#7: Without my voice

I can't speak

For me, that's a relief 

For all that seemed to come out when I spoke

Were a series of  "I shoulds" and "I shouldn'ts"

Each declaration - an ask too tall 

For my dreams and desires to scale.

And all that my words created was 

A monstrous, formidable dam 

Where there should've been a flowing river. 

I can't speak 

For you, that must be a relief 

For all you seemed to hear 

Were "you don'ts" and "why don't yous" 

Far outweighing the I love yous,

My questions just rhetorics 

Blocking any hope of reconciliation .

And all that my words created was

A fence of twisted barbed wire 

Where there should've been a park bench. 

I can't speak, 

For them, I bet it's a relief 

For now they can pat themselves proudly on their backs 

That they were right all along,

And make indisputable claims 

That their truth is mine.

The unfairness of it all crushing 

all questions I ever dared to ask,

Until all that is left are lofty pedestals 

When there should've been a welcoming dinner table. 

I can't speak

Which might as well be 

For the questions seem meaningless 

The demands too trite 

The pleas all futile. 

I can't speak. 

I don't miss the words 

even as I seek comfort in the silence 

ever so,
once in a while, 

I do miss the singing. 

#6: How to write a poem

Live.

Live fully with your eyes smiling a welcome 

To every moment, every person

That nudges you out of your comfort zone 

Leaving you feeling exposed to the strange world outside.

And in that nakedness, choose words that will envelop you tight 

Like that quilt you hug close on a cold winter night. 

Pause.

Pause for just one moment or maybe a million

In between all the conversations, the chatter 

The running, the caring, the goofing, 
the ticking off items from the endless to-do-lists. 

And in that pause, 

unscramble those lines in your mind, 

Until some meaning you begin to find. 

Listen. 

Listen to the beating of your heart

When it feels joy, or love or anticipation.

And specially when it feels fear,

That makes you want to crawl into a tiny, tiny cave 

And as the heartbeat fills the silence of the cave

Tap out a rhythm that can give voice to your heart

To march out of the darkness & make a fresh start. 

Tune in. 

Tune into the voice that is only yours,

Into the life that only you have lived ,

Into those bundled up emotions that you hold in your hands

That look so horribly messed up, 

But to your eyes, make complete sense

And in that tuning in, 

Find the lines that hesitatingly connect the dots
between the dreams and the despairing thoughts. 

In that living.

Listening 

Pausing 

Tuning in,

Write that poem that's seeking you. 

Write like you don't really care.

Write like it means everything to you. 

Write like its the first time you are speaking to the world.

Write like its the last thing you'll ever say.

And in your writing, when the poem starts to flow, 

Hold it close as long as you want, 

Knowing that soon it'll be time to let go. 

#5: The last river

They say when I first descended on earth 

Roaring like a million drums beating in unison 

The divine destroyer had to spread his matted locks to break my fall

Lest my force destroy his dear devotees on Earth. 

Did he in his divine knowing not see 

That one day those very devotees would destroy me? 

The dams they built have fractured my backbone beyond repair 

My limbs lie corroded by the effluents drained into me, 

My sound is now muted by the drillers in an endless search for water,

And my flow that once danced and meandered over miles across the lands

Now trickles, slow and tired, 

Like the single stream of sweat 

From the brow of the farmer looking heavenwards praying for rain. 

Someone please tell him there's no point now. 

In these times, even a tapasvi like Bhageeratha would fail. 

What could he, a worn out man of the soil do,

Except, maybe gather the fallen trees 

they had planted in hopes of reviving me

And make a funeral pyre 

On which will lie the dying earth herself. 

#4 How can I ever do this....

"For nothing now can ever come to any good"

From inside the gremlin screamed 

"100 poems in one frigging year,

Now that's a ridiculous dream. 

In between all those meetings and work

Sandwiched by long commutes each day 

The countless chores, the endless roles, 

Writing poems is a dumb pursuit I say."

I sat quite still, my mind seemingly feeling 

what the gremlin says is true 

100 poems is an impossible target when there's limited Poetry inside you. 

Maybe I did set my aims too high

Maybe the ask of the last prompt was too tall 

How do I create something for the last line of a poem I read 

When I don't read much poetry at all!

So I sat quite blank with the gremlin's rant, 

Not knowing whether to choose relief or cry 

Thinking there is no point really 

When even the deadline has gone by

And with reaching passing hour, 

Even as my self-doubt grew, 

Over the gremlin's rant,  another voice whispered  

"Maybe, just maybe - that's not true"

(Line from WH Auden's Funeral blues")

#3: To my grieving friend

I promise 

That when you finally look up

From the depths of your grief

To open the doors that

You've shut yourself behind

I'll be on the other side

To greet you with a large latte 

And an even larger hug. 

Daring you to step out 

Into all the love you've be missing

In those moments I'd been wishing 

That once, just once you'd let me in 

And I'll sit down besides you 

Listening to every story, every memory you hold

Smiling each time you tear up

Crying each time you smile

So you remember the many colours hidden in  those memories

That you have so blindly been sorting as black or white. 

And in the dark of the night 

When you finally breathe in the light 

into your body emptied of all that grief, 

I'll stand right beside you  as you gently drop those stories 

Along with the unanswered questions  the loneliness, the regret, 

into the burning fire 

And with you, hope that the smoke rising heavenwards

Tells her how much she is remembered. 

And even as we wipe away the tears,  

I will draw you a path with the ashes left behind,

Back to everyone and everything in life 

that is worth smiling for. 

And though my words don't reach you

As you sit shoulders slumped with grief 

behind those tightly shut doors. 

Right on the other side 

With a large latte 

and an even larger hug, 

I'll be waiting.

I promise. 

#2: What the eye cannot sense

The darkness that engulfs me
Seems nothing but an extension
of the darkness that fills me from within
And today has oozed out
of every crevice, every pore
and threatens to swallow me whole.

I relied on my sight for everything.
Now how am I to navigate these paths
strewn with disappointments of my yesterday
and doubts for the new tomorrow?

And even as I stumble long
not just beaten and brusied
but also scared and confused,
I can hear
the courage in my questions,
the tinkle in my talk,
the hope in my songs
urging me to walk along.

And I can taste
the saltiness of my sweat
the sourness of my defeats
the sweetness in letting go
of my ideals of what life should be
and instead, nibble on what is.

And as you reach out to hold my hand,
I feel the solidness of your beliefs,
the fragility of self doubt,
the roughness of your dreams
as you choose to walk right beside me.

And as the breath fills my lungs
I smell the ashes of yesterday gone by,
the freshness of tomorrow that will be,
and though my sight be gone, for now,
the sounds, the tastes, the touch, the smells
Seem to shine a light on the darkness within. 

#1: What my mirror speaks to me

My love, my darling, my precious one,
so lovely to see you today.
Instead of regular dash of the eyeliner,
before you go off your way,
Do stop, just for today,
and let your eyes, your mind , your heart
take in fully what i show.
For they say a mirror reflects back reality
That's such a laugh, you surely know!

For on days this very You
stood right here before me
and each time, your eyes
Seemed to see a different reality.
Some days too fat, some days just right
Some days a smile that radiated such light.
And some days, cloaked in such darkness
when either you couldn't even bear to look me in the eye,
or stared longer than usual wishing for connection.

Each day you stood right before me in,
what seems to be, your body just the same,
I, in turn, have reflected back at you each day
This body, those eyes with a different name:
A hopeful warrior
An angry feminist
A caring friend
An envious foe
A confused mom
A sexy lover
An optimistic poet
And many more!

So today as you pause a little bit longer,
Looking right into me
I stand here to to gently remind you:
Reality is just another illusion you see.