Poetry

Here we are, all trying to write poetry
Fill feelings we all know of in words
And verse, in hopes that it expresses
Some strange familiarity, unheard.

We write about fiction write about faith
find faith in fiction and fiction in faith
We write about mundane, write about everyday
For when mundane is the beautiful
Beauty turns mundane.

Sometimes we write a place beyond us
A concept a place of hope
Otherwise it’s intended absurdity
Chicken soup warmth pains, emote

We’ll always write about people
For people will always write about us.
Every thought is poetry
If thought of long enough.

07/09/2022

Waltz

Nostalgia was a beautiful stranger.

You came across her through her work on a particularly lazy afternoon; desperately in want of respite from the mundane, you found her tiptoeing around the back alleys of your mind. As soon as you noticed her, she seemed to glow from within. She approached you coyishly, Humming an 80s tune that felt vaguely familiar. Maintaining a steady, hypnotic gaze, she walked right into focus. It was mesmerizing – with her every step, your emotions frantically pulsated through the walls surrounding
Nostalgia, lighting up your whole brain. One pirouette and you were helpless to your feelings. She seemed like good – no – fantastic company, and this felt like a chance you simply couldn’t miss.

So you reached for her hand, and the two of you danced; nestled in each other’s arms, the two of you swiveled away through time and space, back and forth through your past in swift, graceful movements. She spoke so tenderly, whispering to your heart about things you’d long forgotten that you cherished. It was easy to confide in her, to just be with her. You took turns as the lead as Nostalgia slowly stitched together a visual spectacle for you through the whole afternoon. It was undeniably breath-taking.

Nostalgia was a flirtatious companion.

You always had a weakness for the intensely personal and the sentimentally beautiful, and her entire performance, her modus operandi as an artist, revolved around just that. She found you just as fascinating – a meek human, so awestruck by her performance. You made her feel alive, as if the inspiration she was in need of to work on her art, had finally come by. In you, she had found everything she could ever ask for – a patron, a Muse, an admirer, a partner. Since your first dance together, she never failed to gush over your memories as her favourite medium – so fragile and so whimsical, she’d said. Malleable. Every piece she created for you was more
poignant than the last. And so you succumbed – you succumbed to her art, famished for the gravity of her work, and its gripping immersive power. You kept willingly taking the backseat, wearing those rose coloured glasses, and watched her edit and re-edit moments of your entire life. Add layers of Foley. Switch up the lighting. Some background music. Turn up the dialogues. Room tone. Ah yes, that’s it! Wonderful. A masterpiece. A true cinematic marvel. It was undeniably romantic.

Nostalgia was an obsessive stalker.

You loved Nostalgia, but your life was more than her; you are human, a social, sensory being, constantly seeking something larger than yourself in this ephemera you call life. Nostalgia grew envious of your fascination with the Present. A glint of jealousy would permeate her aura every time you chose to be with the Present. It was painful for her, to see you squandering precious time creating new memories rather than mulling over your older ones with her. She would keep watching you closely, vying for your attention, desperate to see whether her latest piece appealed to your most nuanced set of emotions, all but to gain a selfish validation for her artistic practice. Regardless of the time you seeked in the now, with the Present, she would find you; weave herself
into your slightest reveries, and strain every memory you have till its very last wisp. Good moments, Bad moments, everything was emphasized and exaggerated, juxtaposed onto one another in an attempt of making something artistically new. You tried to resist her absolutely stunning visuals but sometimes, they were just too good to look away. You simply couldn’t look away. She would feverishly dote upon your mind to be at its most oblivious, its most restless and idle, before ensnaring your helpless thoughts in her beauty once again. You would watch helplessly, hands tied behind your back, as she would take cherished moments of your life and play them over and over
again on a set of distorted mirrors, just for you. It is an undeniable nightmare. Endless. Recurring.
Strange, so strange…
So strangely beautiful.

Nostalgia is a beautiful stranger

–
13.02.2022

A Paragraph

What’s in a paragraph,

when you have the sprawling evening skies looming over our humble heads as it blushes a subtle pink upon the sun’s departure?

Whether he graciously exits from between the hills, behind a terrace or through a tangle of concrete surfaces, the monumental nature of that moment of goodbye can simply not be captured in mere words. The surreal frames from a cinematic experience burn themselves into our brains so well that we re forced to be wiser than to believe the meagre sentences that attempt to capture them. Being able to claim in triumphant pride that we have witnessed the spectacle of sunset in beautiful corners that the sun decided to reside in for the night, is a feeling that these paragraphs shall never be able to encompass completely.

And so what’s in a paragraph?

–
18.01.2021

Strawberries

“When’s strawberry season again?”

Between the hoards of winter winds rushing in from the East, comes Strawberry season. Nested deep within Winter’s lovingly cold embrace, her Tartiness finds her way slyly into each household. You’d find her in the oddest of corners: encumbered in dough waiting to be baked, buried in refrigerators in want of a special occasion to be devoured; in soaps, showers, and shampoos, and the hands of a young boy who’d be trying them for the first time ever, oblivious to how changed his life would be thereafter.

Strawberries are a phenomenon; Your inclination towards their sharpness on your lips turns into an obsession just in time for her to leave you teasingly till next winter. Then begins the long wait for the cold breath of Winter to creep back into the uneasy air, while you try and pacify your childish heart with jams, preservatives, treats, and sugary goo. Then she comes around again, each slightly more crimson than the last. And once again, the seasonally toxic fling ensues. Yet you know, deep down inside, that strawberries are in fact, the best fruit; the day you first had them, ripe and freshly washed and right off the kitchen counter, or a sweet relief from the dusty roads street bazaar on a surprisingly sunny afternoon, that one fag end of December; you just know.   

Alongside the melting away of the grey skies above, the crisp in the morning slowly fades into the Everglow-ingly golden sun, she absconds, leaving only her whispers in the melting air. For yet another long summer, I will crave all over again; wondering if there was anything that I could have added, removed, or tweaked to make my berry jam resonate with her Muse just a fair bit more, make the inebriating smell of the toiletries just a tad less jarring. At the very least, they could try in vain to provide support to keep her dimming mental image alive. And so I sit by the window, the pane warm against my arm, and gaze longingly outwards.

If there’s anything that could bring strawberries back, it’d be my writing.

Ecstasy

One can only fathom
The envy Reality fostered
To witness a surreal rhapsody
on this night of ecstasy
There stood Reality, blinded;
For aloof to his boundless skies
His feral waves and miles of sand
The two souls danced;
Their shadows waltzing at his expense
Their feet pounding away on his heart
Their joy, feverishly shattering his frosty silence.
Paying no heed to his melancholy
They simply danced on
Dancing their blurry nights away
Together, under the same constellation.


18.08.2021

Tuesdays

Like clockwork, the song rung out once again through the hall and into the ears of a doting Amelia. It’s what made her feel alive again, made her remember why she hadn’t quit her job from this air conditioned hell just yet. Yes, she had bills to pay, and her rather short resume would almost definitely be overlooked anywhere else. However, every Tuesday night made it all worth it. She apprehensively took the tiniest steps away from her post- her devil of a boss would roast her alive if he saw her standing so far away from the drive-through counter. The self-entitled, elitist customers of L’Arpège maintained little to no patience, and that reflected so obviously in her boss’ behaviour. Having to wait to be waited on? That would only guarantee an awful review on the Internet, filled with all the angst and profanity the French language had to offer.
However, she had to risk it. The spectacle of the musician was too wonderful to willfully ignore.
Craning her neck to see a little beyond the corner of the faux wood partition, there he was; waltzing his fingers up and down the black and white with such admirable ease. The expression on his face was stunning- an exquisite blend of contentment, peace and sheer joy. Anyone could tell he loved it; he loved every moment of sitting by the grand piano, knowing that his music was brilliant, knowing that the privileged audience would offer a wonderfully sophisticated applause before graciously (and rather conspicuously) dropping a generous note or two into the crystal bowl placed on the mantel just for him. He would return the favour with the warmest smile she’d ever seen on a face, then close his eyes again to begin his next serenade.
She adored the form he took by the piano- a wonderful silhouette bent with a loving grace over the keys, as if he was sharing a moment of pure endearment with the instrument, so private and so pure that on-lookers would always lean a little closer, hoping to be just a little more lost in their magical world of melody. Amelia was feeling that right now; how desperately she wished to be a part of this beautiful musician’s world! The melody so powerful, so wonderful, that Amelia’s little heart could barely take it. Her emotions would run wild with each crescendo, she would tense up at every pause, and feel giddy at the end of every performance.
She was feeling giddy right now. Snapped back to reality, she suddenly noticed the musician replacing the fall of the piano while accepting the last thread of pleasantries. She stumbled hastily, hoping to recover her position by the counter. She was a tad too late. Owing to the cosy size of the restaurant and the musician’s long stride, the pianist had already crossed the “Staff only” door and was now by the wood partition. He saw her reach her post, immediately deducing that that meant she’d left it.
Amelia didn’t dare look his way. Holding her breath, she stared on right through the little window. “Amelia Ray! I am NOT paying you by the hour to while away your time wandering around my restaurant! You better understand that already! For Pete’s Sake!”
With that, her devil of a boss stomped his way across and disappeared behind an angry bang of his door, clutching his crystal bowl.

09.09.2020

A Character Study

I must immediately put forth a disclaimer- the character that I chose to study is in no way, a stranger to me. I have keenly watched him mature from a timid, frantic little child, afraid of everything but the sound of his own voice, to a prime example of masculinity blended with the purest air of superiority. In fact, I have even had a rather one sided interaction with him- a vain attempt on my part to court him that was rejected almost immediately.

Thus, I believe that you may fairly accurately presume that my study was biased.
The exact origin of this boy still proves to be a mystery; one day, no one knew he existed, the next, there he was; cowering away from the world in the smallest, cosiest corners he could find. The only thing that could bring him out of his makeshift havens was an elderly female of his kind, whom one can only presume to be his mother; though this little boy looked nothing at all like her. A curled up ball of frightened fur, the younger girls would claim his name was “Marble”, “no, not Marble! Stripey!”, owing to the erratic pattern of black, grey, brown and white all over his body. His huge, innocent green eyes and dilated pupils shining from behind his overgrown whiskers would spare no one. The aunties made the charity of a little bowl of milk a part of their evening power walk. The uncles arrived with countless delicacies like cat food or minced meat and held their tie back while they bent over to gently let the little feline know that dinner was served. He would simply stare back at them from the protective shelter of a parked car until they walked away, then stagger out cautiously to devour the offerings.

Gradually, he grew; his spine morphed from a cowardly spiral to a posture of elegance, his fur thickened and glistened under the white halogen. His pupils learned how to cunningly dilate only for those from whom he had something to gain, and continue to be thin slits in the green for all else. No longer did he need the sanctuary of the dark, nor the tail of his gold and white mother. Almost fearlessly, he would sit in the parking space, meowing a cautionary meow at those who dared to venture too close. He would eat his meals authoritatively, and would offer to you accusatory eye contact if you delivered it to him later than usual.
He grew even more; now nothing alarms him. This self proclaimed alpha-male basks in white artificial light every evening in the empty parking space with the most obvious air of hubris. Children pet him on his head while he just stares right through them, without even the slightest hint of appreciation. He gives a single sniff to the food offered to him, and will begin his meal only if it pleases him in that one whiff. All other meagre meals like plain milk he leaves untouched. Almost always you shall find him as still as porcelain, as if his Majesty was pondering over the great philosophical queries about life itself- just as I did today, when I went downstairs to actively study him for this assignment. There he was, unfazed by humanity, moving only his striped tail in slow motion (for reasons that I will never understand).

I decided to try approaching him just once more, to see whether he would grant me the privilege of his acknowledgement. My first round around the apartment, no such luck. My second, louder and more inviting attempt in my second round, proved to be no different. Nothing could move this cat, I thought! By my third round of walking, a slight drizzle ensued. By the time I reached his space, he was gone. So apparently, there is in fact one thing that can move him.

08.09.2020

500 Words

A piece written for an assignment; the brief was to write about a significant personal experience in 500 words.

A personal experience in 500 words? My pen quivers at the very thought; how would an excuse of a writer such as myself pick an experience they’d wish to exhaust 500 words on? This makes me wonder if I may want to dive into a moment of personal conflict- The moment I am in right now; the one being conceived presently, in perfect synchrony to the zigzag movement of the eye of the reader. As your patiently reading self slowly comprehends my sentences, I am caught in an anxious frenzy of thoughts- What must I write about? How must I write it? I am worrying more about what you may read from this later, less about what I must actually write right now. The fear that perhaps I will not be able to articulate my words with a Writer’s grace before your eye reaches the end of the sentence grips me every time. A bead of sweat slithers down my temple as I timidly glance at the word count; 177 words? My word, I have to buck up!
This definitely would have been much, much easier had I not have lost something so close to me so suddenly. Previously, penning down my thoughts would be almost effortless, as the Muse would diligently breathe beauty into my verse. I would easily write 500 words, only to go on to write 500 more. In a blink of an eye, she and I could have fabricated countless worlds of wonder, each more magnificent and meticulously detailed than the one before. Together, we would have urged your curiously reading mind to join us on an immersive journey through an excerpt from my personal life, and would have had your attention till the very last full stop that would conclude my 500 words.
However, the writer in me was completely oblivious to the sudden departure of her Muse. She simply sat by an empty page one night, and noticed that unlike before, the page seemed stubborn. Relentlessly it seemed to reject the writing, as did the pen that didn’t wish to cooperate, as did the words themselves, who scurried and scampered on and on in the most inarticulate fashion she had ever seen, refusing to fall in line as they used to in the extraordinary presence of her Muse.
The writer in me must now settle for a bitter realisation that her Muse may in fact, be irretrievably lost, and that now, constantly glancing at the word count may just be her new hobby. Thus in hesitance, I allow myself a little peek at the three little digits at the bottom of my screen. It is not a satisfying whole number, but I believe that it is enough for now; I shall excuse the writer in me to relieve her anxious self from her fears. Temporarily.
(476 words)

In My Words

Sitting so still for so long between the same walls makes a mind wander; I find myself wishing to flail my arms and legs around, attempting a poor imitation of a pirouette, or a rudimentary attempt at choreography. I miss the pleasantly unique frustration of suddenly forgetting a move in between, only to be quickly overwhelmed with the adrenaline of hitting every beat. Putting together a routine to a sudden favourite, and struggling together to really understand when “and one two three” begins. On the other hand, I miss simply swaying to a song that only few would know, under dreamy lights and fighting our sleepy eyes, knowing that this moment would be worth all the vigilance and more.
And so I dance in my words, in the hope that they’ll waltz with me.

The bleak landscape I find myself in presently, that I try so earnestly to draw as beautiful- Brown chairs and beige sofas with chestnut tables by a chocolate counter in a room different than my tawny bed by the coffee bookshelf, I find myself craving the ocean- the wondrous expanse of waves that froth right up at the sight of our sandy toes, urging us to shroud ourselves in her saline embrace to give our bronzing shoulders a relief from the morning sun. Glistening in summer’s wrath, effortlessly mirroring the shades of the sky that we find too perplexing. Reigning the sun in for the night to come. Disguising the midnight horizon in a manner that’s almost frightening, perfecting the illusion of the night sky rippling at my very feet.  Returning to her mirthful self with the azure of morning.
And so I swim in my words, in the hope that they’ll drown me.

Finding myself in the absence of all this and more, I resort to words- sentences that turn to verses that turn to paragraphs to essays; I ramble and ramble on, hoping to find solace in my otherwise anguished mind, in hopes to protect her from wandering to nooks she mustn’t go, diving into seas she mustn’t dive, entertaining blurs that she mustn’t see. I try and articulate to her that it’s alright to be idle; that what she’s pondering upon right now is insignificant- mere whispers of the wind that are to be ignored. She however loves to fly; through uncharted skies of musing and over musing, encouraged by the slightest gust of winter air. So little can I do to entertain her with the articulate, to prevent from her flying off into insanity.
And so I embrace my words, in the hope that they’ll comfort me.