Poetry isn’t just a consortium of words you string together with syllables that rhyme,
Poetry isn’t only about connecting thoughts inexplicably sublime,
Poetry is that volcano of emotions sacredly tamed in a soft spot of your heart,
Poetry is in the anxiety, in the pain, in the agony that’s tearing you apart,
It is in every bit of the chaos around, it is in your resilience, in your mindless petulance,
It is in your deafening silence, in your restless impatience,
It is in your euphoria, in your ecstasy, in the madness you breathe,
It is in every tiny expression you surreptitiously read,
It is in feelings secretly cherished but left unkempt,
It is in instincts bizarrely potent,
Poetry isn’t a novel you’d write with chapters in sequence and order,
Poetry isn’t in fancy vocabulary or impeccable grammar,
Poetry is, in every dimension, a profound reflection of your soul,
Pure, undistorted and whole.
Happy World Poetry Day!
Reading between the lines ain’t easy, I tell you,
There’s plenty of What, Why, How, Says Who?,
There’s fanatic obsession,
There’s a desperate need for validation,
The overthinking brain suddenly transforms into a turnstile,
Jumping the gun all the while,
Churning possibilities impossible to construe,
Posing questions that have no answer to –
Until every iota expands into a mindboggling issue,
Until everything said and done seems impossible to undo,
Until something more pressing begins to worry the head,
Beseeching the brain to focus on it instead.
Coercing. A restraint I shamelessly fail to imbibe
On the myriad of emotions that seamlessly flow by,
Creating a vacuum within,
Taking me to places I’ve never been,
Sweet with happiness and archaically pensive,
Delicately intense, yet desperatively figurative,
Sometimes soft with invisible colours, possibly,
Transforming into the wind beneath my wings, secretly exhausting my melancholy –
I could fill hours describing them, but they wouldn’t be what you’d call poetry,
Raw and scorching, they’re made of figments you’d get bored of or might want to disagree,
But I couldn’t not write about them, I wouldn’t relinquish an experience so inanely tranquilizing,
Because words are all I have, albeit few and impulsively withering.
Would it be too much to ask for a space,
A sublime, happy place,
Where her heart would know no fear,
Where she gets to make her choices – about her attire, life or career,
Where she doesn’t have to think twice to step out and shine,
Where she isn’t bound by curfews to be back home before nine,
Where she isn’t defined by the colour of her skin, or who she’s married to,
Where she isn’t just an inadvertent object of desire or rue,
Where she is treated an equal, where she gets her rightful due?
Because this world we live in, it belongs to her too.
A Happy Women’s Day to you!
I zone out. A lot. More often now, than I’ve before.
And, I’m just 24.
Age is really just a number,
Or so I choose to believe every time I catch myself going into too deep a slumber;
But my brain’s always been restless and I honestly have never been able to figure out why,
You’d ask me to push myself to focus – trust me, I try, Oh, I do try,
But it relentlessly zones out into dreams –
Of places I’ve never been to,
Of a cloudless blue sky,
In pursuit of the sunshine I’ve always had my eyes on,
And the rules I’ve never been able to defy,
In search of the stars I seek the light of,
In search of the wings that’d help me fly.
I think it’s easier to live by Dale Carnegie’s secret, don’t you?
Because, I often worry what I’d do if things don’t turn out the way I expect them to,
Be it the outcome of an examination I’ve taken,
Or the response to something I’ve written –
Disappointments stop me from trying,
They stop my brain from thinking,
So, every time now, I find myself preparing for the worst that can happen;
For the heartbreaks, for the setbacks, for the unrequited anticipation –
Trusting, it’d prepare me enough to help me take failures in my stride, hoping, it’d give me the strength to get back on my feet,
And wishing, it’d help my every success taste more concrete.
I live in a world far away from yours, inside my head,
In my world, “The Boy Who Lived” actually lives, in flesh and blood,
Mr. Half Blood Prince isn’t just a memory of the past,
And, Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, they are still pretty steadfast,
They are as real in my world, as much as you and me –
I’m sometimes, with Hermione in the Hogwarts library,
Sometimes, with the Weasley Twins at Honeydukes, sipping Butterbeer,
Sometimes, with Harry and Ron and Professor Trelawney, checking if one of us is a real seer,
Sometimes, with Luna, chasing the wrackspurts away,
Sometimes, at the Quidditch stands, watching Ginny play,
Hey! Don’t you think I’m taking you for a ride –
Take a peek into my realm of reality – I’ll see you soon, on the other side!