Sparse Poetica

 

(My tribute to Ars Poetica by Archibald Macleish which made me sit up and notice a poem) 

A poem is a globed fruit 

palpable yet mute 

Can borrow a few words 

How cute! 

Honest yet not straightforward 

need not be attached to any rhyme scheme

Just needed to externalise the inner scream 

of a once ignored teenager 

Just open the floodgates 

A spontaneous overflow of my repressed emotions

An abstract art of mythical proportions

 makes the melancholy of a monotone 

sound rich like a broadway baritone. 

A poem need not be

A masterpiece , a marvel 

An idea so novel 

that there are odes written to it. 

It can simply be 

A moment in time crystallised with words 

A gasp of the gut 

So well put 

that you thought someone put their hand down your throat

and pulled it out 

like a rabbit from 

a hat 

or a hole 

A poem is a sieve 

which separates the chaff from the grain 

A pensieve 

and a penmanship on pain. 

( In response to What's going on? Blog's Poetry is prompt) 

Substitutions

 

Very often (in life) we substitute

(not immediately 

but over time)

our primary source of gratification. 

The validation I crave

as addicting as nicotine

now comes from work

and not anymore from my

creatively crafted words

but now my 'cleverly' drafted words.

Not camaraderie from my friends

but companionships with The One.

Rather than be filled with guilt

over these ever moving tectonic plates

and drama fought over 

the shifting shapes of time,

graceful acceptance 

of what we have now 

and not just redundant regret 

over what we once had in the past

Acknowledge 

that even though the past lives only in our heads

albeit rent free

We are still very much alive

and can be our own tertiary delights

keeping us balanced

in the right line of sane

Like only old friends can. 

Written for the PU prompt ' Substitutions' 

I am publishing my works after a break and I thank everyone who encouraged me to start writing and sharing it again!

Some pics of the first digitally handwritten draft

Nimbu paani

 

What does April mean to me?

To start at the beginning

A bit cliché

Summer Holidays!

Gully Cricket and lemon juice

Life didn’t give us lemons back then

Only lemon juice

And boy how we drank it!

Not a care in the world

Sticky mess all over

once white shirts and

Broken beach castles and sand filled shoes

You should also know that

April in Chennai was a month of heat

A month to quite literally sink in your teeth

And grab a juicy bite of watermelon or mango

That’s how life tasted like.

 

April is also the month

When I stumbled upon writing

26^th April 2010

A blog was born.

I felt the joy of creating something

My digital Disneyland

Every post a joyride

Traversing as per my thoughts.

 

April later still remains a month of joy

Albeit filled with chaos.

A period of gold rush

Before the courts close for may .

I still experience summer holidays

Albeit mixed with the beginning of the new financial year.

 

April has now made a full circle.

The month I again established something

Which will hopefully remain immortal

Like this blog.

My new law firm

Saaki Legal estd 15.04.2024

A watermelon or mango of love, labour and joy!

 

Nimbu Paani means lemonade/ lemon water in Hindi. 

Inspired by PU's weekly prompt 'April' 

Been a while but now you know why. Will post and visit you all more henceforth!

 

Kashmir

                        Triumph or disaster?

Is it what I feel?

What I’m left with at the end?

A thing or an emotion?

A subtle sense of pride

Of besting the beast?

Or the harrowing pain

Of the tear in my stomach

Leaking more pain than I ever could handle?

Is it the result?

Or my reaction to the result?

What if I won Kashmir but

Lost the election?

Is it universal or personal?

A zero sum game

I am a hero sometimes.

It is how I sleep at night.

It can be neither

but actually it is both. 

                                        

Fill in the blanks

 

I put pen on paper

with blind hope that

muscle memory will lead me further. 

While flexible poses fashioned my flighty youth,

I can feel the rigid rigor mortis

setting upon the dusk of my adulthood. 

Ah! I can indeed survive by merely scrolling

and autotyping 

and generally not using my brain. 

Play nostalgic games

cocooned in comfort 

in beer bosom.

Do the same work and 

not get off the treadmill 

even when I know 

I am never going anywhere

on this broken machine. 

I know I can but should I?

If the dart is hitting the middle of the forehead

maybe it is time to skateboard off to 

an unknown vortex!