What are your morning rituals? What does the first hour of your day look like?

Her rituals are not aesthetic. They are stitched together between pauses.
A thought scribbled in her mind when her hands are full.
A line of poetry that visits her while she rocks her child.
A silence she borrows, not owns.
Her body moves, but gently—as if in conversation with itself. No urgency, no punishment. Just a quiet return. A remembering.

In the Pale Heat of Late September by Devika Mathur

Editor’s Note: The unique imagery in this poem allows the reader to experience the emotional ache of the speaker with startling clarity.

In the Pale Heat of Late September by Devika Mathur

Call for submission

Creation is not about producing. It is about revealing. Every act of art, of work, of love is a small unveiling of who we are when we are most unguarded. To create with honesty means to stop polishing yourself for the world’s approval and instead let the cracks, the raw edges, the half-formed truths spill out. The world doesn’t need more perfection; it needs sincerity. What we make in alignment with our spirit outlives us—it becomes a testament that we lived not as machines of ambition but as vessels of humanity.

With this, I am extending a call for submission for my newsletter- The Weekly Shine. I would love to read if you have to share any essays, poetry, opinion, fiction or anything with depth. Please mail me everything on oliveskinspoet@gmail.com in a Word Doc.

Poetry Workshop by Devika Mathur

Hi!

It’s been long since i posted anything on my First writing platform- WordPress. I am here to announce I will be conducting my first ever poetry workahop where in you can expect a lot of positive reading, sharing of prompts and exchange of poetry discussions.

Come join the fun. Register through google form.

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdfOsQMHdjgOTEEVdLuPEB_DtrAtG3SWs9xJTNakrR2JbFqcA/viewform?usp=header

Mothlight- an essay

We lived in a rented house that always smelled faintly of incense and old books. The ceilings were cracked, and the fan made a clicking sound as if remembering something. My brother liked to sleep with the lights off, so I let him, though I preferred a soft lamp glow. I had placed a moth sticker near the bulb — it looked like it was fluttering toward light that no longer welcomed it.

Our mother worked double shifts at the clinic. The hours made her quieter. When she came home, she kissed our foreheads like a formality, like sealing an envelope. On nights she was late, I’d lay out the blanket on the floor and wait for my brother to drag his stuffed lion and lay beside me, his small hands folded beneath his cheek like prayer.

The first few nights, he didn’t say much. But he always turned toward me in sleep, as if our bones needed to mirror each other. He was six, too young to name his sadness, so he drew it instead — paper filled with stick figures and giant suns that looked like explosions. Sometimes I’d find them crumpled behind his pillow.

Rain would press itself against our windows like a secret. The streetlamps cast long, trembling shadows on our walls. The city was alive with noise — sirens, dogs, the hum of trains like lullabies for the restless. And still, inside that room, the silence between us felt sacred, like something we had built to survive.

“I think she forgets to miss us,” he once whispered.

I didn’t answer. I just tucked the blanket higher, letting him borrow my warmth. His breathing slowed, steady like waves smoothing over sand. I stayed still, learning the shape of grief from the way he curled into me. He was soft and certain, like the last light before sleep, like a moth brushing your wrist — gentle enough to remind you you’re still here.

My newsletter- The Weekly Shine

Self care

How do you practice self-care?

I brush and make bed
Sit and sip coffee
With tender veins popping out-
I apply mask and witness nature
Orange skies snd flutter of birds
I burn incense, sage
to declutter my insane thought
To powder my callous face
And then i repeat my affirmations
Over and over to insert a rhyme
Into my thick bright skin
I wonder in the evening
about love-making and cold showers
Rains and pills to pop
I dream and plant seeds to bloom
Into a thing of beauty.
I eat mangoes later, sliced yellow treat on my tongue
Only to sleep with my eyes imagining all that has happened in slumber.

Update

Hi,

I recently have starting sharing book reviews across my insta handle @my.valiant.soul and have started spending my time creating art, mandala and what not! How is life treating you all? Share in the comments. I would love to read.:)

My poem got published in The Literay Revelations. Check it out here.

https://literaryrevelations.com/2025/06/21/weekend-feature-the-stunning-poetry-of-devika-mathur/

Journaling and mindfuness

I’m once again diving deep into my manifestation practices — weaving together science, cosmology, and intention to co-create a new, aligned reality. This journey isn’t new to me; I’ve been studying and practicing these concepts for years. While I haven’t always followed the conventional path, I’ve stayed rooted in my quest to reshape my existence meaningfully.

Now, I’m embracing tools like journaling, prompt writing, chanting, and conscious manifestation to harness the time I have on this Earth with purpose.

Does this resonate with you?

My newsletter about poetry, good things- The weekly shine

What’s the oldest thing you own that you still use daily?

My voice—
a brass bowl passed down
from the mouths of my foremothers,
lacquered in lullabies
and half-burnt prayers.

It has cracked—
in classrooms, in corridors,
in kitchens thick with cardamom steam
and the weight of unsaid things.

It has sung to the moon
from rooftops slick with monsoon,
called crows at dawn
as if they were gods
disguised in feathers.

Big News!🌼 Come join me.

✨ Big News! ✨
I’m curating something soulful and intentional for you all.
In my upcoming newsletter, alongside the poetry you love, I’ll be sharing mindful, guided journaling prompts and simple lifestyle shifts to help you slow down and reconnect—with yourself and your creativity.

If you haven’t already, now’s the perfect time to sign up.
Let’s grow, write, and heal together. ️

Here is the link to join-

The Weekly Shine

What notable things happened today?

Today, I noticed the sky blinked slower than usual—
as if the clouds were unsure whether to cry or just drift.

A sparrow made eye contact with me like it knew my secrets.
(I didn’t blink first.)

My tea turned cold while I was lost in a memory I thought I had outgrown.
Isn’t it strange how memories age but never die?

I heard laughter echoing from a balcony across the street.
It didn’t belong to me, but I borrowed it anyway.

I spoke to someone I hadn’t in years.
We said nothing important,
but it felt like forgiving the version of myself who never texted back.

The mirror didn’t lie today.
It told me I’m a little softer around the eyes
and a little louder in the soul.

And tonight?
The moon looked like it had something to say—
but chose silence instead.
Maybe that was the message.

“The Hour of the Soul”

There comes a moment—somewhere between the dusk and the dream—when you no longer recognize your own voice. Not because it has changed, but because for the first time, it speaks truth. A terrible, divine truth. The kind that burns like holy fire. And in that moment, you are not a person, not a name, but a trembling idea caught in the hands of the universe.

I have walked through rooms where silence screamed louder than God. I have wept in trains and temples, trying to find the thread between the man I am and the boy I buried. We carry coffins inside us, not just of people, but of versions of ourselves we could not save.

But then something—something unseen, absurd, mystical—calls you. A crow, a violin note, a page from a book you forgot to finish. And suddenly, everything breathes again. The soul that once wandered like a beggar now sits beside you like an old friend.

What is self-discovery if not standing naked in front of the mirror of the world, asking it to see you, not as flesh, but as fire? We are not meant to be understood. We are meant to burn, quietly or not, until all that remains is what was eternal from the beginning.

Cheers

Devika

On Being silly and writing again

Sometimes, one begins to wonder what alterations to be made further to improve one’s life! With the same emotion, here I am.. wondering a few more things, overthinking, and writing as much as possible. I am writing on my blog after ages, and that is simply because of my dear friend Shreya, whose blog posts I read yesterday after a long hiatus. So thought, well, I could scribble something too!

The consistency of writing poetry, or for that matter any piece of creativity, requires a hell lot of clarity and space of your own to create something mindblowing. One begins to wonder if it’s actually the room constraint or the time constraint that stops us from writing more and more. I have read Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own” multiple times, yet can’t fathom the uniqueness of each word, letter, again and again. I deeply connect to that book and have so many thoughtful conversations about the same to myself and, of course, with other writers.

A few months ago, I visited the mountains again, this time, Mussoorie. I was flabbergasted to witness not only the amazing sunset but also the vermilion sunrise. It happened so quickly that I almost felt I had never seen such an awe-inspiring sight before. I traveled to many places this January; from attaining my spirituality to navigating various cultures, everything was a part of self-evolvement. Too many activities seem mundane now. This is when I acknowledged the supremacy of writing once again. The mountains gave me a bit of clarity. The rest was up to me: how to shift my thinking, to hold the pen again, and to bleed ink.

As an educator, this is my summer break time, and I am trying to fully live it. With reading, painting, writing my newsletters, and submitting my work, chanting everything, I am trying to ease my inner anxieties and whatnot.

Feel free to suggest to me good essay books that truly will set my mind on fire.

Also, consider reading my poetry book-Crimson Skins?

until next time

Love

Devika

Watcher of time

My mouth is a black ash
Emerging from a new ocean
Beneath the waters, i talk to my mother
I banter about the August moon and fruit seller
Whose daughter is an adult and soon to be married now
The jaw is my classmate
It never trusts my tongue
So i say something again to her-
I breath an entire sea of grief infront of her
She looks at me
She hugs me.
This is a vertical world
With insularity upon my eyelid.
Ah! The crisp nasty cries of others
they sit with me, they cling to my toes.
My mother – a subtle watcher of time.