amaryllis (/ˌæməˈrɪlɪs/[1]) – bears the name of the shepherdess in virgil's pastoral eclogues. it stems from the greek ἀμαρύσσω (amarysso), meaning "to sparkle", and it is rooted in "amarella" for the bitterness of the bulb. the common name, "naked lady", comes from the plant's pattern of flowering that blooms when the foliage dies. in the victorian language of flowers, it means "radiant beauty".
in the depths of betrayal,
do not, under any circumstance,
seal your heart.
for years, you intricately
pushed yourself to unglue it.
to forfeit that effort
is to lose the rawness of God
tasting herself in you
as both the flutter in your womb
and as the pain in your left lung.
to seal my heart
is to deprive myself of God.
in this life,
there is much i have allowed.
but this,
this, i will not allow.
______________
~ note to myself. 🖤
i’m watching the rain wash the streets
thinking, fuck! like a smith beating a hammer hot, i’ve been warring with myself for too long.
when i was sixteen, i thought i was meek
so i slid viciousness between my teeth
when i was nineteen, i thought i was cruel
so i choked on sugarcane, oblivious that
it is impossible to only sustain yourself on rock candy
when i was twenty-two, i thought i couldn’t trust myself with my heart, so i gifted it in a music box
in the hopes new hands would care better for it
i watch my thoughts drop like pearls on canvas and decide that
my gospel is the chambers in my chest
the chambers in my chest
housing sweetness
the sweetness of the tears streaming down my cheeks under the neon lights on oxford road
the sweetness of the rage carving my fingertips in sand dunes
the sweetness of baring myself soft to a new pair of well-meaning hands despite fears of being young in all the wrong ways
i listen to the waves of being echoing in my navel and wonder
what if
my path is one of softening instead of breaking
what if
i can trust myself with my heart?
last night i felt alive under the lamp poles and monsoon sky, listening to lana singing about harry nilsson whispering in her ear, “come on, baby, you can drive” and i thought
come on, baby, i will drive.
“king’s cross hotel”, quick poem i wrote this morning watching the rain. early rough draft so bear with me. 
your call is the cinder
your mouth is the fire
burning the tips of my fingers,
weaving my thoughts in gold wire.
my tears are the milk,
my oblations are the flowers
gliding onto the blest thāli,
pouring into fire that devours.
your curls are the waves,
your teeth are the moons
cooling the ārti of my heart ,
more precious than kingly boons.
my love is the oath,
my longing is the path
jostling me to you,
enough to endure the world’s wrath.
monsoon one, tell me
when my yearning reaches the skies
are you the sunlight
bathing my eyes?
Glossary
thāli – metal plate used in rituals of worship, on which offerings of fire and water are laid.
ārti – Sanskrit for ‘affliction’ or ‘distress’, as well as an alternative modern spelling for āratī, a ritual in which the light of a burning flame is offered to deities.
.❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。 my creative contribution to the Florilegium Anthology .❀。• *₊°。 ❀°
🖤🥀🌼 FLORILEGIUM 🥀🌼🖤 is an anthology of fiction & non-fiction literature compiled by the 2022 cohort of the Warwick Writing Programme, birthed out of love for writing and out of commitment to expression and self-discovery through the art of writing. Florilegium features 21 emerging writers and it holds short stories, flash fiction & poetry. it was a pure delight to work on this collection with my very talented colleagues and it is a joy to see it out in print! the Florilegium launch was held in february in London 🖤 photos from the launch below!
i had thought
that i was just a girl
who wanted to plant lemon trees
but my hot blood scorched
the vine trailing on the windowsill.
Keśava,
you are pulling me to you by my teeth
and i follow happily.
i followed you into the seven seas
and i followed you into the circle of mountains
i have been calling you with folded hands
and now i will dance to you
with my mouth open
and with flowers woven into my skin tissue.
monsoon one,
did you know
that the crevices of my heart
can hold you whole?
did you know
that the fire in my belly
can swallow the three worlds?
i know you did,
Hari.
i know you did.
happy Mahāśivarātri! 🙏 reflecting today on the need to destroy within that which is familiar to be reborn as new. a poem inspired by the homam witnessed at the Chidambaram Temple (pictured):
Agni
is starved
mantra pours into the fire
ghee pours into the fire
milk pours into the fire
curd pours into the fire
sugar pours into the fire
silk pours into the fire
fear pours into the fire
past pours into the fire
doubt pours into the fire
attachment pours into the fire
woe pours into the fire
ire pours into the fire
Agni
licks his lips
quenching the homam within,
i wear the embers on my eyelids
with each blink
i regenerate.
Har Har Mahādeva!
🔱 further context: scholar Richard K. Payne explores homa as symbiosis between fire, the deity invoked in and concomitantly identified with the fire, and with the practitioner, who themselves becomes ‘ritually identified with both the deity and the fire’. in this, the offerings immolated in the fire are connoted with ‘spiritual obstacles that impede the practitioner from full awakening’. most significantly, ‘the practitioner’s own inherent wisdom is identified with the fire, and just as the offerings are transformed and purified, the practitioner’s own spiritual obstacles are, as well’. (2017)
Payne interestingly identifies two strains of interpretation of the ritual: first, ‘the yogic interiorization of ritual found in post-Vedic Indian religion, more as a form of esoteric physiology than as a psychologized understanding of visualization’; second, ‘the sexual symbolism’ ‘attached to all aspects of fire rituals’. (2017)
my Lord,
melt me on the betelnut leaf
show me that i am rough on the surface
but soft all the way through
my delusions of mass
my convictions of being,
my frights of flow
in the melding of haldi
and sanctified water,
apaḥ sips my contractions
pours of holy water,
my fissures dissolve into You
fingertips adorned in yellow hue
and moist eyes of velvet,
i throw my head back and gasp
𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒
photos: the ecstatic Caturāvṛtti Tarpaṇam, completed in forty-one days.
*poem published in Kamena Magazine, 2022. written in 2019. from my ‘teenage angst’ collection.
pitch-black clubs,
dazed fridays.
my youth pumps through my veins.
high heels,
shiny fake ids.
my youth grounds me.
grimy dance floors,
my youth bursts inside of me
it glides through me
wildly
as my heart throbs beneath my skin
matching the music’s beat
i please my youth
bending my body obediently
with the deafening bass
midnight
the synth dismantles my mind
and my limbs are not mine anymore
they follow the sound
there is no past
or future
only my body
spinning madly
only the music
twisting in my ears
only my youth
spilling on dance floors
from the crashed bottles of wine at my feet
in the depths of my being, She dances me to her call:
“come to me. I want all of you, my child. no part of you is too dark, too gritty, too cruel for me. I claim all of you.”
Māiyā! your waves carry your call and roll it against my chest. i seek you with my breath, eyes, hands, and knees. my lungs seek you like they seek air.
Ya Devī! soothing her tears,
Kṛṣṇa told Pāñcālī
that just as you, Śrī Gaṅgā, hold and wash all pollutions yet are ever-pristine,
so does the fallen empress remain untainted by her shame.
aches bathed in your luster,
i plead:
take all of me, Devī.
leave nothing of me behind.
establish me in knowing
that despite my wrongs, fears and corruptions, i, too,
your fragment in the microcosm,
remain unmarred.
may the holy flow of your untamed waters
sweeten the harshness i bear towards myself and the world
soften the rigid corners straining my being
loosen the knots hindering you from coursing within me.
Śrī Mātre Namaḥ. 🙏
photos: before & after bathing in the waters of Śrī Gaṅgā in the auspicious Gangotri. Śabda Yātra. 🙏 the blessing of blessings. 💙
for how many lifetimes
have you been calling me to you, Devī?
for how many lifetimes
have i cowered?
for how many lifetimes
have i been lost, Devī?
for how many lifetimes
have you watched me stumble?
i have been through many wombs
to rest my head at your feet today.
yet here i am,
my Devī.
would it be
greedy of me
to plead with you
one more time?
will you
grace me?
will you
wash away
my good, my ugly?
my irreverences, my pride?
my agonies, my beauty?
will you
cleanse this heart
until i am nothing but flow
rushing forth to meet your shores
like the water running between your locks
🤍 what came to me upon seeing the magnificence of Gaṅgā Devī for the very first time. pictures: Gangotri. Gomukh, Her Source. they fail to encompass Her beauty.
you elude me,
my Beloved.
your nectarous call
trickles in my ears
and i run to you,
maddened.
i run to you,
enamoured,
clothed by longing
and with tears as jewels.
i run to you,
bare,
silk dress in shreds,
ripped slippers.
i’ve been running to you
since before i was born.
i am tired, Hari.
my dignity and pride
are long forgotten.
my toenails are cracked,
the skin peels off my feet.
my hair is rumpled,
my breasts are bruised;
your wayward bride.
whenever i get close
to throwing myself at your feet
my mind entangles me.
my wrongs push against my bones
and i fall on my face.
my blood smears the ground
and i grovel. i cry. i howl.
when your nectarous call
trickles in my ears,
i jolt forwards.
and i run to you,
maddened.
~ poem to Madhav, published in Śabda Magazine, volume II. my offering of longing as we approach the auspicious day of Vijayadaśamī! may we be victorious in our quest to merge with the Divine Beloved. 
amaryllis 