May 24, 2019
From my 3rd poetry collection, “The Bluest Kali” (Lithic Press, 2018)
Available here & here.
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From my 3rd poetry collection, “The Bluest Kali” (Lithic Press, 2018)
Available here & here.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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magic rising from / a man is prophesy / from / a woman is heresy / maybe he leaves me / a purloin of unsung fires
Scherezade Siobhan, from ‘echo’ (Published in Petrichor Journal)
How do I dispose of thee? How do I bend your memories when all I have is no dispenser and a bowl of longing? The poet preaches and you kneel at her feet and I, wake and writhing, I attempt her mask on my face. It falls. My pain becomes of me more becoming than love ever felt on my skin. I wear it and I am weary of this non-triumph. I am stuck in deadlock and I fight, scratch, bite, hit at all that has to be done away with. But I am afraid of everything. A speck of your remembrance and I’m pushed back against the wall. There are tremors within my chest - it is as if the walls I construct come crumbling at a bare mention of your memory. Which is to say, always. I am no longer alone then in my despair - my heart and I, we are separate but never apart. My heart - you. I kiss my fingers and I find you.
And every time a calm enters the crevices of the deep, dark place I inhabit, I see her and I see you. And that is where it all ends and I start from scratch. When will I heal, when will I claim what I long to claim and when will my resolve find me peace? I shudder at the thought of losing in the end - these memories of you. I told myself initially that this was the grand love affair that awaits all / it is pity it happened too soon and though I want to erase, I am unable to. Is that how you seek her too? Is that why this no longer is important - I am not important and you make it look like I never was at all! I want the love to part way, I want you begging for a touch of me again but all in vain. She claims my space, she inhabits my memories and she inhabits my skin. I fall, I fall, I fall incessantly. The heartbreak never ends - first, losing you. Second, gaining. Third, losing you once and for all. Fourth, claiming a space in your mind, of not your heart. Fifth, losing myself fully and finally to her distractions. Sixth, ousted completely from thought - from existence. Perhaps a little more than completely, even. If I were a canvas and you were to paint, would I not be all red and blue already? You move on to another, listless and uninterested in the one you began with. What am I then, undeserving of improvement? I chase your ghost in my head and I feel as if though I am being driven out by one infinitely better than myself. I write about her - to the extent that in wanting to become one with you, is that I wish to love her too, same as you do? Imagination supplements. Did all that really happen with us, whatever took place? Were you and I ever “we”? Were we together / were “we”? My god, was it so long ago that I satisfy myself with false plans. I will still see you, I will still be loved by you. In a distant land, an alternative galaxy, where you and I have not been ousted by the demands of reality, perhaps you still love me. I know I will never not.
Scherezade Siobhan, The Bluest Kali (Lithic Press, 2018)
In a language I am thawed from, a single word stands for both— tongue and language. Zubaan.
Scherezade Siobhan, from “The Mirror I won’t (The Bluest Kali, Lithic Press 2018)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
in another country, you could be تلاطم, upheavals, anomie—an exuberant tapestry kissing the knee at namaaz in this one you are a diagnosis of bask-tendered geysers, a field filigreed in eras of narcissi
here we forget the violaceous roam of herons, a pulsing estrangement we have learned to name home
a stream of fireflies embroidering a resilient light to the spice bazaars
we go where the apple trees have grottoed into shadows of old mosques
to spoor into that roseate forgetting—a mind grown quietly into seams of quartz each tongue teased by its own paused memory. a foreignness as cold as a foggy tarmac
a torn baggage-tag. a spring as blue as the hand of fatima, a haemorrhage perorated through the borrowed accent of an open vein
Scherezade Siobhan
Midway between the too soiled ground and the too-sublime vaults, at the level of the air, entering the skin of the role, poetry plays its game.
Michel Leiris, Brisees
The Bluest Kali Poetry. Women's Studies. Cover Art by Ishita Basu Mallik. THE BLUEST KALI is a series of linguistic exoricisms through the corridors of a brown woman's clinical depression, dissociations and displacements that extend from psychological to spiritual exiles...
“The Bluest kali” is a series of linguistic exoricisms through the corridors of a brown woman's clinical depression, dissociations and displacements that extend from psychological to spiritual exiles. Bhanu Kapil says, "...This is a book composed in an intense present—the 'returning wave'—of trauma, ecstasy, displacement, radical healing and...love."
Hello chocolates, my new collection is available via SPD worldwide. Get yourself a copy to hold and nourish.
If you would like to review the book, drop Lithic Press or myself a message/email.