‘I like my poems raw’
Writing poetry is so much easier than writing about poetry! As far back as I can remember, poetry has always been my natural form of expression. One of my mother’s favourite stories is about how as a child of eight, I out of the blue recited these lines: ‘We of the garden dream of the day when we can have our freedom and go our way.’
I write when I am moved/disturbed. Poetry is no doubt a cathartic process and from darkness comes light! After turning 30, I wrote a whole bunch of love poems. They kept coming to me like the raging storm. That was also when I compiled my first book of poems. My poems are almost always first drafts. I like them raw. I am aware they may become finer poems if edited. But I believe they will also become something else if tampered with. So I let them be. I am nearing 40 and have calmed down. But yes it continues to rain in my world.
Ganga Arti
The Ganga is as I imagined Her
Breaking free of His matted locks
She flows
Mighty
Swift
Free
Even as He destroys
She creates
Who would not worship this wild woman
This life force
The little girl on the banks of the river
Sells gram
She needs clothes to survive the winter
She insists the gram I buy
Must be offered to the Ganga
For Her blessings
The worshippers/performers are colour coded
Red vests and cream suits
The fire in their hands burns fierce
The wind blows harder
The chants grow stronger
Even the crescent moon plays sport
It is true
The only way to live
Is to transcend the real
Leech
Leech- like you cling to my breast
Bloated
Drunk on my blood
There is this pinch of salt
That I salvaged
From the ruins of my kitchen
There is no place for insanity in war
But there can be poetry
In revenge
Poetry
Poetry flowed over pebbles
Stumbled over rocks
Crashed against sand banks
Dallied in nooks
You failed to hold it
There exists a communion
Beyond the grasp of wordsmiths
Where Poetry will find
The resting places it deserves
Till then these words
Meaningless
Listen
I can never leave
It makes no difference
That you were never there
Poet
Outside my balcony door
It rains
A drizzle catches sunbeams
A thousand splendid rainbows
Trees sway
Dancing the dance of the fettered
Drops turn into a downpour
Wetting my mud
Flooding my backyard
I watch
I am a barren field
Where no word births
Then I close my eyes
And there is enough hurt in me
There is enough anger in me
To birth a thousand poems
Silence
This is how people die
Conversations become monologues
A monologue becomes a sentence
A sentence a word
A word a groan
A groan a murmur
Murmur
Silence
If I do not climb on this wall
And scream out loud
If I do not shout
Till the last breath of air
Leaves my lungs
Silence will strangle me
I too will die
The essay and the poems are part of our Poetry Special Issue (January 2022), curated by Shireen Quadri. © The Punch Magazine. No part of this essay or the poems exclusively featured here should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
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