NaPoWriMo18 Prompt 3

My writing is all disorderly. So today I work with the Day 3 prompt which says:  "Write a poem that plays with voice. For example, you might try writing a stanza that recounts something in the first-person, followed by a stanza recounting the same incident in the second-person, followed by a stanza that treats the incident from a third-person point of view. Or you might try a poem in the form of a dialogue, which necessarily has two “I” speakers, addressing two “you”s. Another way to go is to take an existing poem of yours or someone else’s, and try rewriting it in a different voice. The point is just to play with who is speaking to who and how. 

SHE : ( 3^rd person)  

She struts about like she is royal

Her nose up in the air

She looks you in the eye

And answers like she dared you      

There is no smile

on her little upturned lips

She shrugs her mane

like the wind was her play thing…         

PC: from the www

She twirls her pretty little fingers

Drawing graceful arcs in the air

She sashays past ,with  cheeky impudence

swinging her arms, 

her head in the clouds

You can’t help but

Stand by star gazed…

How can she be so forthright

It is not  her time yet

She needs to wait, she needs to learn

Before she earns her worth

I : ( 1^st person)

I am just a young girl

Searching for my bearings

I wish you looked at me

A little more kindly

With a little more understanding

But I shall not ask, I shall not plead

Don’t judge me by the way I walk, talk or look

PC: from the www

Don’t look at me with scorn in your eye

Don’t look at me like I know nothing about life     

I may not, but I am learning

I shall not cower nor crouch

I am not afraid to learn

I too have my fears, I too have my doubts

But  I don’t let them

mirror in my eye

Pacing with steady steps

Looking at the world straight in the eye

Gives me the strength

To deal with what comes on life’s platter

You think you’ve got me all sorted

But let me tell you

The story may be different from

What strikes the eye…

YOU : ( 2^nd person)

Don’t you see?

She is a child woman

She is evolving

She is vulnerable

She is fragile

The fingers of life

are reaching out to her

Sometimes in gentle caresses          

PC: from the www

And sometimes in shoves

Be gentle, be kind

Don’t you remember?

How you longed to be understood

To be accepted, to be liked

Don’t you see a little you and me

In her eyes, in her words

And in her deeds?

Is it really not so easy

To cast the gaze of love

To stride along unobtrusively

With a gentle pat, a tender hug

To just let her know you care

Just to be there

If and when needed…

( all images are from the internet. ) 

NaPoWriMo 18: Prompt 25 : Warning Label

Today, we challenge you to write a poem that takes the form of a warning label . . . for yourself!


Caution! 

Fragile!

Handle with kid gloves!

Tread with care !

Waterworks in progress!

Take Diversion!
Explosive terrain ahead!

Searing Sarcasm Expert!

Thick skinned apparel advised!

Specialist in Cold shoulder treatment

Prudence recommended!

Shhhh! Silence mode!

Breathe only if absolutely essential!

Introspective Mode!

Don’t disturb!

Brainstorming session

Participation mandatory!

Loving cap on

Abject surrender Imperative !

NaPoWriMo 18 : Prompt (1) : Secret Pleasure/ Secret Shame

1. Write a poem that is based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure

A secret shame or a secret pleasure?

The secret shames or the secret pleasures?

This one or that one

So many buried under the avalanche of memories

Sometimes I rake one up

Some harmless, innocent ones

And some not so pleasant

Some real awkward that I shudder with shame

And some bring a smile

On my face

And then I realize

One just cannot grow up too soon

One shall commit the deeds of

Folly of innocence and ignorance

There is no skipping to maturity

One stumbles and falls

Before one takes steps of

Confidence and cognizance!

#NaPoWriMo18

NaPoWriMo Prompt 24

And from Prompt 1, I jump straight onto Prompt 24! Why? Because  Prompt 24 says: 

Today’s craft resource is a long-ish essay by Hyejung Kook regarding how poetry can be created from absence, or in the wake of loss, and how awareness of mortality drives a desire to produce art, people, poems.

Today, we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem typically written in honor or memory of someone dead. But we’d like to challenge you to write an elegy that has a hopefulness to it. Need inspiration? You might look at W.H. Auden’s elegy for Yeats, which ends on a note suggesting that the great poet’s work will live on, inspiring others in years to come. Or perhaps this elegy by Mary Jo Bang, where the sadness is shot through with a sense of forgiveness on both sides.

And since I had already written something a few years ago on these lines, I thought I might as well post it here. It is about a very special person who left in 2010.  

To someone who left...

Hi, are you there? Are you listening?
I want to tell you something
I am angry, very angry
But sometimes I miss you, lots…
But let me also tell you that
sometimes I don’t…
You know,
Sometimes I want to talk to you
Sometimes I just want to listen to you
And sometimes I don’t know what I actually wish-
Sometimes I think I should wipe out every memory,
every thought of you…
And sometimes I want
to cling to even the tiniest moment
And don’t want to let go ever…
Sometimes I ask why, how..
Sometimes I just don’t care…
Sometimes I think
I’m getting used to your absence
And sometimes I feel its unbearable
Sometimes I think I’ll get over you…
And everything will be fine,I’ll keep moving on
And sometimes I’m stuck, I am lost
Sucked into a bottomless vortex
Struggling to stay afloat

Sometimes suddenly I get the feeling you are right here
Right in front of me or by my side
And when I reach out
Colliding into the emptiness and the silence
A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach
A wrench in my heart, a sob in my throat
Reminding me that you are not here nor anywhere
Sometimes I think I heard you giggle
I fancy I saw you here or there
And I forget you are elsewhere or nowhere
And then when it dawns yet again
It is another stab for the millionth time
Knowing that the past will never come back…
It is so hard to believe that
That which was is no longer is …
Sometimes I can accept, and sometimes it hurts
in some place that cannot be seen, heard or touched

Sometimes I want to call out your name Loud, loudly…
Sometimes I want to hear you call out my name Loud, louder
And I want to answer
And then I realize with a shudder
I’m forgetting how your voice sounded
I keep looking for remnants of your voice, of your touch
And I drown in an abyss of despair and desolation
Of helplessness, of hopelessness
And yet, there is an absurd sense of relief
A weird reassurance
That you still exist- in my memories
Because I’m terrified of letting myself forget you
Because if I forget you then that will be the true end
And that I can’t bear
When you flash in my memory
It means you still are, and that you remain
I want to talk about you without my eyes welling up
I want to smile when I think about you
And for me to go on
I need to know that you are watching, listening,smiling too
I want to let the waves of your memories wash over me
I want to drown in them
I keep reliving those moments,
keep retelling those stories
In a frenzy to keep you here

Of how you chided me
How you teased me
How you annoyed me,
How your eyes crinkled when you smiled,
How you waggled your finger in mock anger
How you laughed, how you rolled your eyes
You said this, you did that…
The calendar is now marked forever
As before you left, and after
You just picked up and left
No goodbyes, no farewells
The onus on us left behind
To trudge through the quicksand of life
I always knew you’d leave
But when you did
I realized I was hoping you’d stay…

Hey ! Are you there? Are you listening?
I want to tell you something
I am angry, very angry- but
Did I tell you how much I have loved you
Did you know how much you meant to me?
Wait, I cannot let you go yet
I refuse to think you are not here
You are still here amidst us
In our words, in our thoughts
Now and forever…

#NaPoWriMo18

NaPoWriMo 2018 ( Prompt 1- Early Bird)

NaPoWriMo 2018

I am very late to the party. But no worries. Let me start from Day 1prompt

Day 1 Prompt  :  to write a poem in the form of a love letter . . . to an object. Ideally, the poem will be a kind of riddle, where it’s not totally obvious that the addressee is your beloved childhood pogo stick, or a dish of pad thai from your favorite restaurant, until near the end.  A great opportunity to play with some of the clichés and tropes of love poetry.

You were a gift

A very thoughtful one

You looked very strange

And yet I liked you

From the very beginning

You sang the sweetest songs

Your voice like the tinkle of bells.

I held  you in my arms

day in and out

Never wanting to let go

You were mine and  only mine  

And then one day

It happened

Everything changed

We had a fall out

I lashed out

In mad, blind fury

You were shattered

You whimpered

In feeble, garbled tones

And then you went silent

Silent forever

I’ve often wondered

What became of you

(Music Box : p.c: Internet)

I still remember the songs

That you sung

Your tinkling sound

Continues to Haunt my dreams

#NaPoWriMo18

Are you there???

Today again there was that  fraction of a moment when somebody’s expression suddenly gave me  the illusion that I was actually talking to you. It is such a fleeting moment but in that fraction of a second , I believe you are right here – in front of me, for that fleeting moment, I experience a sense of revelry that you are still here among us. And the next moment yet again that sinking feeling emerges reminding me of the painful truth that you are not here any more. One wishes to prolong that sense of suspended belief , that delusion but it is not to be. There is a pang in the depths of the heart, an overwhelming sense of loss, a feeling of desolation, hopelessness, and futility. And yet there is a weird feeling of reassurance , a sense of absurd relief that you are still alive in our memories. Because I’m terrified of letting myself forget you. Because if I forget you then that will be the true end and that I can’t bear. When you flash in my memory, then it means that you still are, that you shall remain. And for me to go on, I need to believe that . I need to believe that you are watching, that you understand …

I like thinking about you, remembering your expressions, your chuckles, your laughter. I love talking about you... without my eyes welling up. I like to smile when I think about you, talk about you... I like to think you are watching, listening, smiling too... may be, just may be that I would have liked to see you again, talk to you again, listen to you some more, tell you a few more special things...

Way Beyond...

You want to chain me in words. Cage me in boxes. You want to define me. You want to claim you understand me, you have got me all figured out. You want to cross check, you want to prove, you want to analyse ,you want to dissect, you want me to fulfil criteria charted out by you- you want me to adhere to facts generated by you, to observe rules drawn out by you, to abide by regulations fabricated by you!

You want me to have me tallied- you want to quantify me- you want to have me accounted for!

You want to tether me in words, in tabular columns, in bar graphs…you are excited when you think human intellect covers me up totally- and that I cannot exist beyond that!! You pat yourself thinking you’ve got me all figured out!

But sorry- I don’t fit in- I cannot be caged or chained in words or definitions, in facts or figures, you can’t map me , you can’t chart me out- I extend beyond your x-y axes…

I stray into un-chartered territories- un-traversed by human intellect- I stretch across borders and definitions- I am invisible, I am intangible- how can you hope to catch me with your finite intellect when you can’t even see me fully?

I escape like sand in your clenched fists- I am in the air you breathe- and the air without - I’m in the void- I am in the spaces. I exist in thoughts that cannot be expressed, in feelings that cannot be understood- I am in your sighs, even in your yawns. The alphabets shall never suffice to encompass me, language shall always be found wanting.

I’m grainier than the sand grains on the seashore- saltier than all the salt in the sea. I'm colder than the ice flakes in the arctic, deeper than the tears in your eyes. I’m in the roots that meander their way under the earth, in the leaves that sprouted and then wither and fall; I'm in the buds that are yet to blossom.

I’m the colours beyond the vibgyor, the sounds beyond hearing. I’m brighter than the sparkle in a child’s eye. I go beyond learning, beyond understanding, beyond experiences- then why this craving to have me all figured out- hold me in your clasp- chain me in fetters of grammar and format?
You see, I existed before all that…

Why is it so difficult to accept that there could be things beyond language, beyond borders, beyond limits, beyond concepts, beyond definitions? Is it really so difficult to comprehend?

I am so much, so much more - beyond your reach… beyond your view… beyond the distant horizon…

The spell has broken...

 As I walked down the only too familiar road, I very consciously and deliberately tried to coerce my sleeping memories alive. I searched for familiar sights,  I tried to breathe in familiar smells, I tried to rouse dormant sensations…I tried to retrace my steps, I closed my eyes, visualising images of the past.  

I saw nothing, smelt nothing, felt nothing. It was the same place and yet it was no longer.

 Everything felt unreal, empty. I had grieved the passage of time, yearned for lost moments. Now I had come back but found nothing that I thought I was seeking. Is there a sense of loss?  No, not even that. Just an emptiness and a numbness.

What had changed? The  place? Perhaps…

It is I who have changed. Forever. I am no longer that person.

That place in the depths of my heart no longer exists outside. Finally  I can stop looking for it every time I return. Let sleeping memories lie...


Ref: Nostalgia: thy sting

ONE too many?

                                        ( image courtesy: http://www.moviebuff.com/one#poster-330ec)

It has been raining T.M Krishna all over my part of the cyber space . An overdose of T.M Krishna, though I’m not one to complain. I have been listening to his interviews, reading up about him, thrashing out all about his stand (regarding the December festival) with my cousin…and then she tells me about this movie rendezvous “ONE” featuring none but him!

Did I know what to expect? Well, I had watched “MargazhiRaga” when that hit the theatres. And I was not too averse to this concert on celluloid bit.  

So this was at BHEL Trichy- Kailasapuram club. I had heard about this venture where T.M Krishna was thrown into the wilds and left to himself to sing off the cuff. No bustle- just the skies, the waters, the wind, the birds for company.

It sounded all good. Now this screening incidentally was also out in the open , on a not too lush lawn but yes there were trees right behind, a light summer breeze and the evening moths casting their shadows across the huge screen giving the illusion of being a part of the celluloid landscape.

What can I add after all the *reviews already available online? What the makers intended to do, how they went about it, how they felt about the whole thing, all that is already out there…

Just perhaps how I felt?

Well, I am no connoisseur and am among the ones who respond to simply what they hear , not essentially what they know or what they understand. And so I watched, I heard, I liked, I enjoyed. I enjoyed the music in the musician, the exuberant voice, the sounds, the colours, the feel, as I sat there under the evening skies. I even liked the way The musician’s hands moved, they seemed to have a grace of their own gesturing to the flow of the music, directing the exuberant throw of his voice into the cosmos…

There is the performer who is inspired by a muse, an applauding audience…

And then there is the artiste who is inspired by his art, regales in the magic of his art, talks to his art, calls out to his art- listens to his art, is mesmerised by his art as if he is just a witness- and not the one initiating it… calling out to the creation around him, throwing back into the air- the waves of the swaras and the sahitya- pausing to listen, as if expecting a response from the wilderness…

And when it is over, you feel that you just had a peek into an intensely personal experience of an artiste… 

* One on Movie Buff

* To sing just with the tanpura has been revealing: TM Krishna

* A little too pretty but...

* One breaks new musical grounds 

* T.M Krishna, One with Music- Abigail Fraher

Gratitude...

While I’ve been singing paeans to Solitude and how much I craved solitude, how I cherished my space and ‘me time’, how I resented intrusions into my space and time. I defended my right to my space and time indignantly, vociferously  and not content, I wanted to shout myself hoarse from the roof tops…until….

One night, it dawned on me ( ironically) , that solitude was a luxury that could be enjoyed when one knew that one had people around, relatives, friends, acquaintances…just a call ( not the digital kind) away. When one had nobody then the same space and solitude would be oppressing and gnaw the insides of the soul.

When I realised this important detail, I decided to be more respectful of the people around me, more tolerant of the cramped spaces and appreciate the relevance of their presence which made solitude an enjoyable experience to be savoured if and when it becomes available.  .

Magic of remembered moments...

Why is it that  many a time,  what we have been waiting for to happen, what we had been wishing for- when that moment finally dawns,  why does it feel so unreal, almost as if it was happening to someone else. Why does it feel so ordinary, so bland?

When the long awaited moment was in the present, I kept reminding myself , "Here is the moment you've been waiting for, watch it unfurl, be in it, hold on to it, savour it. Lock it away, for some day in the future, you will seek this moment in the casket of your memories, you'll long to be back in it, relive it"...

And then in some moment of the remote future, it becomes a miracle remembered, perhaps more magical than it had actually been when in the present.

M.P. Bhattathirippad's "Rithumathi" -1952

Today at lunch, amma was recounting to me about M.P. Bhattathrippad's (Premji) play: 

"*Ruthumathi". She embellished her narration with the typical "Namboothiri bhasha". 

I was appalled at the plight of the girl child of those times. Thank God it had a happy ending. A very 

poignant story that haunts you for a long time after. 

Am I glad to have been born in today's era...



Below is an excerpt from :

http://www.academia.edu/3459832/Representation_of_Namboothiri_Women_in_Early_Malayalam_Theater

Similarly, Premji‟s Ritumati was a well-written work as a prose drama.

This is the story of Devaki, an orphaned Namboothiri girl, who initially stays with 

her comparatively  progressive maternal uncle who provides her with education ( 

otherwise not prescribed to a namboothiri girl).

But after attaining puberty, her education is discontinued and she is forcibly taken 

to her paternal  family. There, she‟s ordered to take off her blouse as per custom 

and change into a mere piece of cloth. On her refusal to do so, Kizhakeprathe 

Apphan Namboothiri tortures her by hiding her clothes and continuously abusing 

her.

Devaki, thus transforms into the face of resistance in this drama as she adamantly 

refuses to change her outfit for many months at length. Though branded as a 

mentally unstable woman by family and society ( for merely voicing her desire and 

dissent),she‟s betrothed to someone without  her consent.

On the marriage day, her cousin Kuttan and her friend Vasudevan concede to her 

desperate plea to rescue her from this confining atrocity. The protagonists Devaki 

and Vasudevan succeed in the fight against their wretched life inside the 

Namboothiri community. Unlike the three earlier plays mentioned initially, Ritumati 

stands as an unflinching testimony to progressive drama. The protagonist is not 

conveniently evicted from the plot ( as in Marakkudakkullile Mahanarakam, Savitri 

Athava Vidhawa Vivaham and Adukkalayil Ninnu Arangathekku) in order to 

maintain social  normalcy‟.

The epigraph to the play:

Ritumatiyaayoru penkidaavennagi

-lathu mathi njayamn padippu nirtan.

Avallenum pinneyadukkalathannuli-

lavashamirrunnu narachidenam;kudayeduthidenam, 

kuppayamooranam-kudilasamudayaneethi nokku!

( It is all puberty that takes to discontinue a girl ‟s education/ 

from then on, she‟ll remain and rot within the walls of her kitchen/ 

A customary veil and the custom of removing her blouse is what the cruel society demands off her)

(* Rithumathi : Girl who has attained puberty)

Related  posts:

Parinayam 1

Parinayam 2

Parinayam 3

Parinayam 4

Parinayam 5

( pic courtesy: http://static2.bigstockphoto.com/thumbs/9/9/3/small2/39905602.jpg)

Deception

Deception

Payback Time

Some years ago, I had written about how I had time trapped in my fist. About how I watched in slow motion while the rest of the world whizzed past me. And now its pay back time. All those days, when I languished in the endless ocean of time, playing with the minutes and seconds-  relishing and savouring every moment, somewhere deep inside, I wondered...I wondered if there would come a time, when I would climb aboard the whirring roller coaster myself . Even then, I had wondered if I could lend time to those who were looking for spare moments, and just in case, I would demand pay back with interest. 

Time has a way with making one eat and chew one's words.

For, now I've entered another phase in my life. I've become a teacher in a  school here, a school that I had always hoped to join. I teach English to little children- of 5, 6 and 7 standards. While I enjoy the teaching part completely, there are hordes of other responsibilities that come as a free deal along with the job. It feels like I've suddenly got aboard a roller coaster that is hurtling fast, fast, up, down and again up and I'm tied to it. My hair is standing on end and my palms are clenched tightly holding onto the seat, my mouth is wide open in a silent screech! Having to climb up and down two flights of stairs adds to the zing. My timings, routine have changed completely and there are times when I feel disoriented like I am jet lagged. 


(To make things worse, after having become an English teacher, I now find myself looking askance at every word I utter or  write. I'm no longer too sure of my Grammar! The Irony!  Professional hazard I guess. And the 'Tanglish' - the 'Kolaveri' kind  that I get to hear all around me adds to the conundrum. I hope I outgrow this phase of self doubt soon). 

However, I hasten to add that I've no regrets. I feel useful, I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. I'm thoroughly enjoying my time with the kids. I realise that I've in store, truck-loads of patience, which I was never aware of. I find myself watching my kids even when they're at their naughtiest best, most boisterous and cantankerous selves.  I've to stop myself consciously from smiling or even laughing at times. Time will tell if they'll drain me off this exuberance. But right now I'm happy where I am.

(See what I hold in my tightly clenched fist? I’ll let u have a tiny peek- just for a moment- there…saw that? I have Time trapped within my fist…you don’t believe me? I don’t blame you…you who are so busy – you who don’t realize when the day is over and night has begun…you who cannot watch the sun set and the stars rise…

 Slowly, very slowly, I loosen my fist ever so little…and a handful of moments slither too soon…In a flash I close my fist tighter than ever- but alas- a few precious moments are already lost to Eternity- I close a single eye and peek thru the gaps in my fingers of my clenched fist- aha- Time is yet again trapped- I breathe a sigh of relief- and yet a few stealthy moments keeps trickling through the tiny gaps- I watch helplessly…counting the truant moments …

 A train flashes by along the broad gauge tracks outside- the boggies are a blur- and I watch from my balcony as if in slow motion- the second needle ticks by inside my home- an on your watch- marking off the same moments from the slice of Eternity and yet some moments are heavy, and some flit by like the caress of a feather- Theory of Relativity?

 A friend of mine tells me he feels like he’s caught in a rollercoaster that does not seem to stop- whirrrrrrrr- round and round – it goes…turning him around along with it… no time to even feel queasy-

Was wondering would it be possible to lend time to those who need some spare moments- except that maybe I’d add one clause- just in case- to be returned on demand with interest…)