I’m trying out something new, on a new platform. This blog will still be around though.
In the meantime, if you’re interested, you can follow along my progress on a new poetry project. I hope you’ll join me there.
Tag: Writing
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Art as an outlet
I used to be able to put my feelings into words, filling page after page in diaries.
At some point, I stopped writing in first person, telling my stories through “her” and other characters.
As I aged, I transitioned to exclusively writing poetry, hiding behind metaphors and ambiguity.
And now..
There is so much of me wanting to hide,
Yet so much of me spilling out in crimsons and violets.
I guard my inner life fiercely, and art tries to pull me out of this solitude, desperate for human connection.
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Hold
Hold this hand,
that has held another many moons ago.
There will be something of the past
that I could not wash away.Most nights, I will sleep contentedly
my head nestled on your shoulder,
my arm wrapped across your chest,
smiling lightly.On some nights, I will wake up
And look past you,
seeing the ghosts that I thought I had banished.Bring me back.
Take me to the window
And point out the stars
That have survived for light years
As the universe shattered and remade itself around them.I will listen to your music
Tapping my foot gently to the rhythm,
And on most days
I will sing along with you
Not remembering that these songs,
I once sang to another.On some days,
I will stop mid-song;
Something of the past caught in my throat.Sing to me.
Erase the links between music and memory.
If not,
give me new memories.In return, my love,
I will draw a silver lining on all your clouds.I will write love poems to you,
Erasing the links between words and your memories.
If not,
I will give you new memories.I will look out of the window
And point out through the stillness of the night
The breaking horizon turning crimson,
Just as you broke your darkness with light.I will take you back from the window
And hum softly
So you can fall asleep contentedly once more.And I will hold your hand,
with something of your past,
that you could not wash away.
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Ink
Photo by Joanna Kosinska The pen demands conflict,
from which it can write itself out,
if momentarily.It demands empty calendars
and broken windows
out of which I can peer out,
the light hurting my eyes.When plunged into brightness
And hope,
It turns, first confused,
then skeptical,
then angry,
before slowly beginning to smile.I look relieved,
Believing that perhaps at last
There will be some resolution
between ordinary happiness
and anguished writing.“Only a matter of time”,
It says quietly,
“An addict returns for her kicks”,
“And so shall you”.Darkness has been my ink, I concede,
Torment is what made me poet.
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The Muse
Photo by Daniel Bernard Depression taught me about words,
And allowed me to find light in the lines
Slanting across pages
Of old diaries, and loose sheets
Crumpled in corners of drawers.Standing at the cusp
Between light and dark,
I looked back at empty rooms,
Light streaming softly through the crack between the curtains.
In front of me,
An open field,
Sunlight showering.I wondered if pens and parchment could be really found in the light.
I wondered if it mattered.
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Resurrection
The beginning of the pain
Fills in the ink into my pen.
The heart fears for itself once more
As the poet comes to life again.
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A Bookish Love
Photo by Alejandro Escamilla It was a stupid decision, they said. You are wasting your grades; you could easily get a better internship! But they did not understand. They did not know the absolute need, the compulsion to be there, among all those long, towering shelves of books. It was there, amidst the musty smell of books, that he could breathe.
He had his table by the classics section. It was the best table; he could see the black penguin covers, even if he was not allowed to pick any and read it during the day time. Their being there in front of him, just existing, was such a comfort. He helped people find the books; rarely did he use his computer to locate any book; he remembered where each of them was. Tolstoy’s War and Peace next to Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment… Bronte’s Jane Eyre besides the row of Jane Austen books. His hands lingered on the books; the touch was both familiar and exhilarating.
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She had not been to the bookstore for four months now; an eternity. The work at the make-up aisle was mind-numbing, and hardly paid for the bills. There was no extra money for books, no extra time for perusing the different sections of the bookstore.
But she was here finally; a Tuesday when the mall was unexpectedly closed for maintenance. She felt herself in familiar territory; there was an ease in her walking now. She had a fixed routine. First, she went to the New Arrivals, reading the back covers of expensive hardbacks that she could never afford. She kept in mind the titles of the books she liked, making a mental note to buy them once they were old enough to be paperbacks or second-hands. Next, she browsed the Fiction section. Here, she opened the latest John Grisham, and read about 50 pages, standing. She would continue it from there the next time she was here. Crime and Mysteries came next, after which she walked straight past the Romance section to the one she loved best; the Classics section. Here, she walked up and down the line of shelves, reading the titles and mentally ticking off the ones she had already read. In this section, she could transport herself back to older times, tragedies of the war and the pain of betrayal. Here, she could rejoice in the “happily ever after” of Pride and Prejudice and cry at the unresolved ending of Gone with the Wind.
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He saw her take a book in her hand and put it in a different shelf below. He stood up to prevent her from messing the shelves, but stopped. The book was A Picture of Dorian Gray, and it did belong to the lower shelf; someone must have picked it and then put it back in the most convenient spot on the higher shelf. He was surprised; she was a customer, why should it matter to her?
He slid back in his chair and watched closely. He saw her picking up book after book, reading the back covers, reading the first few pages, smiling and nodding at times. Always, she put the book back in its right place. As she browsed, she straightened the books that were not in line. It was almost an unconscious action; she displayed no exasperation on her face.
He saw her picking up yet another book now. After deliberating for a moment, she put it back. Then she picked it up again. He strained to see what book it was; Wuthering Heights.
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She opened her purse. There were only Rs. 170 in it. The cost of the book was Rs. 160. That would leave her with just enough money to buy a bus ticket to home. There were still four days before the month end. There were still groceries to buy and bills to pay. Reluctantly, she put the book back on the shelf. She would buy it the next time. Slowly, she walked out of the bookstore.
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He saw her returning ten minutes later. She walked with purpose now. Hurriedly, she went back to the Classics section, picked up Wuthering Heights, walked to the counter and bought it. He saw her smile once she held the book in her hands, now her own. The tension in her eyes eased gradually. With lighter steps, she walked out of the bookstore again.
He had never seen her in the bookstore before. He did not know who she was. But sitting here on his hard chair, among piles of books, he knew he had found the girl he would love.
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Blog Review: 2014
2014 has been a very happening year for me. There have been many defining events. The coming year is going to bring even wilder changes! I hope that my blog will continue to reflect the things happening in my life and that my writing will stay true to the person that I am. 🙂
Blog-wise, the year saw a lot of poetry, and some life moments in between. Here are some of my favourite posts this year:
Stories:
Poetry:
Life/Personal:
On Vulnerability, Bravery and Failure
Last year, my Reader was filled with these wonderful blog reports. I started blogging in February of 2013 and hence, did not get it the last time. This year, this little surprise was waiting for me in my inbox. 🙂
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,000 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.
Click here to see the complete report.
I hope the following year sees more eclecticism in my blog posts. 🙂
Have a wonderful year ahead!
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The Writer In Me
Photo by Jason Long I’m a writer of variety, she says.
I write everything I see.
But in all her stories,
I see a little bit of me.
With each story that she writes,
She pulls out a thorn.
A small something buried deep,
A long-forgotten pain.
She writes feverishly at times,
Almost like a maniac,
Stopping hardly to breath
As her fingers heal by pen.
Now I am all sore
With open wounds all over,
The writer sits by, satisfied;
A wet smile sits on her face.
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The Empty Page
I wake up suddenly;
The remains of the nightmare
Form tiny beads of perspiration
On my forehead.
I shiver with cold
As I think of that page,
Sitting brightly on my desk
Smug in its blankness.
I tiptoe to the desk,
Not daring to turn on the light.
It glows in the dark though;
Its whiteness teases me.
I’ve had several such nights
Breathing heavily in front of it.
Willing myself to mar the white
And waiting in vain.
I burn with feverish passion
Now attacking it violently.
The pen slants across the page
For hours, I lash out at it.
The words pour out like blood
And then I slash them out,
Beginning anew,
Then turning old.
It is morning now,
My fervor has cooled down.
The paper bears the marks
Of my crimson ink.
The Writer's Nest 