An escapade of sorts conspired me way from poetry on day Twenty-two. But now that I'm back to my favourite spot in April, i.e. here, I'm eager to press on with the prompt of the day. I hope I can cover up the missed days in May. I'll keep you posted.
Day Twenty-eight of #Na/GloPoWriMo 2023 states: I challenge you to write your own index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index, somewhat in the style of this poem by Kell Connor. Happy writing!
The Colosseum, yesterday.
This poem has expired. Leaving you with a shot of the Colosseum in Rome which I happened to visit last week.
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.
The (optional) prompt on Day Eighteen of #Na/GloPoWriMo challenges the poet to to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet.
Yesterday a friend brought her twins over for a quick visit. Something about the visit jogged an old memory. So, I shared it with my friend.
"You know I've never had a clear image of your mother. You've mentioned her in passing." She said.
It made me reflect on how much of my mother I remember still. After thirty-two years.
I'm not sure if the poem I wrote today is an ode to my mother or an ode to my memories of her.
The poem has now expired. But, the moon will shine for sometime on this page:)
Thank you for visiting. If there are thoughts or views that you'd like to share after reading this poem, I'll be here.
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.
The neem, like some other native trees of the Indian subcontinent, sheds its leaves for a brief period in spring. In early summer, new leaves emerge, followed by the most intoxicating smelling bunches of white flowers. It's an absolute joy to be around/under a neem tree in April. One can't help but dance and sing.
Neem flowers, harvested, dried and stored.
You can find out more about the neem tree by clicking on the link. Its Latin name is Azadirachta indica. It's a wonderous tree. Its leaves, bark and flowers have medicinal properties.
As always, I'd love to know what you think of this poem. Thank you for visiting.
The (optional) prompt on Day Fourteen of #Na/GlaWriPoMo challenges the poet to write a parody or satire based on a famous poem.
But before I share what I've written today, I'd like to point you to Lisa Takes Flight 's brilliant and funny poems. She was the featured participant today.
The above is a commentary on how 'visibility' on SM equates success in the world today.
Upon googling 'the most solitary animal', I came across this list. Platypus comes in third after bears and the black rhino. Thought you may want to know:)
Happy Friday poets and readers.
As always, would love to know your thoughts and views about this poem.
The (optional) prompt of Day Twelve of #Na/GloWriPoMo challenges the poet...
to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.
to play around with the idea of overheard language. First, take a look at Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “One Boy Told Me.” It’s delightfully quirky, and reads as a list, more or less, of things that she’s heard the boy of the title – her son, perhaps? – say. Now, write a poem that takes as its starting point something overheard that made you laugh, or something someone told you once that struck you as funny.
a mandapam
At a Big Fat Indian Wedding
Aunties in saris and uncles turban clad,
a toothless granny, cousins, Mom and Dad
gathered together on the flowery mandapam
to bless the newlyweds: a radiant bride and her shy groom.
"Was it Love?" asked the aunt with a golden bust.
"Na. Honestly Maami-- it was purely lust."
said the groom without blinking an eye.
I swear I heard a collective-connective sigh!
Of course, there was silence for a split
second. OMG! Dammit...
What guts. What clarity!
Hurrah! I say, for such confident morality.
I wish we had more of this on display
at cocktails and dinners and soirees of midday.
What fun to know what you really think
about life, her dress, this venue, your drink.
And if ever such a day shall dawn,
sign me up for every party on the lawn.
But, if you will continue to hide behind niceties and blah,
I'm telling you now, I won't come. Mwah!
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My day started with a doctor's appointment (nothing serious) and a momentary loss of memory. I forgot where I'd parked my car in the parking garage next to the hospital. All's well that ends well. I found my car.
What a contrast the evening has been when the prompt unlocked a very old and funny memory. I enjoyed writing to the prompt.
Day Ten of #Na/GloWriPoMo has been the hardest prompt thus far for it challenges the poet to write a sea shanty.
I'm of the mountains. I do love the sea but to write a sea shanty! Well, that's another story or poetry.
In order to connect to my inner-being, I closed my eyes to conjure up seascapes or sea songs that would gently tide me over to 'lets-give-it-a-go' port.
I live in Qatar--a nation proud of its pearl-diving heritage. Suddenly, an idea flashed. Why not look at some of the pearl-diving-sea-songs for inspiration.
Going down rabbit holes of discovery is a favourite and fabulous thing. I found out that the lead singer of sea-songs is called the nahhām.
According to this article on QDL, "The nahhām was a paid professional singer, regarded foremost important on every boat and ship."
The following is an attempt ...
Doha, Qatar
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām
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
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām
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
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām
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.
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām....
*******
"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.
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-buttonthe what
ifs, the why nots
mindfully. Takethe layers off. Now
wriggleout
of allmistakes
you evermade.
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.
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)."
It's Day 1 of #napowrimo23. It has dawned wet and grey where I am.
Poets, Start Your Engines prods the prompt and challenges the poet to "write a poem based on a book cover."
Engine started. Challenge (almost) accepted.
I wrote this poem inspired by 'Kafka on the Shore' last year. Why not enter it to start the challenge and then take every day as it comes, I tell myself as I punch the laptop keys and hope that another 'new' poem will find its way to me while I go about my day.
Thank you for being here and for reading my poetry.
You know I'd love to read your comments.
Wishing you all a fabulously creative April.
Arti
“Kafka
on the Shore”
This cat, all-white, thumbnail size
stares at me from a semicircle of white:
A thick arch drawn to the right of the spine.
A moon must’ve spilt in half or gone to hide
Behind.
But this cat, all-white, thumbnail size
sits quite still
under a rectangle, built with walls
that are white:
cradling in its solid arms, all-white
Dark and Light
hints of Blue and a dollop of Navy.
The cat’s tail, a twisted white noodle, fallen off mid-bite
from a fork
questions me with its shape.
The all-white tail of the all-white cat
asks: “when will you look up?”
Or perhaps it’s the cat, white and thumbnail size,
that’s prodding me to put the phone down and pick up
the book it’s etched on instead,
and read that which is claimed
by the New Yorker to be
“An insistently
metaphysical
mind-bender”.
If you take your gaze away from the cat, all-white and
thumbnail size
and let it hover
just above the thickly drawn white rectangle on the
cover,
you’ll discover that while Haruki Murakami lies imprisoned
in the rectangle’s strong and solid arms,
Kafka on The Shore
roams free
on Dark and Light hints of Blue and a dollop of Navy.
The fact that it's the the day of the 'Z' and the city I'm in at the moment carries a Z in its name makes me smile.
The prompt on Day Twenty-nine of #napowrimo states: "In certain versions of the classic fairytale Sleeping Beauty, various fairies or witches are invited to a princess’s christening, and bring her gifts. One fairy/witch, however, is not invited, and in revenge for the insult, lays a curse on the princess.Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in which you muse on the gifts you received at birth — whether they are actual presents, like a teddy bear, or talents – like a good singing voice – or circumstances – like a kind older brother, as well as a “curse” you’ve lived with (your grandmother’s insistence on giving you a new and completely creepy porcelain doll for every birthday, a bad singing voice, etc.). I hope you find this to be an inspiring avenue for poetic and self-exploration."
The prompt lends itself to be wedded to an Urdu word -- Zindagi which means life. I've chosen a famous Indian film song title as the title of my post and this poem.
Thank you so much for being with my throughout April. If you're a blogger who's visited me and is miffed by the fact that I haven't returned the kind gesture, I apologise. I have every intention of fulfilling my blog challenge duties when I'm back home after a few days.
Heartfelt gratitude to all of you who've read and commented. You may never know just how big a deal your comments are to this poet/writer. Your words carry me further -- into new directions and even the muse is mighty pleased when she sees them:)
Presenting my last post of the #Ato Z April Challenge 2022:
"Zindagi Ka Safar"
(The Journey of Life)
It
was a moonless night, the night I was born. My mother told me.
Black-outs
and sirens of war shone instead on the night I was born.
I
imagined the dark night of my birth like Alfred Hitchcock
must’ve
imagined Vertigo and Ravens. Dramatic. Moody. Extra-ordinary.
Your
smile, my mother told me, never left you. You’d ask for things and we’d give
you.
You
didn’t miss me when I was gone. She told me how I hadn’t looked up even once.
Sitting under our mulberry on Papaji’s munjhi*, happy --- so happy, I wondered
whose child?
Recalled
my mother the memory of the day she came home from the hospital--
Carrying
my new born-sister. It was my first birthday. I was such a happy baby.
Content.
Cuddly. Chubby. Apple red cheeks, my mother told me.
So
many gifts and more were to come. First my sister, then a baby brother even.
Our
trio. “You’re not a happy family.” A precocious girl visitor once blurted out.
“Why
did you say that?” her mother, our mother’s childhood friend asked, worried.
“Because
they’re three—not like the T.V. ad—"We two-our two: A happy family.”
The
girl jingled aloud the campaign slogan of India’s Family Planning—innocently.
We
shouldn’t have laughed then. Should’ve seen the ravens’ dark—the dizziness yet
to come.
Black-outs.
Curtains drawn on good sense. Throwing precaution to the winds--of change.
Not
to tempt fate. Not to laugh out too loudly or even softly at innocent
utterances.
Loss.
Loss. Loss.
Every
blessing comes with its counter-balance.
Call
it a curse. A CURSE-- a curse, if you will.
Life’s
a list of opposites strung as beads—nature’s aesthetics.
Every
life must be counterbalanced with death.
Brother.
Mother. Home.
Full
moons and No moons. Gibbous. Crescents. Grow. Fade. Glow.
Life’s
hide and seek. Happy. Sad. Extra- ordinary is frowned upon by gods and
goddesses.
What are Blessings without curses? Forbidden fruit. Only verses—
Songs
of Praise (question mark). Mortal sins. Divine Justice.
Full
STOP!
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I'm participating in the #AtoZ April Challenge as a blogger and in #NaPoWriMo 2022 as a poet.
Also, as the poems I'll be sharing this month are first drafts, I'll be removing them from my site after a couple of days.
You know I'd love to find out what you think of my attempts.
It's day 2 of the two April challenges I've jumped into.
Two things to share with you toady:
1) You may want to click on: The prompt to find out the task (optional, of course) set by #NaPoWriMo. The challenge is to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words.
I've picked “greenout,” which means “the relief a person who has worked or lived in a snowy area for a long time feels on seeing something fresh and green for the first time” to write my poem.
2) Also, as the poems I'll be sharing this month are first drafts, I'll be removing them from my site after a couple of days.
Thank you for being here.
Arti
**********
Notice: Day 2 poem has now been removed.
_______________________
I'm participating in the #AtoZ April Challenge as a blogger and in #NaPoWriMo 2022 as a poet.
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