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About Deviant Roshni DhanjeeFemale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
Deviant for 7 Years
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Literature
Selfish Sonnet
I want to pluck eyelashes from your face;
I want to cover your sandpaper skin in lotion;
I want to fold your dimples into place;
I want to help you  colour your every emotion;
I want to smooth your crinkled nose when you sneeze;
I want be the salt in your every tear;
I want whispers through hair - a secret breeze;
I want to trace my finger over contours of ear;
I want to be the song stuck within – you’re heady;
A rhythm surging through your limbs until
Your feet can no longer bear to hold themselves steady;
I’ll electrify your body to a thrill.
I swear, I want to be less selfish, sweet:
But I want you more than I want that feat.
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Housecleaning
I lift my feet as you
pass the pipe beneath and
draw the little flakes of
skin and strands of hair out
of our living room rug.  
You traverse the room
preceded by a proboscis  
and succeeded by a rumbling
receptacle of rubbish.
You look like a superhero to me.  
I’m washing the cups and
cups and dishes and pots,
somewhat grudgingly, though
also in a bubble
of dish-washing delight.  
Once started, I’m on a roll,
and I scrub the surfaces
of our tomato and tea
and starch-stained steel kitchen sink.  
You plant a lasting love note on my neck .
The bathroom sink holds no
chance; I show no mercy
when I’m erasing signs
of white spit, purple soap –
and all must go before
We roll out the sofa bed
so we can get tangled up
until the very last speck
of our domestic Sunday.
I’d like to grow purple orchids with you.
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 1 0
Literature
The Scent Singer
She spins silks from scents;
the weaver of words, the seamstress of stories
coloured ribbons in her hair, circling softly,
spirals sigh with secret senses
she sings with whispers of woodsmoke,
of benzoin and myrrh, jewels of frankincense
her lyrics are made from the colours of a dusk sky;
her music, with newspaper ink and cinnamon bark—
and when she paints, her palette is formed of
pink pepper, violet ionone, amber and hedione;
her canvas will be just a touch of vapour,
a spritz of breath upon warm skin…
    Could you know?
looking into the depths of
your alcoholic euphoria,
that crystalline glass, golden mirage,
facets reflecting rays of--
    Could you know?
leaning to breathe in
her subservient seduction,
the cocktail hour's concoction,
ten tangles of the temptress--
    Could it be—
all within a delusion, within a dream,
within a spectral truthful stream?
    Could it be—
this phantom’s fantasy is no more than
th
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 1 0
Literature
Worlds Apart
Part I: Mombasa
It smells like sun, sun, sun and rotting fruit,
Like heat and green, life growing from the root –
White cotton dress: red belt, red ribbons, red shoes.
Skin toasted brown, brown eyes, warm views.
At the height of class 7: a Giraffe, taller than all –
Badminton champion, team captain of netball.
I grew here like a language, like a sunrise.
But then I heard Papa say that maybe it was time.
Watches in his repair shop stopped in place,
The grandfather clock in the corner ceased to chime.
Emigration was drawn by the hand on each face.
Mummy’s family had relocated, leaving Uganda behind –
In Tanzania and Kenya, the tensions would soon follow.
In October 1973, visas received and papers signed,
The boxes were filled and my bookshelves left hollow.

Part II: London
February 16th, 1974. The sky was bleak:
Raindrops slid tracks down each cheek,
The dampness seeping through my clothes
And settled, for years, inside my nose.
I didn’t get to live
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
The Source
Creativity buds within you before you are born, some say –
like the shape of your eyes, the birthmark on your cheek.
Others, that it’ll grow as you stretch yourself skywards:
a sprout blessed by sunlight, sprinkled with freckles.
I’m not sure which I believe: both, or neither – or something in between;
Could it rise from a cosmic encounter, or from a directional dream?
The thrum and hum of the drum pulsates –
does that beat that make you dance for your days?
Do you feel the inks slowly seep inside?
the stroke of the brush,
the chafe of the chalk,
as well as the pencil’s graze?
The curves and the bow, the strings that you chose –
when first struck, did they sing, “We are one and the same”?
I’d like to believe that I’m not selfish, but
when I create, I want it all
I want to compose a poem with the colours of the dusk sky;
Sing a song using scents of amber and incense –
To paint a portrait with the sounds of your whis
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 1 0
Literature
On Ignorance
I’d rather not know about the finning of sharks,
Or the desolation and ruin refugees are leaving behind;
I want to be able to understand more about quarks,
And know how a man can travel through London, blind.
I don’t fully comprehend the concept of austerity, which
Measures a government should or shouldn't contemplate;
And it fascinates me that bats hear to the height of pitch
At 200 000 Hz, whilst whales can detect even lower than 8.
I hate to hear of gun violence, unnecessary and tragic;
Of cerebral cells being slaughtered by viral infection;
Yet I am captivated by the indescribable magic
And intricacy of evolution, survival, and natural selection.
If you need directions, I’m not the person to question –
I’ll most likely send you the opposite way;
But please, speak to me of linguistic expression
And the dazzling colour of northern lights in Norway.
Could I please be blissfully unaware of darkness? I feel so mesmerized by light –
It’s a wonder
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 1 2
Literature
Scavenge hunt
Scattered           limbs            upon the bank
of the river turned murky by dirt
and            lifelessness
Plastic litter                                                       scuttles like crabs
across the underside of the bridge’s belly
Discarded wrappers
and soggy cigarette stubs           wander along, battered
by the light drizzle
A beady-eyed, greedy-eyed
seagull chases after them.
Even he seems                       like cast-off junk,
itinerant in inappropriate land-lock.
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Tammie
“Watch out!”
He sailed through the air and landed at the side of the road, in a crumpled pile. Scrambling to sit back in the grass, Evan’s mouth hung agape like a fish. He was, somehow, almost intact.  The truck continued rumbling past, and the sounds echoed in his head, circling round his confounded mind.
He struggled to process what had just occurred: one moment he stood bang in the middle of the road, death looming – but the next… The next, he was where he sat now. He looked up; someone was crouched down in front of him, gesticulating, talking to him. Tamara. What was she saying?
“...okay? Hello? Say something! Shit!” she poked and prodded frantically at his head, his ribs, his legs. His mouth felt dry. He blinked at her.
Pulling the words from the back of his mind, he responded:
“Yes…. I… what..?” he croaked. Had she just..? And how could…?
“Oh, thank god! I thought you’d lost it, or something!
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Sightless
Single white lash
flutters with the dark others
upon a semi-closed lid
He pauses to consider, a small
twitch of the mouth creeping
up his dry worn-leather face
A smile lights up as he says,
“A nice smell, this one.”
and selects a number on the scale
Unshaved patch where
this morning’s razor missed
but he can be excused
His brow furrows as he
focuses on the terry towel
held in plastic-gloved hands.
Head shakes a little now and
then, unstably due to age
and perhaps uncertainty
Old blind man sits
in a metre-squared booth
and smells for sensory analysis
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Wonders
She dove in deep, daring the ocean to swallow her up as it had done before.
Different ocean, different time.
The water surrounding her was a crystal clear turquoise, almost the same shade as her favourite pendant, given to her by her sister. The corals were bright and populated with stunning, lively fish that darted about in dizzying directions.
Directions. She didn’t care which way was up or down, North or South, here. She didn’t mind feeling directionless.
The water then had been inky, thick like tar and inescapable. It was uninviting but dragged her deep, like a magnet to her heavy, iron limbs.
All she’d wanted, then, was some direction, some light by which to see. She could hardly breathe.
Different ocean, different time.
Here, Cassandra’s lungs filled calmly with air, and she slowly emptied them out into a frenzy of flickering and gurgling bubbles. Her eyes followed them as they rose: so too, did the tiny, silver fishes, scattering and reuniting. She danced
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Melanin
I don't know what the issue is
with my skin
after all, it's just a little more
melanin
I feel sort of sorry for you,
in fact
You scorch yourself under the light
just to get a little glow
but now you're a giant lobster
a sun-wrinkled tomato
And you think my skin is the one
that's gross
Idiot.
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Poeme
Warmth of amber on my skin:
I’m dreaming, once again.
Orange blossoms in a swirl,
Then rose and jasmine soon unfurl –
Silk and velvet, shimmered and pearled,
What a fragrance – what a world
Of poetry, art and scent,
That somehow I have dreamt.
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 1 5
Literature
Distance is Lonely
I wake up, alone; you’re far away
In a different climate, a different time of day -
But where I am, the skies swirl in stony grey.
You wake up, alone; I’m not there –
I’m hours behind, and it’s not fair,
And it feels like far too much to bear.
We wake up, together at last;
But our days together pass too fast –
Those days are soon just memories past.
I wake up, alone, and you do, too
A hundred lonely days we must see through –
But soon, again, I will see you…
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
The Heart Brags
My hands are cold but move like dancers
They dance, they dance, they dance
Poppy red blossoms under my eyes
It blooms, it blooms, it blooms
-
Little orbs slide between the notes
They roll, they roll, they roll
Down my gullet the dots swim
They swim, they swim, they swim
-
I breathe the fumes of my own ghosts
I breathe, I breathe, I breathe
I swing from the eaves of my own mind
I swing, I swing, I swing
-
Swallowed by the seas - spat out again
I am, I am, I am
Out from between my monster’s jaws
I am, I am, I am
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0
Literature
Caverns
Come over to insomnia
Where the nights tick loudest,
And the days are dazed and hazed and crazed.
Step into the chemical dysphoria;
No, dance, into the shadowed caverns of
wilderness
untamed beasts
familiar phantoms
Your favourite darknesses,
Your favourite filth.
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 1 0
Literature
(Im)Patience
I’ve been so patient, for so long –
I’ve borne these motions,
These swift emotions,
And still this storm sweeps me along
I’m not one whose virtues extend through time:
Not one who can bear bruises
And constant abuses
Along the same old torturous climb.
“How long?” I ask, I beg, I implore –
How much longer will it take for similitude
To convince my soul of a fortitude,
And persuade my mind each day is not a chore?
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney
:iconsunhoney:sunhoney 0 0

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inspirations...

Activity


I want to pluck eyelashes from your face;
I want to cover your sandpaper skin in lotion;
I want to fold your dimples into place;
I want to help you  colour your every emotion;

I want to smooth your crinkled nose when you sneeze;
I want be the salt in your every tear;
I want whispers through hair - a secret breeze;
I want to trace my finger over contours of ear;

I want to be the song stuck within – you’re heady;
A rhythm surging through your limbs until
Your feet can no longer bear to hold themselves steady;
I’ll electrify your body to a thrill.

I swear, I want to be less selfish, sweet:
But I want you more than I want that feat.
I lift my feet as you
pass the pipe beneath and
draw the little flakes of
skin and strands of hair out
of our living room rug.  

You traverse the room
preceded by a proboscis  
and succeeded by a rumbling
receptacle of rubbish.

You look like a superhero to me.  

I’m washing the cups and
cups and dishes and pots,
somewhat grudgingly, though
also in a bubble
of dish-washing delight.  

Once started, I’m on a roll,
and I scrub the surfaces
of our tomato and tea
and starch-stained steel kitchen sink.  

You plant a lasting love note on my neck .

The bathroom sink holds no
chance; I show no mercy
when I’m erasing signs
of white spit, purple soap –
and all must go before

We roll out the sofa bed
so we can get tangled up
until the very last speck
of our domestic Sunday.

I’d like to grow purple orchids with you.
She spins silks from scents;
the weaver of words, the seamstress of stories

coloured ribbons in her hair, circling softly,
spirals sigh with secret senses

she sings with whispers of woodsmoke,
of benzoin and myrrh, jewels of frankincense

her lyrics are made from the colours of a dusk sky;
her music, with newspaper ink and cinnamon bark—

and when she paints, her palette is formed of
pink pepper, violet ionone, amber and hedione;

her canvas will be just a touch of vapour,
a spritz of breath upon warm skin…


    Could you know?
looking into the depths of
your alcoholic euphoria,
that crystalline glass, golden mirage,
facets reflecting rays of--

    Could you know?
leaning to breathe in
her subservient seduction,
the cocktail hour's concoction,
ten tangles of the temptress--

    Could it be—
all within a delusion, within a dream,
within a spectral truthful stream?
    Could it be—
this phantom’s fantasy is no more than
the extracted essences of ecstasy?


She spins silks from scents.
coloured ribbons in her hair, circling softly;
she sings with whispers of woodsmoke—
  her lyrics are made from the colours of a dusk sky;
  her music, with newspaper ink and cinnamon bark,
  pink pepper, violet ionone, amber and hedione.

Could it be?
…just a spritz of breath upon warm skin…
Part I: Mombasa
It smells like sun, sun, sun and rotting fruit,
Like heat and green, life growing from the root –

White cotton dress: red belt, red ribbons, red shoes.
Skin toasted brown, brown eyes, warm views.

At the height of class 7: a Giraffe, taller than all –
Badminton champion, team captain of netball.

I grew here like a language, like a sunrise.

But then I heard Papa say that maybe it was time.
Watches in his repair shop stopped in place,
The grandfather clock in the corner ceased to chime.
Emigration was drawn by the hand on each face.

Mummy’s family had relocated, leaving Uganda behind –
In Tanzania and Kenya, the tensions would soon follow.
In October 1973, visas received and papers signed,
The boxes were filled and my bookshelves left hollow.


Part II: London
February 16th, 1974. The sky was bleak:
Raindrops slid tracks down each cheek,
The dampness seeping through my clothes
And settled, for years, inside my nose.

I didn’t get to live with my parents for months.
I didn’t get used to the lifestyle for years.

Masi, masa, cousins; I didn’t like them much,
But they were my home from home, for too long.
I hated the clothes: the synthetic touch
Of five or more layers on my skin felt wrong.
The air was grey and polluted; the people too –
Students teased and talked back; rowdy, rude,
Devoid of the love for education that I knew.
My skin faded as I grew more subdued.

I joined the sports teams, integrated myself;
But still I craved my old book-filled shelf:
My Nancy Drew and Famous Five, Lego blocks,
The tick-tocking of all my father’s clocks.

Finally, late ’74, my parents moved into our new home.
I joined them, but in ’75, so did a sister I didn’t want.



Part III: Geneva
Ten years, two months on; our families gathered harmoniously to meet.
Mutual family friends. A kindred man. Good income, worked abroad.
We exchanged our letters; his were intelligent, serious and sweet;
Then we arranged an engagement, a marriage, a move. I was awed,
Refreshed and inspired by this city. Open people, open skies,
And here again, I grew. Like a language, like a sunrise.
Worlds Apart
I wrote this for an assignment. Here's the commentary that went with it:

I chose to use the assignment prompt “worlds apart” for this piece. Consider the different ways in which one can be worlds apart: different countries, languages, cultures, and even different generations.

My mother grew up in Mombasa, Kenya, and immigrated to the UK a month before her 13th birthday. She had difficulty adapting at first, finding the cultural differences disorienting; and she couldn’t bear the transition from warmth to dreary, soggy, and grey. Later on, when she met and married my father, she moved to Geneva. She found this change much more pleasant, and welcomed the new cultures into her life.

Her experiences feel like they are worlds apart from mine; I can’t imagine growing up as an East African Asian, with mounting political tensions (Idi had Amin chased Asian families that had settled into Uganda, causing further pressures in neighbouring countries). I began by interviewing my mother and creating a cluster/mind map, from which I developed phrases through 15-20 minutes of free writing.  

I trialled a few options before deciding to write the story of my mother’s early life in a poetic form. I didn’t want to have a running narrative, nor a full picture; a snapshot here, a sensation there, as well as a basic timeline would suffice. I didn’t want to delve deeply into the political aspects, as my mum had only been 12 at the time, and didn’t know or understand the full picture. What she did know was that her mother’s family had moved out of Uganda to London, and that her father was considering following their friends and family to the UK. She also knew that she had to sell the majority of her toys, books, and other belongings; only the useful and necessary items were taken with them.

I decided to write three poems – or one poem in three parts – to address each location. I began by trying to write with a third person perspective, but felt that the individual’s sensations and memories of the experiences would be lost, so switched to first person. I feel that this way, the reader can more easily relate and vividly imagine the flashes of sensation. Through all poems, I used some of the exact wording my mother did, to bring authenticity and reminders of her memories within the text. 

The first poem, Mombasa, focuses on the colours and smells and liveliness that my mother had experienced in her childhood.  The second, by contrast, has the air of greyness, dampness – both physically and emotionally – that the move over to London meant to my mother. The last shows the process of transition from London to Geneva, in short, matter of fact phrases, which then lead to a sense of relief.

As always, the hardest part is editing. As I chose to have a more ‘free verse’ structure (loosely rhythmic, but not accurately metered) that rhymed, I had some freedom in changing words to my liking. However, I also wanted to make sure each poem was different enough, so I modified the style. For this, I added unrhymed, prosaic sections to the London poem – so that it was starker, more factual. The Geneva poem was shorter and more swiftly paced, as the transition was not as traumatic an event – and in a sense, is ongoing, as my parents are still currently situated in Geneva. 

Loading...
Creativity buds within you before you are born, some say –
like the shape of your eyes, the birthmark on your cheek.
Others, that it’ll grow as you stretch yourself skywards:
a sprout blessed by sunlight, sprinkled with freckles.

I’m not sure which I believe: both, or neither – or something in between;
Could it rise from a cosmic encounter, or from a directional dream?

The thrum and hum of the drum pulsates –
does that beat that make you dance for your days?

Do you feel the inks slowly seep inside?
the stroke of the brush,
the chafe of the chalk,
as well as the pencil’s graze?

The curves and the bow, the strings that you chose –
when first struck, did they sing, “We are one and the same”?

I’d like to believe that I’m not selfish, but
when I create, I want it all

I want to compose a poem with the colours of the dusk sky;
Sing a song using scents of amber and incense –
To paint a portrait with the sounds of your whispers;
And fashion a frock from the folds of these flavours.
I can't believe I've hardly written in a year! I miss it, but I guess I've been getting my creativity out in other ways (though not nearly as much!)
I hope that this is the start of another creative phase; I often write 40 poems in one go and then stop for ages.
I'm out of practise so the first few will probably not be much good.
Anyway, happy new year & happy new phase! 

xxx
Rosh
  • Listening to: Toe: Two Moons

Comments


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:iconoaklungs:
oaklungs Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2013
thank you so much for the watch too! :heart:
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Khaimin Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you very much for the favorite~
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SolidMars Featured By Owner Dec 13, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Wave 
thank you kindly for the favs. I'm glad you found my work worth your time :tighthug:
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JustBecause62 Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you kindly for the favorite :)
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Concora Featured By Owner Jul 9, 2013   Writer
Happy birthday! :party:
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manonsi Featured By Owner Jun 20, 2013   Writer
thank you for the fave :) looking forward from reading more from you this summer! :D
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Another-Hitchhiker Featured By Owner Oct 18, 2012   Writer
Thanks for the favorite, I really appreciate it! :)
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Concora Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2012   Writer
Thank you for the watch! :heart::heart:
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Zark123 Featured By Owner Jul 31, 2012  Student Writer
Thanks for all the favorites =D
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Concora Featured By Owner Jul 19, 2012   Writer
Thank you for the favourite of Metamorphosis. :heart:
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Life-Is-Oppurtunity Featured By Owner Apr 18, 2012  Student Writer
Hello,
Thank you for joining #Write-Now! We are happy to have you as apart of our group. I hope you take the time to read over our submission and group rules found on our group's profile, as well as share your work with our other group members!
Your group founder,
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UnspecifiedUnknown Featured By Owner Feb 25, 2012   Writer
thank you :+fav:
:rose:
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Hexospectrum Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2012
Thank you for the other favourites :D
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Hexospectrum Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2012
Thanks a lot for the watch! :)
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synconi Featured By Owner Dec 17, 2011   Artisan Crafter
Thank you for watching me! :iconcookie-plz::heart:
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