Day Thirty #NaPoWri Mo 2023

Dear Readers and Poets,

It's Day Thirty of #Na/GloPoWriMo 2023. The last (optional) challenge of this year asks the poet to write a palinode – a poem in which you retract a view or sentiment expressed in an earlier poem. For example, you might pick a poem you drafted earlier in the month and write a poem that contradicts or troubles it. This could be an interesting way to start working on a series of related poems. 

Alternatively, you could play around with the idea of a palinode by writing a poem in which the speaker says something like “I take it back” or otherwise abandons a prior position within the single poem.

I've opted for the alternative option of abandoning a prior position within this poem. It's called

how to palinode

how to palinode

in haiku kept us awake

our restless silence

broken by bird song when dawned

a tanka -- upon spring moon

a tanka -- upon spring moon

gliding in between many

possibilities--

pause. still. lines emerge to show

 

how to palinode

*****************

I'm tempted to say more about the poem but I'll keep quiet for now. I look forward to your comments and views.

I missed out on a few days' worth of challenges this year. But with all the fabulous resources and prompts shared by Maureen Thorson throughout April, I'm sure May will be blooming with new poems too. 

Thank you Maureen and all the poets who shared their beautiful poetry. A very special thanks to all of you who visited this space and read my poems. And an extra special thank you to the lovely ones who left comments:) 

Wishing you all a beautiful Sunday.

Day Twenty-nine #NaPoWriMo 2023

Dear Readers,

The (optional) prompt on day  Twenty-nine of #NA/GloPoWriMo asks the poet to start by reading Alberto Rios’s poem “Perfect for Any Occasion.” Then write a two-part poem that focuses on a food or type of meal. At some point in the poem, describe the food or meal as if it were a specific kind of person. Give the food/meal at least one line of spoken dialogue.

The poem I wrote for Day 29 has expired. But I leave you with this photo of Kashmiri Kahawa and an older poem that fits the prompt. It's called. 'He carried dirt under his fingernails.'

.

*********************************

I wrote and performed this poem a few years ago. This is about food too. I hope you'll find the time to listen or watch 'He carried dirt under his fingernails'.

Thank you for stopping by. Wishing you a wonderful weekend. As always, please share your comments and views here. I look forward to reading them:)

Day Twenty-eight #NaPoWriMo 2023

Dear Readers and Poets,

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.

Day Nineteen #NaPoWriMo 2023

Dear Readers,

I came to the prompt late in the day on account of something happy that I will share soon on the blog. 

The prompt on Day Nineteen of #Na/GloPoWriMo states:  For this challenge, start by reading Marlanda Dekine’s poem “My Grandma Told Stories or Cautionary Tales.” One common feature of childhood is the monsters. The ones under the bed or in the closet; the odd local monsters that other kids swear roam the creek at night, or that parents say wait to steal away naughty children that don’t go to bed on time. Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.

When I sit down to write to a prompt, I let go. I start typing and let the prompt guide the flow of my words. Sometimes, the poem changes course and surprises me, like today. It took me to ancient India and brought me back to myself.

This must've happened in my mother's womb.

I don't recall a day, a time. Was it sunset or dawn when 

the most potent weapon 

used by our fore-fathers, fore-mothers and their

great-great-ancestors 

blended with amniotic fluids that kept me afloat

sank deep inside my yet-to-be-born-thoughts,

my identity.

The Curse. C.U.R.S.E.

"I curse you." many a sages uttered those three fateful words 

and demolished Kings, Kingdoms and Princes;

stories my grandparents unfolded on the kitchen floor

and warned us, don't make anyone cross. EVER!

The weight of five-thousand years of our heritage

bore down upon me. Then one day, the stories jumped 

from the floor to flicker on screens.

That's when matters became worse. Scary.

Nymphs turned to stone, handsome folk into horrendous

creatures with no voice and no form.

I was young, what did I know! It was all make belief. Made up.

Lessons learnt in wombs, Beji said, are carried till the tomb.

The cursed on screen wailed piteously, "O! you who watches our plight,

pay heed. Be obedient of the ways

of authority. Look at us. Be warned.

Surrender to the rules of civilized society."

Don't speak up or you'll be cursed.

Don't stand tall or you'll be crushed.

Don't be different, or you'll be shushed.

Don't question the status quo, especially the rich, the pious and the powerful.

Think within the box, live within the confines.

Stay within the lines we have borrowed from our great ancient civilization

to keep you tethered. 

Don't complain or frown. This is for your good, your safety, of course.

Walk the beaten path. Fear the curse.

Decades passed. Every time I failed a test, or when a loved one got cancer,

I blamed the curse. 

I must've hurt someone in my past to deserve this. That's the logic

of the curse. It moves from myths to movies to young, impression forming foetuses.

Then one day I grew up. I broke free. Stood up.

Five feet, one and a half inches tall and shut the lid on

Pandora's Box.

Enough is enough.

Raktabeej met his end when Kali* showed up.

******************************

You can read about Kali and Raktabeej here: the juggernaut

Curses  and boons may sound mythical to you but when they are woven in the fabric of ones childhood, in the warp and weft of stories told and retold with frequent embellishments of real-life examples, they become the basis of ones beliefs. It's not easy to look at ones ancient roots and snip away the decay. But, it must be done.

Thank you for reading the poem. I'm all ears for any comments or views you'd like to share. 

Credit Card and Hemingway on Day Thirteen #NaPoWriMo 2023

Dear Readers,

The (optional) prompt on Day Thirteen of #Na/GloWriPoMo asks the poet to first read the three short poems on the page by Bill Knott and then try to write

" a short poem (or a few, if you’re inspired) that follows the beats of a classic joke. Emphasize the interplay between the form of the poem – such as the line breaks – and the punchline.

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.    

The second short poem wrote itself. I played with words on the cover (bottom) of the book. It's lying next to my laptop.

The book in the background is "River of Colour The India of Raghubir Singh"

another gem from Oxfam bookshop

"Men    w   i     t    h     out

   w o m  e   n

                                        Pain

                                  f   u   l   l   y 

 

 g  O  O d 

      n O   

             O n e

                                    can deny

t   h     e    i    r

BRILLIANCE."

The Nation

****************************

I'd love to know what you think of my play-with-poetry-presentations. Were you able to find the beat of 'classic' jokes these two attempts are referencing? Tell me. I'm eager to know.

Happy Thursday:)

Day Nine #NaPoWriMo 2023

Dear Readers,

Wishing you a fabulous Sunday and Happy Easter to all those who are celebrating.

The(optional) prompt on Day Nine of #Na/GloPoWriMo encourages the poet to write a sonnet.

But first, I'd like to share a poem I read a few minutes ago. It's the featured poem for Day Eight on NA/GloWriPoMo site and it's unmissable. You can read it here : To Create...

There's something about structure that makes me want to rebel. But this year (perhaps it's a sign of ageing or acceptance--I don't know) I'm giving structure in poetry a go.

The sonnet I wrote follows the general rule of 14 lines and it's about love. Plus, I tried to follow the following rhyming scheme: ABBA, ABBA, CDECDE.

I've removed it from the post as it's a first draft of sorts. 

picture taken in July 2021 in Oregon.

**********

I'd recommend reading Adam O'Riordan's article, 'The Sonnet as a Silver Marrow Spoon' published by Poetry Foundation if you'd like to write a sonnet yourself.

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.

The(optional) prompt for Day Eight of #Na/GloPoWriMo challenges the poet to use all of the 'Twenty Little Poetry Projects" (originally developed by Jim Simmerman) in one poem. 

You may want to click on the link Day Eight to find out what these twenty projects are. 

In order to get myself in the mood to write to such an extensive prompt, I visited some of the poets who'd written and posted their entries already. I must say I was impressed and motivated in equal measure. 

I've taken my poem down but have left these beautiful roses from a garden in Srinagar, Kashmir (clicked in August 2022) to wish you Happy Easter Sunday.

Breaking everything #NaPoWriMo23

photo taken in Spring' 22 in Istanbul.

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.

***********************************************************************************

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:)

A poem inspired by the cover of Kafka on the Shore -- Day 1 of #NaPoWriMo23

Dear Readers,

Hello. Hope you've been well. 

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.