Write to Me A Poem

Write to me a poem

about the flame that I am

Let me glow in your joys

and smoulder in your pain

Whisper to me your words

Let them melt in my being

Give them to me in a bundle

and I'll wrap them around me

I'll rove in your verses

over moors and fords

and wait for Highwayman

as the night unfolds

Make me the solitary reaper

and I'll melodiously lament my loss

or let me be the sailor

who killed an albatross

Or may be you would let me dance

over a lovely hill

and I would smile at all who pass

- a golden daffodil

Or if you wish, just paint me

in words of pastel shades

Mix up my existence

with the traditions of your trade

Give me your imagination

and I'll give you my being

Cage me in a poem,

Love, this time, set me free

Of Dreams and Him

I was going through some old pictures and came across this one. There is something about this picture that I think is very deep and meaningful. It takes me to some lines of a beautiful poem I read when I was probably 7 or 8. 

आदमी का स्वप्न ? है वह बुलबुला जल का,

आज उठता और फिर कल फूट जाता है,

किन्तु फिर भी धन्य ठहरा आदमी ही तो,

बुलबुलों से खेलता, कविता बनाता है|

This poem is called 'Chaand Aur Kavi' (The Moon and the Poet) written by one of the most celebrated Hindi poets of the modern era: Ramdhari Singh who wrote by the name 'Dinkar' which means 'The one who brings the day' or the Sun.

The poem talks about the moon talking to a poet, and expressing his exasperation at the tendency of man to create his own problems and then to get entangled in them. What amuses him more is the fact that in all such situations, man decides to stay awake and restless all night, and to weave dreams. In the lines above, the moon says, "What are human dreams but bubbles of water that are born today and gone tomorrow. But man - he incorrigibly plays with these bubbles and creates poetry." The poem goes on with the poet's retaliation which talks of the impossible things dreams and the power of imagination can achieve.

A lot of what I write tends to center around dreams. I think dreams are special. I think they make us more than complete. They make us look forward to the unknown, to go on when things are tough. They are something like the idea of Him, the higher power, that I believe in, not because of reason, but because of faith. Because it feels right to me. It calmed down the monsters of night in my childhood, it brought me home when I was a lost little girl, and it taught me to hope, and to dream for something more in every day of my small but magnificent life.

P.S.        I had once written a story around dreams, interestingly on the same day that this picture was taken. You can read it here.

P.P.S.     Yes, the girl in the picture is me.

The Village of Dance

I am thankful to my friend for directing me to this link. Nrityagram is a word with Sanskrit roots that means 'Dance Village'. I am not a dancer. Yet. But I have always dreamt of being one. And knowing about places like this inspires me immensely. Some day, I'll pack my bags and head for this village, to learn and live dance. Not being able to dance has always felt like a handicap. I wish to be able to express myself in this beautiful form of art that has the ability to transform one to a realm of greater things. I wish to experience the liberation of portraying a story - human, dramatic, real, surreal. I wish to be able to communicate to something deep within me, positively dark and unknown, something glorious and unexplored. I wish to be able to dance some day and forget there is, or ever was, an audience.

Some day.

Toy Story

What is true art but something that evokes emotions - genuine, sharp emotions. While I passed by Channapatna, the land of toys, I stopped by to admire this native and old form of wooden toy making, and I spotted this one (the picture above). While all the other toys will also adorn the house and bring a smile to a child's heart, this one- single piece, lying in a corner, seemed to have a tale of its own. There is sadness, ignorance, experience, and a haunting silence about this toy that makes it a masterpiece in my eyes. The couple shake their spring necks under their loaded heads, and in the attempt to amuse, they screech a muted story of toil, poverty, negligence, burdened love, and of an anonymous artist who sat down in a corner to pour out his stories in his work.

Love

 Love, 

What we share 

is sweet and scented

and dream-like

A story that movies are based on

Just sometimes I wonder

if behind those celluloid smiles

and happy sing song tunes

hides a muffled song

like the one of my soul

that does not fit in verses 

but that plays, without cue

on nights like these when you refuse

to grant me your friendship

and peep into my heart

When you surround yourself

with walls of silence 

and leave me on the other side

solitary and unheard

On these nights my love

I sing silent songs of longing

of a faraway land and a kingdom

and a princess and a prince

that kissed and made up

and lived happily ever after

Linked to One Single Impression. This week's theme was Love :)

P.S. The picture was clicked by me on my trip to Travemunde beach near Lubeck, Germany. Let me know what you think. :)

Polymorphism

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"

The teacher's voice comes muffled to her ears, mingled with multiple different threads of thoughts. She sees class 8A going to the playground in a queue. Her best friend winks at her from outside the window and mouths 'Games' explaining the cause of her imminent freedom from the classroom. She acknowledges the unsolicited information and turns back, to look at the Lesson board, which announces the Chemistry class topic 'Polymorphism', many forms. She wonders if tonight will be different. Or will something she says get on her mother's nerves again. Last week, she mentioned how funny someone's dad is, and it went really ugly. She had to pick the pieces of the shattered china and give her the blood pressure medicines before she could run to her room and cry her heart out. She deflects the thoughts. Turns it to when her mom wakes her up in the mornings and apologizes with genuine tears. Her throat chokes, and blood gushes at the recollection, its like a craving for something you really really want, something that makes you so happy, it embarrasses you. All she does in those moments is smile. Too much articulation is not a convention in their relationship. Her mind soon roves to that first night, when she saw her, tipsy stepped, smudged make-up, getting down from his car. He helped her in and sat her on the couch, all the time ignoring that there was someone else, wide-eyed, terrified, confused, standing in the room. She hated him, she hated that woman on the couch, laughing the saddest possible laugh, looking at her through the most helpless and disappointed eyes.The next morning, she lay in bed expecting her to come in and try to make up for the night, but she didn't come. Instead, that morning, she was at her best fake happiness, wearing a mask of unshakeable confidence to disguise her haunted conscience. At her polymorphic best. Many forms. "Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation". She wonders what Shakespeare's life would have been like, for him to gain this enviable talent. She envies the ability of expression. She envies the other girls of the class who are always so glib and smooth, and who laugh so easily. She wonders if her hair is frizzy again. She wonders if tonight, she'll again dream of her father, throwing her little self up in the air on a golden afternoon amidst mustard fields. She wonders if this time he will finally be able to catch her back, or if the dream will again end in free fall.

Thanks to Carry On Tuesday for the wonderfully inspiring prompt that made the story happen.

Sometimes

Found this little prompt on Weekend Wordsmith and realized it conveys just what I wish to convey today:

Sometimes, its just me -

the reader and the writer
united in a moment of wordlessness
so that those volatile crystal dreams
are safer 

locked within the airtight boxes
of silence