The Poetry Marathon

I thought I was a nomad drifting along

with the sands of time

pitching makeshift tents

where I rested awhile.

I had one in my mother’s arms

and my brother’s side

one lost forever

another across oceans wide.

One lies in my partner’s smile

and my daughter’s embrace

late night conversations

with friends, endless cups of chai.

But one day I realized

my tents had taken roots

and created an Eden

filled with fragrant hues.

I thought I was a nomad

but I was a honeybee

for I now have gardens

that always welcome me.

The first human to ever be

bestowed

with spellbinding words

gifted to create

weaves of tales, anecdotes,

verses and poems, parallel worlds

the world at her feet

which somehow led astray and

she found herself

at the Devil’s gate.

Quick on her feet,

she showed him her gift

and told him a tale so rich

that he sat there enthralled

his mouth agape

happily he fed her

some cheese and grapes.

“This is my favourite,

this yellow wonder

Go on, have a taste,

just surrender.”

She nibbled at it

and then devoured it whole

“I could eat this in pies and

meats and bread rolls!”

The melted goodness captured her heart

and she began to sing odes

to this piece of culinary art.

However, this Lucifer didn’t appreciate

for the Cheese supplies at the time were severely depleted.

He didn’t want humans to

find his treasure

so he decided to make

the first poet his prisoner.

But she begged and begged

to not let her gift go waste,

So they struck a deal in haste.

She was not use her words to entice

humans to come searching

for cheese like mice.

She gave him her word

and returned home

making sure to pass this

promise along

So you see that explains

in terms quite neat

why poets have been

mysteriously silent on the

subject of cheese.

It is said all they found

was his blue windbreaker

hanging on a tree

a bloody fingernail lodged in its pocket.

They searched for

his axe, his shoes,

drag marks and

tire tracks

and abandoned shacks –

all dead ends.

He had simply disappeared

like morning dew in noon.

His vanishing became a bar story

fodder at camp sites

and night time tales

the story became a legend

legend became a myth

and myth became a fear so potent

that anyone who passed

the woods in the night

swore to have heard screams

and nine fingernails

scratching barks of

the very trees that

seemed to have swallowed

Mr. Hickinbottom.

My mum always told me

that I had a beautiful smile.

I never believed her

didn’t see it, not at all

but it came in abundance

when I was with her.

It has faded

over time

like her memories

lips set in stone,

harsh, unyielding.

‘You should smile more’

I am now often told

but all that remains is

a shadow

of what she once saw.

You’ve painted

every happy memory

I possessed

in dark hues of blue

making it impossible

with each passing day

to remember

the version of you that

still had a heart

now I can only see

you as you

holding a knife

slashing through the past

working towards the present

leaving shreds soaked

in indigo, cobalt, azure

leaving nothing for me

to hold on to…

I tried to paint a portrait

for you see

mirrors didn’t exist when I was alive

and now alas!

My reflection I can’t see.

So I ask my fellow ghouls

and witches that pass by sometimes

to tell me what they perceive

to help me conjure me.

One said my left fang is crooked

while another complimented my blood-red lips

a troll noticed a tiny mole

camouflaged under my dainty chin.

My eyes, said a poltergeist

were ‘darker than the depths of hell’

but he was drunk (they always are)

was being fresh, I could tell.

My nose is sharp ‘like a Madonna’

said a new recruit, (whatever does that mean?)

while a travelling siren told me

my eyelashes were ‘to die for’.

A Chupacabra said my skin was so pale

he wouldn’t feast on my blood on a bad day

and my neighbor, Wendigo simply

winked, ‘You’re perfect in every way.’

I collected these bits of information and

put together a picture

of a diligent, scary

yet mesmerizing beauty

to whom humans easily surrender.

I like to read and take

long glides across oceans

And I would never ever say no to

the Lily Death potion.

I have met many entities

that seem to tire of Earth

but I love my death here,

of entertainment there is no dearth.

If I have wetted your curiosity

and managed to spike your intrigue

Simply turn off your lights to know more

And call out softly to me.

Take me to a whitewashed house

with pristine floors and

spotless sheets that hold

no ancient maggi stains

spilled on horror movie nights

where the mattress has never bore witness

to our pillow forts and fist fights.

Take me to a house where

the walls don’t echo

hushed giggles and ghosts

of conversations that

carried on through the night

where the doors have no chips

from indoor cricket and wrestling matches.

I can picture the kitchen too

gleaming white marble

a fancy counter top

a far cry from the dull, grey slabs

that were audience to mom’s hums.

I need a shower that has never

mocked my renditions of

Backstreet Boys or given me

the privilege of privacy

that was hard to come by.

Oh! take me to a house

where the light enters unencumbered

by shadows of the past for

they belong only in my old home

that has withered away

with my memories within.

Inspiration – “I stopped thinking about extreme grief as the sole vehicle for great art when the grief started to take people with it.” – Hanif Abdurraqib

The thing about grief is

it is alive and warm

like a child

and begs to be fed, nurtured

you obey and it grows

within you

eating you

mimicking you enough to

convince it IS you.

Hoodwinks you to think

you are ‘over it’

and have ‘moved on’

but it is there – festering, biding

its presence betrayed

only through your words

and paints

and lonely sobs on a winter night

conjuring memories

picking at scabs

making sure every laceration lasts

till the agony it inflicts becomes your succor

a leech disguised as savior

until the day comes

it pushes too far

the mask rips open

and you jolt awake

Each morning you

navigate without

opening your eyes

into the hollow

between my neck and thighs

nibbling my arm

like a toothless zombie.

You fit right in

the warmth of your skin

permeates mine

as your tiny fingers

tug my hair.

I chuckle at your sleepy grunts

as you kick off the blanket

I sneakily put on you,

pulling my limbs to wrap you instead.

Whiffs of your shampoo

fill up my lungs as I

run my finger down your side,

you giggle and squirm

digging deeper

your head on my heart

that thumps with the bliss

you bring.

You were taken

before you took your first breath,

but you will be loved

till my very last.