Words fracture splintering brains in concussive reverie.
Her little voice across the phone last night:
“I saw your picture in the paper. Nice!”
(My writers’ group, one afternoon of white
snow, candy canes, hot chocolate, gave a slice
of literature with readings, workshops, sales
of our own books before the Christmas rush.)
And then my granddaughter asked, voice in trails
of hope, “Can I come over?” In a hush
of happiness how I agreed. “I’ll bring
my books and I could have my lesson.” Yes!
She plays piano. I, the richest king,
anticipated her arrival, press
of long brown hair against my chest. And soon
I saw her lime-green coat. She ran to me,
“Hi, Memah.” O, that sweetened perk. The moon
last night shone brighter than the stars. To be
with her is treasure. How this charmer brings
me joy with laughs and smiles tucked in so tight
that every polished moment like this clings
with stubborn happiness and makes dark light.
It’s the lonely old man’s birthday.
He remembers his 10th birthday, 60 years ago, when he celebrated it with friends, parents, and boxes of water guns.
He remembers his 30th birthday, 40 years ago, when he celebrated it with partners, mistresses and wads of cash.
He remembers his 50th birthday, 20 years ago, when he celebrated it with children, grandchildren and bottles of champagne.
Today he celebrates his 70th birthday with a wooden table, a wooden chair, and four empty walls.
His mind is of anticipation. A wooden box, a wooden dais, a small white floral wreath.
finally back after a long uncomfortable absence, I hate not posting regularly :(
hollow eyes -
rainbows of youth
faded, dull grey hues
plague cloudy skies.
winged dreams fall
battered, bashed, shattered, torn.
muted screams heard –
from the aching
they cling onto shreds of
I walk along the rivers
Which sources lie between
The pale white clouds in the sky
Which ends anywhere
Its tail a snaking wisp of smoke
I want to cross
The rickety wooden bridge
To the other side,
An uncharted mysterious terrain where
Strangeness is subjective.
January, and with it comes new courage,
I finally cross it.
The raging rapids conquered
The dark red blood glistens in the night
The dark red blood glistens in the night
Narrating the story of British Raj’s might
How a kind boy was killed at first glance
where now his lover is forced to dance
Who will, against this injustice, fight?
This deed of the Raj can never be right
the story behind which I now write
That kid was of no proper civil stance
Now his dark red blood glistens in the night.
What was about him, that the Raj fright
Was it his, against the oppression, fight?
He was not even given a last glance
Drowned in the black river at first chance
Now his lover dances at the same site
Where his dark red blood glistens in the night.
The story, I am narrating, through this poem- is loosely based on a Hindi prose- “एहिं थैया झुलनी हैरानी हो रामा…” by Shivprasad Mishra “Rudra”.
Poetic style- Rondeau
A french form of poetry consisting of 3 stanzas, 13 original lines and 2 refrains of the I line of the poem.
1. 8-10 syllables per line.
2. Structure with rhyme scheme-
Love so fair
Love so sly
Sly is who I am
Sly is the world
World so dreary
World is a dream
Dream in the night
Dream of the day
Day quite warm
Day with a charm
Charm act outward
Charm so fake
Fake is who I am
Fake is this world
Enlightens the path
Enlightens my soul
Soul concept of life
Soul concept of death
Death for me and you
Death so inevitable
Depression controls mind
Mind your own business
Mind so lame
Lame is who I am
Lame is the world
World so sultry
World where I live
Live in the shadow
Live in the oblivion
Sky so high
Sky so blue
Cheese of cow
Cheese I love
Love is who I am
Love is the world
World is yours
World is mine
Well, I hope you are not angry for reading this poem(yes it is a poem) which is full of meaningless phrases and words.
But I loved writing it and I hope you are also going to love it.
Blitz is a 50-line poem, completely made up of small phrases. Rules-
1. Line 1 should be one short phrase or image.
2. Line 2 should be one short phrase or image, using the same first word as the first words of Line 1.
3. Line 3 should include the phrase, using the last word of Line 2.
4. Line 4 should include the phrase, using the last word of Line 2.
5. Line 5 should include the phrase, using the last word of Line 4.
6. Line 6 should include the phrase, using the last word of Line 4.
7. Line 7 should include the phrase, using the last word of Line 6.
8. Line 8 should include the phrase, using the last word of Line 6.
9. Keep on repeating the routine till Line 48.
10. Line 49 is the last word(only) of Line 48.
11. Line 50 is the last word(only) of Line 47.
If you have any questions, do ask them. And try it- I know it is a little time consuming and a little confusing as well, but it is quite entertaining when we write it.
I am the star -
No, not the enchanting, twinkling stars
In the dark night sky
Those, are for dreamers.
I am the star -
The lamp to your future.
I am the brightest.
Come to me, dear children.
Into my world – your world – of A-Stars.
There are only stars, and the
There are no rainbows here for you to chase,
No fruitless quests for that pot of gold.
those, are for dreamers.
Join me in my song,
The chant of many -
Star, star, star.
A perfect, melodious harmony
Trembling with desire. Perfection. Rings in our ears.
Come to me, dear children.
I am the star that you need.
Not the twinkling stars in the night sky -
They are blind and dull.
Are for dreamers.
Green glow consumes the person.
White papers with black dots, white papers with black dots, white papers with black dots
The same blots on the same purity.
Hours and hours and hours. Again.
White blouse. Black skirt. White nails.
Permed black hair. White ring. Black boots.
How do you do?
$x for one pristine replication.
moon for it
the sun’s glory
so it finds
it’s own patch
of sky to
for it is drowned
out in the shrilly
shouts of other
fowls so it
finds its own
strive for the
sun yet I
can’t reach it,
so I aim for
over the rainbow
the colour black
but then she
of the night.
Fire : author – Kristin Cashore page 183
Fire looked at the captain of her guard and laughed, because she wasn’t Cansrel – she wasn’t anyone but herself. She had no one’s path to follow; her path was her own to choose. And then she stopped laughing, because she was terrified of the path she suddenly knew herself to be choosing. I can’t do this, she thought. I’m too dangerous. I’ll only make things worse.
No, she said back to herself. Already I’m forgetting, I’m not Cansrel; at every step on this path I create myself. And maybe I’ll always find my own power horrifying, and maybe I can’t ever be what I’d most like to be.
But I can stay here, and I can make myself into what I should be.
Wise words for us all from a wonderful author.
I came across an interesting method of forming poems, Book Spine Poetry, from The Tripping Pencil (who credits a site called Brain Pickings for the idea). You take a few books from your collection and arrange the titles to form a poem.
I modified mine slightly to allow one extraneous word at the beginning of each line. You are encouraged to snap a photo of your stack of books comprising the poem if you choose, though I decided to forgo a photo.
Here is my first effort at Book Spine Poetry:
Underneath The Glass Castle,
Lies Angela’s Ashes.
Somewhere East of Eden,
Residents of The Town and The City
Collect Flowers for Algernon.
He sits down.
Melodies unfurl with a twitch, a light trill,
And the man leans back, savouring every note
Cloaked in black, and stained with tears,
Winter’s gifts a forgotten sight. Under the stars,
He bows his head, straightens his back, and the haunting
Begins. He slams on the piano keys, sorrow a dark cloud.
He remembers lying down, watching the clouds,
He remembers the chirping birds’ magnificent trill,
He remembers her – her bright green eyes haunting
His own. Her hand, knotted
With his. He remembers lying down, watching the stars
As each twinkled, then faded, merely a tiny tear.
Yet her soulless body besieged his mind, tattered and torn.
Each passing bar, a doubtful cloud.
He sees not the stars.
He hears not the trill.
But only senses the funeral of the notes.
Like death angels chanting, dancing, haunting.
He plays to hunt
Her spirit, to guide her to fill the tear
In his heart. Each note
Forms her silhouette, dimly glowing against the black clouds,
Against the wintry mist. She smiles at each familiar trill,
Her eyes are gold, like the stars.
The music makes the fair moon and stars
Weep, for its haunting
Siren beseeches attention. Hark! Music flows like a rill,
As his fingers dance over the piano. Too abruptly, it stops. The air tears.
He hovers on the piano, like a cloud,
Contemplating. contemplating. contemplating. Too soon the notes
for your reference:
Word 1: trill
Word 2: note
Word 3: tear
Word 4: star
Word 5: haunt
Word 6: cloud
We’ll dance a waltz in the rain.
the twirling raindrops breeze past us
And the lovely patters sing.
We’ll grow our roses in the rain.
the soothing winds fondle our creation
And blooming petals rise.
We’ll spin our umbrellas in the rain.
the vibrant colours splash the blue
And the silent promise ring –
Our love flows like the rain
A shower of wealth
Sparkles of effervescence
And the cold, cloying tang of pain.
कुछ खोकर आज कुछ पाने की इच्छा है मेरी,
पर क्या, ये समझ नहीं है मुझे अभी,
कुछ तो चाहत है, कुछ तो अरमान है,
कुछ तो में भी पाना चाहता हूँ,
बस जानने की ही तो बात है,
पहले जान लूँ, फिर देखूं कि,
उसे पा भी सकूँ या नहीं,
जानते जानते शायद समझ जाऊं कि,
पाने की चाहत भी है या नहीं।
Today I wrote this small poem in Hindi. Well, I know many of you won’t be able to understand it. So- here is the somewhat English translation of the poem,
I have a desire after losing something today,
But what, that is what I am yet to know,
There is that desire for something that I want to achieve,
There is something I really want to achieve,
The only thing left to do is to know what it is,
I need to know, so that I can analyze,
Whether I will be able to achieve it or not,
May be analyzing that would help me realize
Whether I really want to achieve that something or not.