Without you-

I’ve always wondered
What it would feel like
If one day we awaken and
The sun refused to shine.
If the tree leaves stood ramrod
Without the rhythm of the winds.
If the birds remained in their niches,
And the sky stood empty.

What would it feel like
If all the coffee shops lacked coffee,
(Decaf does not count),
If papers wouldn’t take up poetry,
If silence was the new “pollution”.
And noise became (what’s noise?)

Then you left.
Although,
The coffee shops are still stocked
And of course the sun arose.
The tree leaves are dancing,
And the birds going to and fro.
Today.. I know how it feels.

---

Last month was my blogiversary, and I asked you all to ask any questions you want to be answered. For this month, I’d be posting my blog posts with an answer to a question, so keep an eye out for that.

Question 2 (Jodi) She asks “where does your inspiration for your writing comes from. It is often sad and deep and I worry it is about you.”

Most of the time, I get my inspiration from life. I am not an abstract person, so abstract art and still life art are not my forte. I cant look at an empty cup and easily gain inspiration from that. My inspiration comes from people. 

I am a very inquisitive person, I love to understand people, why they feel the way the do, why they react certain ways. And if i don’t have answers to that, I find that poetry gives me the freedom to create that. It helps me fill in the remaining pictures of a puzzle. And also, the amount tragedy and sadness floating around becomes too much for me to contain at times, and so writing becomes a way of unburdening.
I hope that answers the question.

Rejection-

The rejections pile up,
First The boy,
Then the emails
And now rejections, in the form
Of sealed papers,
Arrive at my doorstep.
Like I need,
A physical reminder to
“I don’t want- you, yours”.

“It’s not you, it’s me”
He said.
“Your work is great, just
Not for us”
They said.
Neither of them having
The courtesy,
The guts,
To speak the truth we both know:
“The problem is with me”.

But that’s fine.
Really, that’s okay.
I’ve done the calculation:
6 months of rejected writing,
Requires 1 week of grieving.
5 rejections,
ergo 5 weeks.
Then its back to pen and paper.

The world has told me
Too many Nos,
It has rejected me,
Too many times,
For me to reject myself.
Me myself and I,
We gon’ keep at it,
We gon’ be alright.

Silver Linings-

She wants to read about
romance, in an atmosphere
of scented roses. How to get the one
your eyes are set at; the heart’s
flutterings at the sound of a voice;
The thought of a face.

I want to write of sadness
and grief; the atmosphere of
grey clouds on a summer day. How
the mind works from the fateful day,
when the fruit of one’s womb,
Departs from earth.

I want to write about silver
linings after a stormy weather.
The ways of grief, and society’s
Alloted time stamp.
How a mind overwhelmed by
darkness, can survive another
sunrise and sunset.
I want to write about hope.

Apology-

There are mornings
When my spirit is filled
With the songs of the
Mockingbirds… singing
Alive… in tune…
and i I am up for laughter,
Banter,
But,
There are mornings
When one word answers
Are all I can muster-
Yeah
Okay
Fine
Bye… but I really dont mean
Bye, more like an
“I’m sorry it feels like the weight of the world is heavy upon my shoulders”;
It feels that way, and I want to unburden and say something nice, but I cant”.

Please understand,
I am still trying to get
My bearings and navigate
Both mornings.
I am still trying to understand me.

Depression knocked on my door (2)

I lied.
Depression didn’t knock on my door,
It opened it,
As it always did,
Without an express invitation.
Depression is not a guest,
It’s family,
Moving in at whims
Doesn’t take no for an answer,
Does as it pleases.

When the sun graces
The sky- with its presence
And I try to will myself
With coffee…
There depression is.
Standing, walking
Sitting, beside me.
Sipping from the same cup
As I,
Me…
Us.

Depression didn’t knock on my door,
It waltzed in.
But there are days,
When I can battle it enough,
Just enough- to go through
The day without crashing,
Enough to smile at strangers
Without faking,
Enough to go to work,
Without crying…
Somedays,
I can almost defeat it.
Almost.

This poem is in response to a previouse poem I had written a year ago: A conversation with depression. I had always wanted to write a part 2, and after taking this impromptu hiatu, I thought this would be the best start for me. I missed blogging and the entire community ❤️❤️❤️

For so long-

We’ve been quiet for so long,
Swallowing our words,
Locking them with clenched teeth.
We bury the memories
(Try to anyway);
But they come roaring back,
Stronger, fiercer
Like the crashing waves at shore.

We’ve been quiet for so long,
Nodding our heads
With upturned lips, and our
“Everything is great”
Remark.
Bound by fear,
Enslaved by memories.

We’ve been quiet for so long,
At the cost of our sanity;
You and me afraid to utter
Yes, it did happen to me.
we swallow our words,
lock them with clenched teeth,
At the expense of our sanity,
And what has that achieved?
We’ve been quiet for too long…

In Plain sight-

 

Night sky
No longer scares me,
Neither the darkened alley,
Nor darkened rooms.
I have seen darkness,
On a bright summer day,
In the hearts of fair men
Whose smile,
Melt most people away.
I have heard darkness,
Through the words of women,
Covered up head to toe
In spirituality.
I have felt darkness,
From hands that pass the
Biggest offerings,
At religious gatherings.

Night sky,
No longer scares me.
I have seen enough of the dark
To know, the worst there is-
Hides in plain sight.

My Father-

My father…
What isn’t there to say,
About the man, whose voice
Carried a coldness, akin to the
December weather.

His footsteps-
you could swear left
imprints, on the cold hard
Impenetrable ground.

And his eyes,
had a constantly hovering
Guard of beetle black hair
Furrowed above them. Like a
Permanent tattoo.

He stood ramrod straight,
And spoke in an untremulous way.
He was the dictionary definition of
“Head of the household”.

Then- mama found a place
Amongst the soil,
Six feet under- enshrouded
In white.

His shoulders slopped,
His eyes sacked,
His voice lost the arid detachment
It was famous for… His footsteps,
Barely audible.

And I learnt,
Even a mountain requires
A solid ground to build up on.
Without it- it’d crumble.
My father lost his solid ground.

 

The weight of silence-

To the women who watched him punch me and said nothing…
To the men who watched him tear me and did nothing…

I could run, but I couldn’t.
My arms were burdened with
Two children weighing heavy on
Me,
Run to where,
to whom,
With them?

I could run, but I couldn’t.
My body was pained from bruises
And contusions and lacerations;
Words now familiar to me, all
Thanks to so many,
Too many,
hospital visits.
He’d be on me before my shadow
Was out the door.
I could run, but I couldn’t.

I could say something, but I couldn’t.
What would words impact
The eyes that have seen fists,
Gracing my skin
Like a punching bag;
Seeing is believing I heard,
You saw- but you did nothing.
What has words gotten over vision.
I could say something, but I couldn’t.

So I caress my limbs with Ice,
And swallow my words
As darkness envelopes the sky..
A coward- maybe.
But how do you sleep at night
With your silence?

Agoraphobia-

He looks like someone,
Who has seen enough of life
To know,
It is not all hunky dory;
There is no pot of gold,
At the end of the journey.

He stands ramrod straight,
slouching,
Only to give a penny,
To the old lady on the street.
A man who is more than,
What the world sees of him.
But I do… see it.

After all,
What else does a home bound,
Fear stricken, panic roped,
Woman got to do but watch.

And I watch the man across the street
Whose smile, is like a warrior
Out of a horrific battle,
Happy yet knowing-
As bad as it was,
Even worse things lay out there.

And he fades around the corner,
Into the unknown….
I look around my walls,
Imprisoned by irrational fear,
Restricted to my limited knowings.