval

into a bleeding pool and draped the umbilical cord around my paper

corset, a Sakura hangman’s knot


I rinse my throat every morning as I enter the mirror

in my threaded bluish gown, my face cut and placed,

Like seismic continents sewn by beaded colors


I take the toothpaste and rub it onto my teeth, lest anyone

detect the stench from a failing me,

run my face under water,

a few hundred times, hoping my skin would grow ameba feet

and hide inside the uterus of damp pipelines


Hoping then that all of me would follow

and I would be like a balloon gently massaging its belly

against lavender corns of air,

waistline glowing,

while a counter rested inside the crotch,

waiting to puncture all life


I watch the doctors arrive in their whitewashed suits and

surgical eyes, their occasional smiles disturbing

the atmosphere of possible murder,

The lights loom over my face as if to have a good hard look,

as if to mock, once again


You will often find me hanging loosely

Like structures of dust, under the mattress,

above the mattress, on the shelf, the window,

the bookrack, in the things I touched, in the things

that hold

Aakriti Kuntal is a 24-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.

Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal Her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

Fear, Partitions and Damage-Aakriti Kuntal/Whisper and the Roar

Whisper and the Roar

Morning flicks her tongue around the curtain,
coffee with violets grazing
My arms, a sheath,
body velvet swimming around me, defenseless blanket

I am thrumming
as the mornings encroach my left bosom,
my dissected body shaking, blatant in its denial to sense reason

Cold and latent, ice blue, amphibian green,
from my mouth,
chunk after chunk,
my tongue strung to a second hemisphere
a constant too frigid to be forfeited now

I fold my arms, tape them to themselves,
To seize the bleed
from encircling all this fading life
This material wound
from (un)purchased dreams

I wear speech
in circles and patches, behind finicky windows
filming lavender saplings,
as my thighs grow transparent under
scattered blows of ashamed suns,
I wander in the echo of my footsteps,
and curl,
under the agony of diffused love

Fear stands,
almost fearless now
No different from the odor…

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At 40-Aakriti Kuntal/Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

Writings of Aakriti Kuntal

In these fingers outstretched 
like fields ploughed   
            plugged        into variable tones

of mehendi green bangles, 
blades of grass overlap
into a   d.i s cor dant      harmony  That's the color they wed to  in the old village by the banks In these finger scales  that grow like scallops  I inherit a thousand destinies  that never became The robbed joy of formation  of curvature cut into flatness, beaten by a rolling pin into a dimming delay  A monotony with five hundred faces At the age of 40 the women in my neighborhood develop a strange sickness Their eyes, kale and algae dotted wells, swirling echoes Strawberries like cleaved hearts  Hanging ever so loosely on unearthed lips, reminiscent of a certain wholeness At the age of 40 the women in my country tend to drop like sticks, all at once,  Their bodies talking of a suffocation …

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