Writing down some of the excerpts that I ❤️ ed
Because my sole is void of holes
and my soul is void of the scars
you get from being behind bars
or from waking up and feeling that no matter how wise you are
you will always be marginalised by society’s eyes.
Poetry is eternity
and we are just specks you see
dabbling in its mystery
and I once was blind
but now can
So no, I was not raised on the streets —
but neither was poetry.
It woke up with the first sunrise
opened with the first sunrise
gave birth to dragonflies
comforted baby cries
and cursed me with my eyes
So when I’m dead in the ground,
my soul six feet down,
my tombstone will read for some child to see
and smile when she’s done:
Here Lies A Man’s Private Poetry
Last night I had a horrid dream. Bone shaking me to my core, I have never had such a sweaty nightmare ever before. I dream very less (if I do, I don’t remember most of them). Last night’s -mare ingrained in my memory very starkly. Details need too much background information about my family members. So I’ll start from when the nightmare ended and I woke up. I woke to the end of mumbling that I saw myself saying in the dream.
No, paa(dad), no… (trying to tell that it wouldn’t happen so as the witches are trying to do)
I woke up all sweating to find that power backup had failed, and there was no electricity in the house. The fun part is, that I realised this after I tried to turn a tube light on. I couldn’t, and then I realised what was up, I got more scared. There was also a big mirror right in front of me, I couldn’t dare look into it.
I came back to bed and found my cell phone, turned on the flashlight on. I kept it on and to distract my mind, started scrolling through my Instagram feed. That is when I realised, that the time on the clock of my cell phone was stuck at 4:17am, for about 5 minutes. I freaked out. I tried to turn the flash light off, wouldn’t happen. I freaked out more.
3 minutes, I kept trying to prove myself that I wasn’t in a dream anymore, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have a list of factors which would prove it that way. It’s really really astonishing to me that the thing that I had been writing poems about, I actually got to unintentionally experience and in the most dreadful way.
When I finally managed to turn the flash light off, the clock jumped to 4:23am. My mobile had simply hung on me.
I tried not to laugh aloud because my brother was sleeping beside me. That was it.
Previously I wrote an ode to socks on a prompt. It highlighted the fact that I reuse socks after they stop stinking about a week or so later, and ultimately throw them out. Here have a read:
#socks #yopowrimo #ode #funny My brother and I are going to sing this and share soon 😉 AN ODE TO MY SOCKS My socks come in three pairs after I've exhausted my limit to wear the socks over and over again. My socks, alternate between pairs without washes. One starts stinking, it rests for the time it stops reeking After 15 days it's as good as new until the day its foremost part is as hard as a tuft of jute fibres. I laugh at myself when I throw them out, and then I feel like a waste of time ( Silent self snigger 😁 ) Follow my writings on @YourQuote.in #yourquote #quote #stories #ttt #qotd #quoteoftheday #wordporn #quotestagram #wordswag #wordsofwisdom #inspirationalquotes #writeaway #thoughts #poetry #instawriters #writersofinstagram #writersofig #writersofindia #igwriters #igwritersclub
This is another ode to socks, inspired by the events that happened on a difficult 30km mountain trek in the rains:
you allowed water
to fall into
feet bottom skin
Lucky we had
enough of you
we juggled you
in the leaky shoes
no good either
you’ll be worn
inside trek shoes
you wouldn’t have to
taste the marshy
stink of feet bottom
of possible fever
I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.
We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment
sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.
Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could read other and do that.
Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
A week ago, I wrote When Family Becomes A Distant Memory. Khawaja Musadiq, a wonderful wonderful poet turned it into a poem, thousand times more beautiful. Although he doesn’t know the context and details I wrote the blog post in, nonetheless he wrote so beautifully.
surviving on a bleak glimmer of h o p e ,
tormented by l o n e l i n e s s
the grandmother is kept awake
with no one to hold down her fears.
a village all forgotten,
where the recently harvested wheat fields
or the dauntless cemented roads,
didn’t make one bit difference to us–
young afficianados of cricket.
my grandmother, a woman–
possessing iron steel c o u r a g e
married off at 16 as a young sapling,
widowed at 35.
barely eating, living in desolution
hoping to see her young ones
lead a better life. but
never to be subjected to a b a n d o n m e n t.
yet she remains to be the epitome of,
exceptional countenance and inspiration.
love happened to father. about time too.
paranoia hit grandmother hard.
a persistent belief — that her daughter in law
was trying to bring the mother-son duo apart.
if only it were so gullible to be torn apart!
in the house. taunts and insults,
became quite too Common
unable to put up an indefatigable
show of acceptance.
mother gave up!
grandma was finally subjected to
a b a n d o n m e n t.
financial support didn’t make up for it.
father found his peace in alcoholism.
eaving mother s h a t t e r e d.
who was averse to the concept of change.
after all the being deprived the will to live
peacefully life altering.
father continues to be driven
by the lust of liquor.
despite mother’s despise and detest.
the conflict only resulting
in a war of words.
to fall out of love — they chose the answer,
for their reluctance to accept
the sinking bridge of marriage.
mother finally consoled by infatuation.
and so came into being
our desolate lives.
but i no longer dwell in it
For Simran Narwani
I was looking for a friend,
when you tapped my shoulder
from the back and
I was confused how to
respond back to a recognition
from a person
that was not mutual.
Last time this happened
I was in a hall
trying to remember something
so that I could at least pass,
when the invigilator stood
on top of me,
just staring me, writing.
Cold sweat droplets
started racing on my face,
assumption: he was
from my department.
When he finally spoke
he asked which exam
was I writing, and in
I forgot, the name
of the exam I was giving!
You girl with an accent,
I had watched your poems,
writing you on stage
like the broad nip ink pen
that road trips with blue ink.
I just forgot,
in the sun burst of your face,
standing in front of me,
as if you knew me
For Amruta Ghate
Far from people getting nuts,
partying, drinking, throwing up
(why is it called throwing up, when pukes goes down?)
from the honking cars and mazes
made out of vehicles on Bengaluru roads
there was a hospitable place on first floor.
Twenty something people coming up
with themselves and some poems
instantly made like maggi noodles
performing and all bodies receiving
like they were the ultimate gift
hand made like this page I’m writing on.
A girl freshly pressed from Pune
took stage and confessed in an
innocent defence that it was her first.
She focussed a memory saved on mobile
and kissed the words, hands
waving eloquently in expression.
When a poet leaves the stage there is
a body tremor of triumph that of
a canoe boat which had entered the ocean
on a full moon, but now has found a bank
full of people to listen to and
to lock their attention with your stories.
I don’t know of anybody else, but
I noticed the inundated eclectic electric
current passing through your body
evident on your face as you seated back.