Singing my song

~ paeansunplugged ~ 62 Comments

Well-meaning friends pushed me on the blogging stage
armed only with the art of rhyming, I dreamt of
conquering with my quill in my middle age!

fed on a steady diet of Hindi film songs
rhyming for me was as easy as one-two-three
poetry is all about rhyming, right? Wrong.

I had it all wrong, I realised as I read other poets minutely
I didn’t dress my poems in metaphors or similes
nor were they witty or wrapped in obscurity

I let my emotions and feelings run raw and naked
plain jane poésies presented with flourish
but feelings of inadequacy crept in belated

couldn’t copy or replicate others’ creative voice
and if I couldn’t be authentic, why would I write?
I have to be me, without guilt, I have no other choice

writing is my air, my entire existence
my touchstone, my safe place, my therapy
my words are moribund without an audience

so I speak my truths without any pretenses
my words don’t obfuscate my ordinariness
I craft curry-infused and turmeric-stained verses

rain-drenched, tea-steeped, cacophonous expressions
ne’er apologetic or apathetic but arrogant neither
just my heart speaking to hearts with passion

bringing to you not just the sights, sounds and smells
of my cityscape as well as my mindscape
for penning poetry is where my heart dwells.

Written for David’s W3. Where our POW, Nigel, says: “Write a paean about a moment of personal triumph. This can be something from your past, something you are currently experiencing, or something you envision for your future. The moment should feel meaningful—something that changed you, clarified something essential, or marked a quiet or dramatic victory.”

One last time

~ paeansunplugged ~ 50 Comments
Lovers by Konstantin Somov, 1920

Do sit by my side tonight
lace your fingers through mine
listen to the timeless tree-songs
and wander in my silken silence

lace your fingers through mine
tell me how the circle of time traps us
as you wander in my silken silence
read my trembling tears before morning breaks

tell me how the circle of time traps us
how passion’s melody rushes like a river
read my trembling tears before morning breaks
and pour wine one last time before you go

let passion’s melody rush like a river
as we listen to the timeless tree-songs
do pour wine one last time before you go
and sit by my side only for tonight

Written for dVerse poetics Tuesday. Dora, our host says; use at least one line in the imperative mood in your poem.

Who? (a quadrille)

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When a haunted heart words a blank page
and anguish braided verses seek answers
my existence becomes a question for me too!

time continues to write stories on my bruised skin
that have seeped within my bones
who will decipher and assuage the pain?

Written for dVerse Quadrille Monday. De, our host today invites us to write a poem of exactly 44 words including the word bone.

Sitting by the window

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I sit by the window to write to you
how I have missed you by my side
how the hills seem still, bereft of your vigour
though my health improves, my heart is in langour
my beloved, I eagerly await your arrival!

In your absence, to keep myself occupied
I have taken to rambling in the village nearby
a young flautist, with a beatific smile
has caught my fancy, enticing me with his skills


he plays a tune, so piercingly sweet
I often spend hours listening to him
imagining your fingers twined in mine
as we sit on the forest floor, carpeted with pine needles

just thinking about us together, brought tears to my eyes
I hope my words will bring you rushing here
till then, I will pine for you, as I listen to the young flautist.

Written for Sadje’s wdys.

What eyes tell and eyes don’t see

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Pain, grief, despair, frustration sit cheek by jowl with
anger, self-loathing, fear, regrets, anxiety;
all jostling for elbow room, on a slow simmer
just below the unblemished surface on display

the welt-ridden soul whimpers like a wounded bird
the chiffon emotions chafe for cathartic cue
but women are receptacles of all that’s unsaid
bottling every insult, every injury quietly

the smile is always in place, quick and reassuring
the anguish, shimmeringly readable in the eyes,
but unnoticed, for who has the time to read eyes
eyes that could tell a thousand stories, if only…

Written for David’s W3 where POW, Marion, invites us to delve beneath the surface.

Existential angst

~ paeansunplugged ~ 33 Comments
The Poetess by Joan Miro (1940)

To the Penniless Poet

Though you may make wondrous words waltz across the page
pray tell, how a mere minion on the worldwide stage
expects through poetry she will changes unfurl
for waffling has never ever altered the world
banish quaint ideas of tilting with your quill

focus on ways to make money to pay your bills
mails rejecting your work are clogging your server
when accepted, damp down your effervescent fervour
fame is ne’er wrought through free online magazines
for heavens! I wonder what causes you to preen!

To the Arrogant Alter-ego

Do tell me, how do I stop my heart from singing
songs of change, hope, wishful thinking and healing
I write because I know not any better way
to connect, empathise, to express feelings fey
do I stop sun’s slant rays from falling on my table

moon-songs that whisper, pray how do I disable
from weaving tales of territories beyond maps
or stop syllables pirouetting on pages perhaps
we aren’t just dreamers we are conscience keepers too
I may not get paid; I am read, that’s payment too!

Written for dVerse MTB Thursday. Laura, our host today, invites us to write letters in a poem or Verse Epistle.

My muse decided this is what I should write.!

March marches on

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The mercurial, mooching wind
seems a reluctant emissary
slate-stained clouds gather and disperse
lightning moodily marks the sky
thunder growls and grumbles distantly
yet I lift my face to the sky expectantly
to be drenched any moment

no smattering of wet kisses, my mouth remains dry
denied the intoxicating petrichor
supine dry leaves whisper unsung dirges
the whispered songs ignite flames of reminiscences
blistering pearls fall freely from my eyes

I singe my fingers as I reach out to the moon
darker than sin night looks on coldly
all I wanted was a sip of cool rain
to damp down despair with numbing coldness

but March is in unusual hurry to embrace heat
unquenched and rebuffed, I brace for summer.

Written for dVerse poetics Tuesday. Grace, our host today, invites us to write a poem that explores false spring—literally, metaphorically, or both.

Captive

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At the promise of spring
the schooner finally set to sail
on the seas that were forbidden
the gelid golden glow of dusk
hides in its bosom tears of blood

wide-eyed she watches the phone
holding in her tiny hands her father
tongue-tied in the beginning;
then breathless chatter
her animated expressions make him teary-eyed

what was once a routine job, is now call of duty
seas no longer serenade him
his heart, a captive of his little angel,
yearns for time to still.

Written for Sadje’s wdys.

That night

~ paeansunplugged ~ 48 Comments

The night unbuttoned itself languidly
the sharp intake of the room made us shiver
folding inhibitions neatly, we embraced the liquid fire

as I lie curled in the afterglow of lovemaking
hunger lies coiled in the pit of my solar plexus
my eyes could feast on you
for this lifetime and beyond

but my body craves sustenance, flavours and textures
your bourbon eyes crinkle, echoing the desire
in my coal-black ones

you move quietly and fluidly like a panther
at home amongst pots and pans
measured yet graceful, quick but unhurried
the air is thick with aromas of citrusy-peppery flavours

we dig into the garlicky, parsley-flecked pasta with gusto
slurping unselfconsciously in the sultry night
as you lick my fingers clean

moon sheds its misty cloak insouciantly
wind whispers wild melodies of love
before morn slants in with buttery smoothness
we give in to the rhythm of skin, again.

Written for dVerse poetics Tuesday. I am the host today and we are writing about food. Do join us.