Poetry is a room where I find myself defining/recreating the self
I began writing poetry as a way to examine my feelings about several things around me. I suppose it was a very personal thing for me, more than maintaining a diary. It gave me access to hide behind not just lines and words, which I could twist and turn to camouflage myself, but to also discover a part of me that did not want to be found. And I still try to do that when I write poetry.
My earliest influence for writing poetry has to be my late aunt, Prof. Reshma Aquil, who was a published poet. I was given the task of proof reading her works while I was in my teens and her writing style fascinated/influenced me to a great extent. Her bookshelves were lined with poetry books by contemporary poets from across the world. And much as I would try to understand their works at that age, they baffled me a lot. It wasn’t till I was in college that I revisited many of these works, including the ones that we were studying in our English Hons. programme back at college and later on during my Masters that I realised an important thing about writing poetry — it is never about who you are writing for; it is always about what are you writing it for. I had been scribbling verses since my school days and I thought of sending my poems to the only publisher that I had read about in those days — Writers Workshop, Calcutta. I never expected a response but was quite surprised when late Dr. P. Lal called me up and spoke to me, informing that he would like to publish my work without charging me anything for it. Moments like these make you begin to take your work more seriously. The faith that Dr. Lal showed in my work helped me write more. I am indebted to him. I have always kept my writing style simple and I try to keep my literary background and knowledge to a minimum and avoid letting it enter my poems.
For me, poetry is a room where I find myself defining/recreating the self. The idea behind writing poetry is never to try to contain or rather, try to reduce my feelings, ideas, and perceptions to just a few lines. It is to discover in/through those lines many unsaid things. At times, I feel safer when I express myself through poetry rather than through fiction, as fiction tends to unravel the mind of a writer in front of its reader. That is not to say that a similar thing cannot happen in poetry, but for me, personally, I feel I remain well hidden behind the lines I write. The multiple interpretations that can come up for a poem and the varied discussions that can revolve around those lines are best suited for people like me who do not want their works to be defined by a single strand of interpretation. And interestingly, it is in those multiple interpretations that I at times discover parts of myself.
Left in You and Me
For the days that are left in you and me,
Let the silver strands of Yamuna
Running parallel with our lives
Glistening in the sun
Whispering of a past
Vanish like the crumbling wings of a moth
Leaving a silky sensation on the skin.
The inherited space lies vacant
A new land
The heart beats for it
Living in the past
It grows heavy
Not with sorrow
But with memories
A hand stretches out
To hold that invisible order.
Words continue to grow
Trying to find their feet
And drop silently
On the dew drenched earth.
Scattering in different directions
Each create a home
The edge of the paper
Cuts into the skin
Slices it.
A slice drowning in red, pomegranate juice.
The yellow petals fall around
Dipping themselves in the colour
Claiming a history of their own.
You plunge into the skin of water
Water “remains” your history.
A circle of red is getting created
The petals continue to gouge out
The seeds of the fruit.
Covering the page
The colours ooze through the paper.
For the nights that are present
Around you and me
Let the eyes dipping inside the river
Stare directly into our futures
Absorbing the cries.
The ruptured skin creates invisible lines.
The flower receives the blood,
Revives it like the nightingale once did.
The trees are full of birds
Looking towards the sky
And the sky —
The sky refuses to show its face
A part of the moon comes crashing down.
Crossing Out
There will be days when you will open your eyes
On those days, observe.
Orange, glazed, inner-yellow squared
White standing at the borders
Grinning at you
Maybe trying to call out your name
Trying to pick out the vowels and construct a new name for you
Maybe pronouncing it in a jarring manner
Pushing you away from you.
A smoke unfurls above the water
Seems like a blank wall
You stare at it
Trying to imagine the histories that must have been written across its body
A spider dares to cross that wall
Running/ruining the history as it runs across
Unflinching
The meditation continues
What was it that I was searching for?
How did it not come up here?
Why does it hide away in the almirahs of comfort and not step out
Cold and in a daze.
A story is being written
The wall was your informant
It began writing its own story
But so did you.
In that entangled space
You search for your version
Is it yours to claim?
Was it yours to pick up?
The wall stands still
Unfurling a smile
Quietly gloats over the wrong moves that you continue to make
The version remains strong
Peregrinating through lines
You search for your adaptations
Slowly the unravelling of a fingerprint begins
A sandpaper is busy smoothing out the whorls.
The self/proprium begins to fade
Now an ink blot determines
What the tongues once knew.
The ink streams out of the iris
Shall I set foot on the ground that ceases to me mine?
Stories that ran through empty rooms
Picking up/pulling apart their readers as they vaporized
Who will look for me?
I rise from the ashes
Transfixed
Standing
ignisfatuus
Slurred
vision
The idea was left in an eggshell
Liquidizing, evaporating in the hardness of emptiness
Left to ferment and visualize itself in a chabootra
Surrounded by sunlight and surrendering to maybe a pigeon?
The dance remains unsung
The song remains hidden inside a charcoaled pot
That lies abandoned on a roof top
That had heard stories of you—
About you.
Isn’t the wind that blows away those dried leaves
touched your hair…just once?
The crumbly stars decide to retire slowly
Politely taking their leave
Abandoning their songs behind.
Sitting in a corner
is a vision of you
Slowly pulling itself up
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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Beautifully penned lines. Loved all the poems :-)
Mitra Samal
Apr 12, 2022 at 05:11