A typical day in a typical Indian household starts with the mother waking up the earliest and getting straight to the kitchen to prepare breakfast and pack lunch for the whole family, including herself. The father usually wakes up half an hour later to freshen up and get hot tea and breakfast served to him with the morning newspaper. As a kid, I would often wonder if this is the way it’s supposed to be, the wife breaking a sweat in the kitchen while the husband enjoys a slow morning, but some books and a few films convinced me otherwise.
Do watch the video for the spoken-word version of the poem on youtube :)
There was a kindness in his anger
not sinister in the slightest sense,
turned a heathen like me into a pilgrim
he’d rather let his throat ache,
punch his own face,
cut his tongue off,
and bleed to death on my doorstep
than let the devil escape his mouth
and project his pain onto me,
the pain…that i wreaked on him
in the first place.
you see…loving me was
was enough to hate…
Who am I, in this mercurial cosmos?
running away from what forges this flesh,
cutting all cords and rending bridges,
cussing at walls with a metric ton of guilt,
can’t look people in the eye,
can’t answer why my footsteps turn into landmines,
why rivers flow backward when I cry by the banks,
why I sleep in a woollen blanket that’s soaking wet,
I let it —
I let —
discomfort strip me of the monstrosity
this body has been housing,
and disconnect cut all the tangled wires
I have been chewing on like a hungry rodent,
fearful of being…
Two years ago, I gave up the well-renewed but the not-so-well-executed tradition of keeping ‘New Year Resolutions’ and bid it goodbye in perpetuity. Most of my past resolutions were to either start a healthy diet or join a gym, and they’d last for a good month or two before retiring till the next year. Now that I think about them, I realise how I’d been so focused on my physical health while neglecting my mental well-being, and maybe, this ignorance was the reason for a weak will for self-improvement.
For 2021, I decided to renew the tradition because 2020 was…
I can’t unlearn a thousand ways of
turning my life and self into poetry.
I can’t feel less for myself, for you,
for the little boy selling balloons on busy roads,
for my mother’s multiplying wrinkles and strangers
with the saddest faces behind their brightest smiles.
I can’t stop glorifying heartbreak and misery,
even though I’ve suffered many of them with the same
lover but an ever-changing love, mostly failing to keep
the butterflies alive.
I can’t sit back and see the world go up in flames
without letting my words spread revolution like wildfire,
if not on the streets, at least…
“Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. “— Dylan Thomas
April is undoubtedly the best month for discovering new poets, reading astonishing poems and connecting with readers who breathe poetry. …
It’s not that I’m angry,
It’s not that I despise existence,
but the presence of all this substance,
however tiny and insignificant in
an ever-expanding galaxy,
all this facade of an electric life,
scratching diaries, looping in habits,
inhabiting shoeboxes off of credits,
hoping to capitalise on your ART someday,
and having to write down your history,
find a sense of belonging in confinement,
and consciously breathing forty times a day,
to affirm you’re still here,
to remind them you were here
in a corner with your words!
when you’ve spun around this
heliocentric ball of fire for long,
every day becomes…
I write because i’m aware of the power words have. I use mine to tell stories, occasionally rant on social issues and turn my life and self into poetry.