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Sunday 30 April 2023
Day Thirty #NaPoWri Mo 2023
Saturday 29 April 2023
Day Twenty-nine #NaPoWriMo 2023
Friday 28 April 2023
Day Twenty-eight #NaPoWriMo 2023
Thursday 20 April 2023
Day Twenty #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Readers,
The prompt on Day Twenty of #Na/GloPoWriMo goes like this:
Have you ever heard someone wonder what future archaeologists, whether human or from alien civilization, will make of us? Today, I’d like to challenge you to answer that question in poetic form, exploring a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist? The object or site of study could be anything from a “World’s Best Grandpa” coffee mug to a Pizza Hut, from a Pokemon poster to a cellphone.
It's Eid break in Doha and I will be travelling out of the country this evening. There's laundry to be done and a bag that needs packing. So, I'm sharing a spoken word piece that I wrote and performed in early 2021 because it fits the bill (I think).
It's called "Yesterday is not alive." It's a long (ish) piece but I hope you'll stay till the end.
I'm sharing a spoken word piece that I wrote and performed in early 2021 because it fits the bill (I think). It's called "Yesterday is not alive." It's a long (ish) piece but I hope you'll stay till the end.
Our conversations are going to bury themselves
deep in the earth’s womb,
for they’ve failed to adapt to the thunderstorms
of Cricket scores
Market trends
Covid haul and the phone screen addiction
of the human race.
“Yesterday is not alive.” they say. “Live in the moment, for today.”
What should I do? Tell me!
For my world is alive only in the past.
The world I shared with you when we spoke to each other face to face, eye to eye.
I live in those yesterdays--
when you gazed into me and read me like poetry.
In those yester nights when you sprinted to the phone booth of a rain-soaked Calcutta gully,
just so you could hear me say ‘Hi’ from Chennai.
In those afternoons gone by when we held hands--
you used to caress my palm with your thumb, tracing our destinies across my creases, imprinting yourself on my heartline.
I live in those touches still.
But you’ve moved on… to a phone screen.
Even the poets these days only write about separations and distances.
No one pens down the belonging—the togetherness
of long-standing marriages.
I sometimes wonder if these poets prefer to carry on alone for the sake of their poetry;
sacrificing companionship on the altar of rhymes
just so they can continue reciting melodies of virah and longing.
Imagine: if the one they pine for in their lines
starts living with them one day-- dwelling in their dawns, dusks and nights
but, brings a phone along
for updates and company.
Their lover, them and a phone screen—
a tiresome threesome
that assigns a simple eye to eye
conversation to the realms of fantasy.
But poets don’t like to write about long lasting love. Do they? Why?
Well, it has no drama, no pining, no moon to gaze at, no clouds to fill the sky.
They want love like death—instant, dramatic, unquestionable, slam dunk!
Married love is so ordinary.
It flows like life--day after day after day in the gutters
of routines, packed lunches and bills to pay.
Till 2020, I didn’t mind this step-motherly treatment of the modern romantic poet towards reciprocated love.
So what if our love didn’t make it their pages but sat silently in the margins waiting its turn to be noticed one day?
Our conversations kept me company. That was enough.
But now even the margins have been marginalized.
This phone screen addiction has erased me.
I want to talk to you.
Your attention is elsewhere.
The words set forth from my insides to seek you but you’re not open to receive them.
Like orphaned kids, they trundle back seeking refuge
under a tin shed from the hailstones thundering
overhead
dhudhh…dhuddh...dhudhh…
Of cricket scores, IPL roars, Covid tolls, political polls.
My orphaned words-- they bound
back inside through my ears and run amok
like ruffians
running noses, tattered clothes, wreaking havoc
wherever they go.
They spray graffiti inside me. The ink bleeds and hurts me.
My words clamour to be heard.
Caged inside, they can’t breathe.
They find an escape at last. It’s through my fingertips.
They make them dance on the keyboard and write and write and write: poetry or prose or gibberish-- I don’t know. I don’t care. They are the warriors on a mission of resurrection. They will not stop. For they can see that in this era of one-sided posts and opinions, death awaits all impromptu conversations.
Our conversations will soon be assigned to the endangered species category. Once they’re gone, humans will try to recreate the nods, the pauses, the silences and genuine smiles using AI, perhaps on these very same phones.
They’ll curate our conversations and display
them in virtual museums.
Our children and then theirs in the future will log on and see
how you and I could sit together for hours-- talk, tease,
taunt, agree and disagree without
any phone or technology.
The margins have blurred.
Love is Death.
Love is Life.
Love needs words to survive.
I live in my past and bring my yesterday alive.
Perhaps, when our conversations are truly buried and gone,
the poets will write a few lines about how these exchanges were guillotined
during Covid times.
We will read, share and subscribe to their poetry
and proclaim it to be sublime,
sitting next to each other bound by love--
long-lasting, married love.
Your hands will hold your phone. Your eyes will not know how to seek mine.
We will come alive in our yesterdays in the future in someone else’s lines.
We will come alive in our yesterdays in the future in someone else’s lines.
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If you've stayed till the end, thank you:) I'll be here to read your comments. So, do share.
Wednesday 19 April 2023
Day Nineteen #NaPoWriMo 2023
Tuesday 18 April 2023
Day Eighteen #NaPoWriMo 2023
Monday 17 April 2023
Day Seventeen #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Poets and Readers,
The prompt on Day Seventeen of #Na/GloPoWriMo challenges the poet to write a poem that contains the name of a specific variety of edible plant – preferably one that grows in your area.
Begin by reading Sayuri Ayers’ poem “In the Season of Pink Ladies.” Also, include at least one repeating phrase.
The poem has expired but here are some pictures of neem flowers that are in bloom at the moment.
Friday 14 April 2023
Day Fourteen with Emily Dickinson #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Readers,
Thursday 13 April 2023
Credit Card and Hemingway on Day Thirteen #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Readers,
I quit my job almost six years ago to pursue my love of writing and travelling (with the kind support of my husband). But, lately, I've been feeling the itch of not being able to support myself via my writing. The first poem is my current state of mind as I start the process of updating my CV and applying for jobs that pay.
Credit Card
The Bank of Poetry Where dreams dare to dream
Every line of poetry you write
can be exchanged for food and
necessities.
But, if it's a sari or a trek you're after,
you'd have to find a poetry-loving sponsor.
Arti Jain VIZA
the fine print:
This bank takes no guarantee your poetry will find a lover, ever.
Please be advised to find a job that pays your bills.
Remember, you can dream to reach us anytime. We value your custom.
Wednesday 12 April 2023
Day Twelve of #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Readers,
Tuesday 11 April 2023
A Big Fat Indian Wedding on Day Eleven of #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Readers,
Monday 10 April 2023
A Sea Shanty on Day Ten #NaPoWriMo 2023
Dear Readers,
nahhām nahhām nahhām
The song you sing of love
is the kohl, her eyes
becomes the night
They ask me when
the tide will turn
The hearth and the fire
have just one desire
nahhām nahhām nahhām
The song you sing of longing
is the jasmine, her hair
O! the mighty waves
She un-braids just for me
The debts are not yet paid
She says, but come home anyway
nahhām nahhām nahhām
The song you sing of pearls
is the promise, her embrace
The salt I taste makes me thirsty
May Allah have mercy
Pray and sing His praises
She's seeing the same moon as me.
nahhām nahhām nahhām....
*******
"Generally, lyrics are derived from literary and colloquial Arabic poetry." states the article.
"While the lengthy rhythm cycles remind the listener of the temple music in Kerala (south India), the communal bourdon singing recreates an atmosphere similar to the music of Tibetan monks or Sattya Hindu monks in Assam (north-east India)."
Like a true sea-voyage, I ended up finding pearls of wisdom from the songs of the sea. I hadn't set out to find any of this.
Here's a sample of Sea Music from Qatar:
Sunday 9 April 2023
Day Nine #NaPoWriMo 2023
Saturday 8 April 2023
Day Eight of #NaPoWriMo 23
Dear Readers,
In order to give my April attempts (first drafts, really) a fighting chance to mature into good enough poems to submit to literary journals in the future, I've decided to remove some of my poems (those that I feel have potential to grow) from my blog after a day. I have to thank Romana for planting this idea in my head. Submission processes are rather exacting and at this point in my life, I'd like to find nurturing homes for my poems.
Friday 7 April 2023
Day 7 #NaPoWriMo23
Dear Readers,
In order to give my April attempts (first drafts, really) a fighting chance to mature into good enough poems to submit to literary journals in the future, I've decided to remove some of my poems (those that I feel have potential to grow) from my blog after a day. I have to thank Romana for planting this idea in my head. Submission processes are rather exacting and at this point in my life, I'd like to find nurturing homes for my poems.
And on to Day Seven of Na/GloPoWriMo. The (optional) prompt prods the poet to
"Start by reading James Tate’s poem “The List of Famous Hats.” Now, write a poem that plays with the idea of a list. Tate’s poem is a list that isn’t – he never gets beyond the first entry. You could try to write a such a non-list, but a couple of other ideas would be to create a list of ingredients, or a list of entries in an index. A self-portrait (or a portrait of someone close to you) in the form of a such a list could be very funny. Another way into this prompt might be a list of instructions."
I'm sharing two poems today. One that I wrote just now and one from last year.
The new poem has been removed. But the one from last year awaits...
Topikapi Palace, Istanbul, April 2022
This nonet from Na/GloWriPoMo 2022 is a list of instructions:
How to make love ( a nonet)
Un-button the what
ifs, the why nots
mindfully. Take the layers off. Now
wriggle out
of all mistakes
you ever made.
Let go.
Bathe in forgiveness.
Hand on heartbeat.
Close your eyes:
dhak… dhak…
dhak.
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Thank you for visiting this page. I look forward to reading your comments. Have a lovely day.
Monday 3 April 2023
Breaking everything #NaPoWriMo23
Hello Readers,
April arrived in the middle of home renovations and work-related travel. I was quite sure of not reaching my favourite space (i.e. the blogging world) at all this month but when the Day 1 prompt of #NaPoWriMo23 prodded to me to go-on-give-it-a-go, I accepted his annual ritual gleefully.
But Day 2 stumped me. I didn't write a word. I could have but I chose to finish the day with a glass of red instead; watching home renovation programmes on a loop with my daughter. We loved it.
Here we are on Day 3. Birmingham sun is falling in big, warm squares on the wooden floor of my daughter's flat. I'll be making my way back home in a couple of hours. There's a train ride followed by a flight on the day's horizon. But for now there is e.e. cummings.
Two days ago, while browsing in the Oxfam book shop, I chanced upon a book of 'selected poems' by e.e. cummings. This poem (untitled, of course) fits in perfectly with the Day 3 prompt which encourages the poet to "Find a shortish poem that you like, and rewrite each line, replacing each word (or as many words as you can) with words that mean the opposite... (It’s sort of like taking a radio apart and putting it back together, but for poetry)."
Winter is like a sure foot
(which comes carelessly
out of Somewhere) scattering
a window, out of which people look (while
people stare
disarranging and unchanging placing
carelessly there a known
thing and a strange thing here) and
unchanging nothing carelessly
winter is unlike a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carelessly to
and fro keeping Old and
New things, while
people stare with little care
holding on to a perhaps
fraction of flower there placing
a pillar of earth there) and
without healing anything.
The original poem by e.e. cummings:
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here) and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and
without breaking anything.
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Thank you for visiting my blog on Day 1 and for leaving your wonderful comments. I'll be visiting your spaces as soon as I'm back home -- I promise:)