Day Five #Na/GloPoWriMo

The day started with zero ideas. Then I read Kim Russel's Don't walk, swim. 

My poem today started off silly and overdramatic (as per prompt) but then it decided to go somewhere else. Here goes...

No means No

 

I hate it when you compliment the girls

I should’ve said boobs but was raised a prude

Then Kim wrote about the pair in her eyes

Crossing a line, lane –

Yet she continued swimming against the yack-tide

I thought, I could do the same

you know

Call them boobs, too

Use the nomenclature

To drill home my point—

I love you, but hate the precedence set

Me melons first, then a kiss

I just can’t do it

Use the B word

 

I’ll call them Cupid’s Kettle-Drums, instead

Like they did in the 1770’s

That’s more like me—

a warrior and a romantic

 

From this day on,

If blind people say, she’s asking for it

When a pair, or even a single breast

(post mastectomy)

Radiates in a low cut, or full-fills a cup

We shall rise

In the name of Boudicea’s bodice

We shall rise

All as One—Victorious Women,

Assigning meaning to words.

 

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Day 5 Prompt:

And now, here’s our prompt for the day — totally optional, as usual. The Roman poet Catullus wrote a famous two-line poem:

Odi et amo: quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Here’s an English translation.

                I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you ask?
                I don’t know, but I feel it happening and am tortured.

I thought about this poem the other day when I read a social media post collecting sentences from Charles Darwin’s letters, including:

                “Oh my God how do I hate species & varieties.”

                “I am very tired, very stomachy & hate nearly the whole world.”

                “I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything.”

                “I hate myself, I hate clover, and I hate bees.”

                “I am languid & bedeviled & hate writing & hate everybody.”

I must confess, the idea of being so grumpy that you have come to hate clover and bees is highly amusing to me. Today, your challenge is to take a page from Catullus and Darwin, and write a poem in which you talk about disliking something – particularly something utterly innocuous, like clover. Be over the top! Be a bit silly and overdramatic.

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Thank you for visiting my blog. And special thanks to those of you who grace me with their comments. 

Zekreet, November 2025

Day Four #Na/GloPoWriMo

Day 4 Prompt: 

In his poem, “Spring Thunder,” Mark van Doren brings us a short, haunting evocation of weather and the change in seasons. Today, we’d like to challenge you to craft your own short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.

Uncharacteristic—this March of ’Twenty-Six

 

When our windows rattle and shake

At noon, night, or day            break

 

We pray ’tis an unseasonal storm

Not the prophesied locust swarm

 

Nor missiles, drones, or fighter planes

Clouding our skies, emptying our lanes

 

We Look! We Listen! Sirens, then rumble

Lo! A Sonic boom! Sans sleep we tumble

 

Out of our skins to Pull the curtains back

See! There’s rain. Pitter. Patter. Black.

 

Un-seasonality, we have grown to accept

Islands sink, ice melts far away. We slept.

 

But the unnatural has knocked on our door

this time. So, how do you suppose we ignore

 

Such a travesty? We fear for/our habitat—the fence.

While March marches forth in gusty columns dense--

 

With baited breaths, we watch Ramazan, Eid, Holi

arrive and pass over muted dinners of limp broccoli

 

But Hope turns tantric, tantrums a trance, scrubs ash

On third-eyes, foreheads. We spring clean, clear cache.

 

Like a magician who knows

She unfurls 2026's first rose.

Day Three #Na/GloPoWriMo

#Na/GloPoWriMo 

Day 3 Prompt

And now, last but not least, here is today’s optional prompt. In his poem, “Treasure Hunt,” Prabodh Parikh brings us a refreshingly different view of what being a poet is like – that is, if you grew up on the cultural notion of poets being wan and ethereal, or ill and doomed. Parikh’s boisterous pirate of a poet might be an “unreliable” character, but seems like he’d be the life of any party, and quite satisfied with his existence. Today, we challenge you to write a poem in which a profession or vocation is described differently than it typically is considered to be. Perhaps your poem will feature a very relaxed brain surgeon, or a farmer that hates vegetables. Or maybe you have a poetical alter-ego of your own, who flies a non-wan, treasure-hunting flag with pride.

Dear readers and fellow poets,

I'm posting late today but glad to have made it. Thank you for stopping by. I look forward to your comments.

Thank you. 

A commitment-shy Sufi

'How about God then',
the Sufi, hell bent on digging turnips
in a snow storm asked his master
(who for the purposes of mystery has asked to be kept anon)

'What about Him?' the Master said.
'Why not Her?' the Sufi protested, taking a break from
tugging at the bulbous root.
The Master gurgled deeply into his sheesha
and said, 'What about God?'

'Lost the bloody plot', the Sufi looked up at the blue, blue sky.
'Language!' his Master reprimanded, knotting his hand spun khadi
scarf exactly like Clint Eastwood did in a movie once.
'On this path my son, we surrender to the beloved', the Master rallied.

'How long must I wait?' The Sufi said.
'As long as it takes.' His master patted his back.
'How will the beloved know where to find me?' the Sufi said.
'He’ll know. He found me.' The Master assured.

'It was a different time. Back then the oceans and the rivers were clean.
And no matter what language, what colour of skin
you were heard, you were seen', the Sufi said.
'We are seekers, not makers of make-believe.' The master said.
'This world has always been one part good, one part obscene.'

'You mean to say babies were butchered before?
That there were genocide and gore?
That while the powerless bled, the powerful held on to even more?
That while reason slept, common sense turned farcical, became a folklore?'

'What do you think?' The master smiled his beatific smile.
'I’m not sure. It doesn’t make sense.' The Sufi said.
'It is what it is, my son.' The master proclaimed.
'I think I’ll need another technique to uproot this brassica

or should I be like you said—it is what it is—and not worry
if we go hungry today, tomorrow, for evermore?'

Day Two #Na/GloPoWriMo

#Na/GloPoWriMo 

 Day 2 Prompt: 

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem in which you recount a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.

The poem for Day 2 has been removed. But here's the link to the featured poet: aetherianessence

Thank you for visiting. For more writing by yours truly, visit my website: www.arti-jain.com

Last month's full moon, Doha, Qatar.

Day one #Na/GloPoWriMo

Dear Readers,

I hope you've been well. This is my first blogpost of 2026. I've been more absent than present in blogsphere. 

So, what better way to spring into action than to jump into a challenge to write a poem a day.

The NaPoWriMo site has a tag line: There is so much to discover.

Despite the demands on my time this April, I've decided to open up to muchness and discovery. 

In order to make this challenge easier for myself, I've decided to give myself an hour (and no more) after I've read the prompt to write and share. Therefore, these poems will be first drafts. I am taking off the scaffolding of rewrites and second, third thoughts this time. I plan to catch up on reading other poets last thing at night. Hopefully, I can keep up. Wish me luck.

Also, I will take these poems down after a week of posting, so that I'm able to submit their best versions to poetry journals, sometime in the not so distant future. 

Day 1 prompt:

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own tanka – or multi-tanka poem. Theme and tone are up to you, but try to maintain the five-line stanza and syllable count.  The tanka is an ancient Japanese poetic form. In contemporary English versions, it often takes the shape of a five-line poem with a 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 syllable-count – kind of like a haiku that decided to keep going. 

I've removed my tanka.

But sharing a poem by Rahul Gaur who was the featured participant on Day One. 

A list of all that I have on World Kindness Day

Hello lovely readers,

I hope you've been well. 

It's 5:24 am. While waiting for the sky to lighten so I may go on my walk, I turn my laptop on. Two things happen simultaneously. A bird calls and my search bar states it's World Kindness Day.

What better day to break my long spell of absence, to mark my presence here in this sacred space than today? So here I am. Waving a howdy from spring-like Doha. There is, as always, a lot to share. Some ponderings, and a few celebrations. Grab a chai and a chair. Cosy? Let's go. 

Recently, I came across a post by one of my favourite authors, Katrina Kenison and I had to share her beautiful words with friends and family. In her post, she talks about a line of poetry that became her solace. I googled the poem, read it. Loved it. It's Barbara Ras' You Can't Have It All

It's the poem's  'but you can have...' thread that resonated with me.

Just before I came upon the above post and poem, I was staring at another rejection mail (which read more like an acceptance-so gently was it worded). So that when I landed on the line--but you can have, something made me stop and look out the window. What followed was expected. I went outside, stretched my arms, straightened my back and took a deep, deep breath in. Feet firmly planted on the threshold, I sensed a shift. A realisation. I can choose what I gaze upon- not in a bury-my-head-in-the-sand or head-in-the-clouds kind of way but rooted-in-reality, aware and grateful for the blessing of an ordinary day. 

I unfurl to all that I can have--

Autumn is in full bloom. The roses I planted last year have survived the long, scorching summer. Unusually this year, I am yet to visit the plant  nurseries to restock on soil and saplings. So imagine my delight when, I spot not one, but two pink blooms, fragrant and ready to welcome November.

The more closely I look, the more joy unfolds. My fingertips reacquaint themselves with sprightly blooms of purple basil, the shy sprigs of holy basil, pluck some lemon grass, lime leaves and one or two jasmine flowers. A yellowing lime. There's usually a fistful to be picked. A gentle breeze. The chime dings. A black cat, who's claimed ownership of our large jade pot, poses in repose, Cleopatra-isq, and waits to be clicked. An orchestra of bird-friends bursts forth--the bulbuls and the sparrows, the grey doves and the mynahs  and even an occasional hoopoe bird frolic on neem, peepul and pink oleander.  There are reminders of blunders I have made- the over pruned jasmine, thanks to a YouTube video which promised a miraculous recovery if I followed instructions. A few fresh greens are sprouting on its erstwhile yellowed branches. I am both hopeful and not too sure if our jasmine will joust back. 

Rejuvenated, I return to my desk. 

Kindness. I'm reminded of it everyday in the way the sky blooms, the sun glows, and despite the heartache of what's going on our doorstep, I find hope in poetry. I read and write to ground myself. And in the spirit of kindness, I cut myself some slack and remind myself that rejections (especially the kindly worded ones) are not unlike the scorching summer. No matter how long the road, there is a rose waiting to pink the draught when it is time.

I'm delighted to share a few roses that bloomed in my writing bio recently.

In June, this surreal piece was published by the Flash Flood Journal. Yay!

This ekphrastic piece was published in the bilingual magazine, Setu in September. It's titled, This photograph is wrongly captioned 

I'm thrilled to share that my poem, Silence will appear in the Yearbook of Indian Poetry (in English) 2024.

There's another acceptance that has come through. I'll wait for the publication next year before I share more. 

So, despite the rejections, I can have a reader, such as you, who'll rejoice with me in my happiness and spend time with my words and wonderings. Thank you dear reader for your kindness. I hope you'll find something that brings your joy or resonates with you in this post.

I'd love to know what your list of 'all that you can have' looks like. 

Wishing you a fragrant day. 

Remember, kindness is always possible :)

Of words, memories and kind friends

Warwan Trek, August 2023

Like old friends, my blogging space and I pick up from where we left. The vast gaps between our meetings don't matter. It's been so long that the default browser on my laptop doesn't show my blog link any more. 

It was the walk, last week, my first morning walk this May, thanks to a sore back. Or perhaps I've been lazy--late nights on Netflix come with side-effects.  Maybe, it's the planetary shifts that have kept me from rising with the sun. 

Not expecting any explanations for my absence, the Gulmohur, crimson and abundant, greeted me with the ease of an old friend as I made my way down the familiar rubberised path flanked by Neem, Ficus and grandfatherly Olive trees in Aspire Park. The sprinklers came on, as if on cue, creating rainbows with tender sunbeams. I must write a blog post today, I thought. 

A writer friend had recently shared a chapter of his novel and in it was this word. The moment I read the said word, two things happened at once--I was reminded of a valley in Kashmir and the soundtrack from Sound of Music became an earworm. Edelweiss. I picked up my phone to check if the valley was indeed as achingly beautiful as my memory believed it to be. The photos and videos clicked in August 2023, set in a grid of three by nine on my phone screen, whooshed me back in time.

There I was, miraculously present in the golden hour in the middle of a moment so lush with Edelweiss that no matter how hard I tried, which angle I took, whether kneeling on my knees or sprawled on my tummy in the ticklish grass, its immense expanse refused to squeeze into any of the lenses in my possession--not my phone's, nor the mirrorless Sony's, and definitely not my eyes. Greedily, I wanted to absorb it all in a single scoop. I couldn't. Its magic spilled out like golden marbles. No matter how many times I looked, there was always more beauty to behold. Both the cameras failed pitifully. If I zoomed out, the proportions would distort. I didn't know how to capture this stunning valley--her arms open in a wide-galactic embrace, a tall purple mountain holding its horizon with the firmness of a hug. For a few precious seconds, I was breathless. Anxious to box the magic--to be able to store it for a blog post or bragging. Vanity or hubris or both. I know not. The sun would dip over the horizon and all too soon this -- this -- this -- would be over. How could I hold it? Suddenly, without my doing, my eyes closed a tad longer than a blink. 

I stood there, in the middle of the valley, precious seconds before sunset, consumed with a  sensation that it wasn't me who was looking at the valley, the flowers, or Kashmir. It was the other way round. That flash of a thought stilled me. Calmed me. Took away my need to consume the moment. I was being held  in the valley's  bosom--an infinitely tiny particle connecting with the One Infinite for a fluttering nano second. Ek Omkar.

To say I walked the rest of the way back to my tent without taking a single photo would be a lie. But something had shifted. As if an old, kind friend had reminded me of my favourite tune that I hadn't hummed in a while.

Memories, vast and unreliable, can mutate and solidify. Someone, I don't recall who, said a memory is the memory of the last time you visited it.

Since November, I've been working on a writing project. At times, it feels as vast as a valley--freeing, exuberating and then there are times when it feels like a never-ending hike--the summit so far away, my aching back screams--give up.

The trouble is this word--capture. 

I'm captured by one of my favourite Maya Angelou's quotes--'There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.'' I read the quote sixteen years ago. It became my mantra. It holds me accountable when I start looking for excuses.

Then there is the practical question of skill and practice--how to capture memories, both painful and joyous, from ones life, and craft them into stories worthy of a reader's time? 

I must be mad to sit at my desk, sometimes without a break, for three to four hours, pouring out stuff that makes me cry. Maybe. But, I don't have a choice. This surrendering to the story has to happen. The work must be done. 

Memoir writing, I'm told, is therapy. It cleanses. I believe it does. But it is also extremely exhausting. I guess any emptying is. But, especially, if while shining light on others' shortcomings, you, mostly unknowingly, discover aspects of you that you've kept hidden from your own conscious self. That's when the writing really hits the gut. The punches can be hard. They can knock you out of your commitment. That's when friends, writing buddies, photos of flowers and memories of valleys pull you out, dust off the doubts and say, 'you got this.'

Whatever it is, big, small, clear, unclear, that is bothering you today, know this--we have to do the work. But also, dear reader, you got this.

Also, my website, lovingly and patiently designed by my sister, Seema Talwar, is live. She's been my constant cheerleader and I couldn't be happier with how gorgeous the website looks. I hope you'll check it out and share your feedback with us. 

Here's the link: arti-jain.com

Wishing you a healthy and peaceful and creative and joyful day, weekend.

   

All photos shared in this post have been made by @arti.a.jain in August 2023