The Renewal-----Sunday Scribbling

The End sounds so final. It gives us so much to ponder about. Love ends, relationship ends, life ends. On a more mundane level, the things we do in a daily basis, terminate at some point. Certain thoughts close. Certain feelings conclude. Emotions cease. We feel the pain for a few of those endings. Elated by certain others. We welcome it too. End need not be sad.

What we call “The End” is it really that? I would say, no. It is a new beginning, a new direction, a renewal. That is necessary for the growth of our minds, nature renews itself, and life is born yet again.

After every calamity just when we think, everything has wrecked; the Earth renews itself creating new life apparently out of nothing. With that instinct of endurance, the indomitable human spirit always survives. Nothing can keep it down for long. If we lose something or get lost, we find other things, we find ourselves. We might not be able to know that just then. After a while, the meaning of it can be fathomed, it is not buried but comes forth. Our weaknesses are overtaken by strength.

The End, in reality, is a reinforcement of faith, belief, and spirituality. It is a beginning, a restoration of life. Whenever I have thought it is the end of the world for me, I have emerged stronger and a better person, almost reborn.

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While you are at it, do not forget to read "Bard's Dilemma" which reflects any poet's dilemma.

(Self-promotion never harmed anyone!!)

Bard's Dilemma----Sonnet----[Friday] Fiction

This week, [Fiction] Friday asks us to pick a famous fictional character (for our purposes here it can be any character from fiction, mythology, legend, comic books…whatever) and give them a secret vice—at the very least it should be distasteful if not outright illegal. Now give the character’s rationale in their own words.

Bard's Dilemma----Sonnet

Otherwise known as bard, I have written plays-
tragedies and comedies, along with some sonnets.
My repertoire is vast, as I write nights and days-
poetry does not pay well, empty are my pockets.

Asking for money, I am somewhat always in debt
friends and foes both shun, when it is me they see
I feel like a heel but a man has to survive: dead set
to earn more, I found a way. Stress gone I feel free,

I have not given up composing, that is in my blood,
I write for the masses under another pseudo name.
There is no dearth of words, which can only flood
my mind and flow from my pen- on paper they tame.

Varied writing helps me eat more than baked beans-
as I churn out romances with explicit steamy scenes.

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As there is a no edit rule, it is but a rough draft. I will polish it later on.

window view of silhouetted dawn-----Poetry Thursday

The last prompt by Poetry Thursday tells us to make use of the line "an open window" anywhere in our poem.

This is another of my rare love poetry. Maybe the last one. Who knows? Who cares?

window view of silhouetted dawn


sitting by an open window
staring at the silhouetted dawn
i can still see your jerky movements

togetherness by the sea
unfolds in my mind.
each particle of gritty sand
imprinting firmly on my body

reminds me of unanswered
communication between us which
had no need for those so called words.

absently tapping the rosewood table,
uncrossing my feet at my ankles
i grow still with nameless
anticipation for what I know not.

i brush strands of hair from my face
wetness of it surprises me. with
sad allure I wipe away my tears.

“with you gone, beyond time and space has no meaning.”

Click an open window for more....

real world.....?!------3WW

Forgotten
Hotel
Obscure

an obscure place,
tender with morning sun,
the smell of tea and ripened fruit
wafts towards the hotel window.
sounds of life outside drift in amid old concertos.
chirping birds, buzzing bees beckon me outside
to steel warmth from the sun.
work forgotten, i am tempted.
slowly coming back to life
i prepare for yet another day.
picking up my laptop, i walk out
into the streets to my car,
to face the “real world.”

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If you are so inclined to be scared, do read my review of Frankenstein by Mary Shelly on my Reading Room blog..

scattered cinders-----Monday Poetry Train

grey dust from the wooden table
coats his sleeve. he wipes
it on his trousers
barely aware of it.

he is in the midst
of making a point to her
by his never ending tirade.
opaque dust depicts

their non-existing relationship.
irritating screeching sound
gets to her fragile nerves.
dry old flowers enhances

the drab way their life is going.
his droning voice makes her sleepy.
closing herself with open eyes,
she feels a pang for lost love.

only for a moment.
she fingers her name
on the thick dust
setting herself free-

to touch the untamed cinder
of sun streaks scattered on the dusty floor.
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To read more poetry on a busy Monday, click poetry train..

First tumble down and then fly...Sunday Scribblings

Sunday Scribblings tells us to use the phrase "I get that sinking feeling."

This is such a familiar feeling. We all get in one tie or the other. We get it when we are afraid of something and when we are angry too.

At certain point of time, one has to make specific decisions. When that time arrives, one gets a sinking feeling. Whenever I had to change the course of my life, I have felt that low down feeling which lasts for a while. That must be because we fear change. Any kind of change. We feel cocooned by routine mundane way of life. Change means deviation from that all too well known path for some time to come. That sinking feeling has no rhyme or reason; it comes at most inconvenient times. I may be feeling at the top of the world one moment and down in the dumps in the next one. Most do not realise that change is the only constant. Hence it scares us. If we see in a broader sense, every moment is a change. It can never be monotonous as such. Life can never be that. That sinking feeling prepares us to face it. To look squarely into it.

I too feel that like goose pimples, this sinking feeling too helps us in dealing with that impending change called life, better. I suppose it balances our outlook to an extent. I feel that these are nature’s way of preparing the human mind for the bigger picture. It is in my inherent nature to look at things in a positive way. I try to see that in that sinking feeling too. May be the sinking feeling is really the flying out feeling.

Right now I have that sinking feeling because I walked away. Although, I had to.
This is going to last for a long time….

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**Update: Nowhere in this post, I said, I do not welcome/enjoy change. People who read me regularly know that I dabble in new things and I need new challenges all that time. I think the post title too speaks out.

In case you have not read it, don't forget to read my poem, blood in the streets.

You can read my review of tuesdays with Morrie too, on my other blog, reading room.

visions of damage----[Fiction] Friday

This week [Fiction] Friday asks us to create a character in a genre one would normally avoid. I am not too sure about it. For now I can't write anything other than free verse!! Blame it on my recalcitrant muse!! On second thoughts, I write a lot of structured poetry, so maybe this is different..:D

Hence I take it forward from my previous FF work, Waiting....

carved knife under
her pillow, was only
a defensive measure.
nothing could prevent
ghosts of memories to escape.
least of all, a weapon.
logic defies mind when
faced with threats
of own-making.
imaginary fears sap away
strength, same way as real ones.
visions of damage are
round the corner.
little knowing-
the assailant
is none other than self.

she did not need
any one else to harm her.
She was not doing too badly-
self-destructing all the time.

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**Disclaimer: This isn't about me as a few assume. I am trying to write an entire series of poems for FF. This is the third one.

Don't forget to read my previous post 'blood in the streets.'

blood in the streets---Poetry Thursday

After a long summer break, Poetry Thursday has come up with an idea of "taking one of the poems we’ve already written and use the last line of that poem as a jumping-off point for an entirely new poem" or "why not (with proper attribution, of course) use the last line of a published poem as the first line (or even title!) of an original poem.." i.e. last lines, first lines.

I have taken the last line of Neruda's "I'm Explaining a Few Things" and used as the first line for the following poem.



come and see the blood in the streets-
bodies severed, tangled, unrecognisable
spilt red fluid ties them as nothing else did

your fight has gone too far, don’t you think?
children orphaned, revenge is in charge
yet another generation pulled into it.

a lone man holds his head in his hand
pictures of horror embedded in his mind
knowing not what was it that hit.

sirens of doom foretell unheard terror
ignoring the dead, picking the severed;
sound of a child’s cry fills the street.

come and see the blood in the streets-
although, why would you even think of it,
it is not your blood trickling, is it?

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This goes out for all those who think that violence can solve all problems ailing this world--- world leaders, Religious fanatics....you name it, they are at it.

To read more poetry, click here...

until inevitability----3WW

Corridor
Linger
Subtle

Why have I started thinking of it again?
I thought I had left all that behind.
Why has it come back?
Subconsciously I fear it.
Yet I am fascinated by it.
It feels so familiar.
Like my best friend.
Who knows me the way I do not even know myself.
I thought I was well past that illogical thought.
Seems not.
Will I get over it again?
Will I push it aside?
Into that unseen corridor of my psyche?
Where it will linger for some time to come.
Give in to it?
With a vengeance yet subtle?
I watch it with enthralling revulsion.
Where the mind covets and yet repels.
Why do I fight?
Why don’t I give in?
So easy to do that.
What holds me back?
Isn’t it better to finish with that than face it again and again?
May be it is I.
It must be that.
I cannot take the painless way out.
I have to traverse the most difficult of path.
Where there is stimulation, adventure and challenge.
Please retreat.
Do not come back.
I will not embrace you now.
Come later when it is inevitable.
For now, I have to live.
Let me wake up...

Until inevitability, goodbye death..

stringing lines----Monday Poetry

looking at the keyboard-
frantically, I try to catch
hold of the escaping words.

they have been playing
truant too long, for comfort.

purposeless, words hit out
at each other, battling for
supremacy, self-centred to hilt.

gentleness underlying steely
firmness, I organise them.

in an instant, all gets precise-
chaotic lines coordinate in order,
making sense yet once more.

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To read more poetry on Monday, click here...