The Poetry Marathon

Coffee and Conversations with Whitman

Me: Mr. Whitman, what gave you the idea to start writing poetry?

Walt Whitman: My strong ties to people and the environment.

Me: Can you describe the underlying principles of “Leaves of Grass”?

Walt Whitman: It honours the beauty of life and how individuals are related to one another.

Me: What served as the inspiration for “Song of Myself”?

Walt Whitman: Introspection and the idea that people are universal.

Me: As a poet, you have left a huge legacy. Any words of wisdom for aspiring poets?

Walt Whitman advised staying loyal to oneself, writing from the heart, and accepting the complexities of life.

Me: I appreciate your ageless wisdom, Mr. Whitman.

“Is it really a profession?” They asked.

“It is, driven by passion,” I replied.

Passionfruit reference?

Full of references, diffrences and multitudes.

Books become the graveyard of letters.

things

I kept to myself

leave a message after the beep

They should create a me that is normal; I think that would be really cool. They should create a life that is bearable, easy sleep, a winter that doesn’t feel like decay, a spring that doesn’t feel like the past, a head that doesn’t hurt, a heart that doesn’t sit in your chest like a rock, a body that doesn’t hate you, a hometown that won’t drive you insane, and a university that won’t kill you.

How to define it when it changes every second?

I see love in shapes,

I see in circles,

squares,

rectangles.

For me, heart isnt the only symbol of love,

what if its a flower with temporary petals?

I see love in differences,

that brings us closer,

that educates us,

I see love in rhythms,

the breaths,

the beats,

the footsteps.

I see love in patterns,

solids,

floral,

monchorme,

I see love in everything,

everywhere,

anywhere,

nowhere,

nothing.

When I retire to my bed, the lights remain on.
Every night, I look up at the moon, thinking about how it seems like a small pool into which I may fall. I recall school trips and slices of chilled meats, as well as money returns and new lingo.

I meticulously prepare 500 meals in advance, seeking preparedness and freshness in my life.i long for new shoes, ones that can withstand wetness and leave a lasting impression.
I hope to have a curriculum vitae that garners plaudits and a salary that equates to thunderstorms.
I’d like to believe that some folks enjoy lives as grand as palaces, where bills are paid on time and bird sightings bring them delight.

During my spare time, I accumulate coupons and keep them in my wallet, only to forget to redeem them, a constant cause of anxiety that gnaws at me day after day.
I can feel my heart vibrating within me when I close my eyes.

The foundation of enduring craft,

Cotton sarees create rich narratives

with a legacy steeped in history,

Stories abound in the tale of their fabric.

Cotton sarees convey tales,

with a dynamic colour palette; not to be outdone,

they proudly carry traditions on display,

from antique looms to contemporary textiles.

They carry the past in complex patterns,

embraced in cotton sarees, memories endure.

By telling the story of past events and civilizations,

history does unfold in the embrace of cloth.

The foundation of enduring craft

stories that endure in the tapestry of history

a cultural treasure trove, cotton sarees,

a description of the lively cove in landscape.

In this flat setting, humans,

like letters, stand out.

Perspective accounts are being written

all throughout the country.

Settlements are like punctuation marks

where lives collide,

like the rivers and mountains,

the ancient ink of the Earth.

Huge oceans, and an ink-black sea,

shroud a multitude of unexplored lands.

Our stories stem from the Earth’s surface.

In an incomprehensible universe.

I remember this day with grief, a great contradiction.

A part of me is bound for every year I become older.
With each passing hour, I bid farewell to the embrace of youth.

To commemorate this birthday, I grieve the loss of my previous flower.
I’m killing my younger self in a serious, sad ritual.

As the light of wisdom replaces the light of innocence and amazement,
The child I used to be, with such pure and wild fantasies,
A sweet inner child now sleeps in memory’s arms.

With lights glowing brilliantly and a delicious cake,
As stars in heaven sparkle, I lament what has vanished.

However, with each passing year, a new chapter is written.

A patchwork of stories gets told in the process of evolving.
So raise a glass to the youngster who used to play.

In this grieving celebration, a memorial to yesterday,
Because with each passing birthday, a piece of me dies.

But in the act of living, I’ll soar to the heavens.