The Poetry Marathon

Hour Nineteen – There are so many nature poems out there. Our prompt for this hour of the night is to write a poem for a city, real or imagined.

My Tale of Two Cities

Two homes have I, they’re oceans apart

Two cities, not one, I’ll say from the start

Two cultures, so diverse and different at first

Together, however, they quench my thirst.

Calcutta in Bengal, the City of Joy

I breathe in the grime, the dust, the whole

Rest my weariness on her ample bosom

She rocks me alive and soothes my soul.

Glasgow then, my home of choice

Where we have put down roots for many years

And raised our child with a Scottish voice

With folk so friendly after chips and beers

There’s a thread that runs through both

A thread that isn’t just me

The parallels are there, an historical oath

That most of you have yet to see.

The Scottish Cemetery in the heart of Calcutta

The Tagore Society in Glasgow’s core

The two bards have songs in common

Paisley, football, jute and more.

Wouldn’t it be grand then?

If I could blend the two

Take the best out of both these cities

And create for me a utopia new.

Prompt Eighteen – Write a poem about a moment of joy.

JOY

We had waited for this call for seven long years.

‘Hello,’ I answer, quivering with my fears.

‘We’ve found the perfect match,’ she said.

‘All sweet and pink, with a roundy round head.

But…’

Euphoric heart sinking, I whisper, thinking,

‘But?’

‘She’s polydactyl,’ said the voice.

I scream silently, losing all poise,

‘What does that even mean?’

The voice continues, gentle, unseen,

‘She was born with two left thumbs’

Wild relief, wild wild relief strikes me numb.

‘We could continue the search,’ I hear her say.

‘No,’ I shout, ‘we’ll be there today.’

‘We’ll be there in the next few hours

To see her, our baby, just ours.’

I sink to my knees to speak to the God above

‘Thank you, Thakur, for sending us a daughter to love.

I haven’t seen her yet, but I know she’s mine.’

And there was JOY in the moment, perfect, sublime.

Hour Seventeen – “Write a poem that involves a mythical monster in some capacity, whether it’s as a side character, a prop, a villain or even the protagonist.”

Ravana – King or Beast?

Was he the King among kings?

Carrying his ten heads and immortality

with grace that challenged the Gods.

Or was he the demon Rakshasa?

Abductor of the fair Sita,

the wife of Rama, the Lord among Lords.

His intellect unbound, his logic sound

and wisdom profound.

But was he friend or foe?

Was he the lecherous other?

Or the loyal brother?

Disguised as a doe.

The answer, my friend, it all depends

on your own geography.

Folk from the North

believe him to be the devil incarnate.

They burn him on Diwali

to end all evil on earth.

Folk from the South

Worship him. An honourable King

who laid not a finger on his guest Sita?

The debate will never end.

The world will never know.

If Ravana was a Friend

Or a ten-headed Foe?

Hour Sixteen – “Write a poem with the last line being a question and the answer being the title.”

Your Hand

What could be more tiny and simple?

Than a pimple on a dimple

on the left side of the right bum

of an ant?

Now I know better.

What could possibly be smaller

(And more perfect)

than your little hand?

The one that I held all night

the day I brought you home.

Smallest, most perfect little fist

that held my heart.

My large, fit-to-burst heart

in your tiny, tiny hand.

What else then, could be

the smallest of God’s creation?

Hour Fifteen – Write a poem about someone or something you have lust for.

The Beauty of the Feast

In the wee small hours, past midnight

Here in the north where dark meets light

I wander into a room by chance

Where letters float wherever I glance.

Like one possessed I grab at them

Greedy greedy, snatch a gem

Letters unjumble, and form a string

Of words with a shape, a size, a ring.

At one I know where I’ve gone

The wondrous place where poems are born.

They line up, then, poems all

‘Follow me,’ a chorus call.

As I pass, the haiku bows

The ballad serenades with wedding vows

High-brow free verse looks and sneers

While the raunchy couplet winks and leers

Sonnets stand tall and proud

With an Ode who glistens white in a shroud.

But on I go, because now I know

It’s that Musical note I must follow

The strains of a waltz defy all time

And there at last I see my rhyme.

A happy chappy, this rhyme of mine

I savour the joy of this final line.

Hour Fourteen – “tell me an old story (like a folktale from your culture, a fairy-tale you heard when you were young, or a story passed down in your family). You can give it your own twist as well.”

Not Just Yet

Yama Raj waits patiently for his client to wake.

She looks peaceful, he does not want to take

her unawares.

She stirs, startles, stares

at this monstrous creature on her rocking chair.

In silken robes and a Viking hat.

‘Who are you, how dare you break into my home?’

A kind voice replies, ‘your time has come.’

‘My time? I’m going nowhere. My diary is full.’

‘But your time is up,’ meek now, this gentle bull.

‘My mate, the Grim Reaper, is in the area.

You can travel with him, but it’ll be a detour.’

‘I am going nowhere, except to my kitchen now.’

Imperious, she pushes her Zimmer past him,

‘Call him over if you want. We can discuss this over tea.

And cake.’

‘And samosas,’ she adds when she sees him light up.

In all his years in this job, no one had offered him a cup.

‘There’s no hospitality in my trade,’ he says.

They sit together, chatting like friends from old days.

The hostess resplendent in a frayed polka dotted robe,

Yama Raja in the splendour of Arabian Nights

And the Reaper, not so grim in his scythe and whites.

The new day dawns as she negotiates an extension.’

‘We’ll be back next year,’ they say, ‘no tension’.

‘I’ll be waiting,’ her voice unsteady.

And I’ll have the biryani ready.’

Hour Thirteen – Write a poem about a time when something really bad happened…that later turned out to be a good thing.

The Guilt

I broke two promises that year

Both, unintentional, of course

But the guilt, it overtakes the grief

The guilt becomes the driving force

The first was when I gave my word to him.

‘Take care of her,’ he’d said.

I had promised. Pleased him, eased him

Not long before he was dead.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I let her fall ill.

‘Bring me home soon, I hate the hospital crowd.’

I promised her I would. I will.

I did. In a hearse. In a shroud.

Grief got punched about by Guilt

Numbing, stiffening, shocking, guilt.

Selfish, tunnelling, funnelling guilt.

Weeping, creeping, sweeping guilt.

Two years on, and I know better

No, it’s still not easy that they died,

But I’m not the girl who broke the promise

Because I tried, I tried, I tried!

Isn’t it good though, that she didn’t stay

for me to take care of her?

She journeyed to him instead

So, they could take care – of each other.

Hour Twelve – Write about gathering with others. The specifics are up to you.

The Joy of Human Interaction

Lockdown – I thought I had been fine

Complacent in a cosy home all mine

Wandering all day from room to room

Meeting friends and family on zoom

Then out into the world we burst

When it was clear we were over the worst

And at once we saw what we had missed.

People. People. People. One item on that list.

Oh, the joy of inane chatter

with strangers on streets, the heady patter.

It didn’t matter what was said

Communication then, was not dead.

Muffled through glass partitions and masks

‘How would you like to pay?’ she asks

Oh, the unmistakable, unforgotten thrill

to chit-chat with the girl at the till.

Words being exchanged, conversation made

You walk on after, but the smile, it stayed

This is what us humans need

Our battery juice, on what we feed.

This Joy of Human Interaction

Hour Eleven – Write a poem about laughter without ever using the words, laugh, laughter, or giggle.

The Stand-Up Act

Everyone was happy,

I could see.

Everyone, that is, except me.

I was on a roll, out to troll

the good folk of Glasgow.

With a poker face

and practiced lack of grace

I let insults race

at a furious pace.

Aimed at the centre of the second row.

Up on stage,

that bright white-light cage

Self-deprecating rage

from an unscripted, unseen page

spill out, as the chuckles grow.

Joke after joke

I continued to poke

fires stoked as I spoke.

Through irreverence, all barriers broke

and they wanted more, much more.

They lapped it all

and clapped at my gall

till my patter palled.

The applause in the hall

brought the house down, stood the audience up.

I’ll split your sides, I’ll rid your frown

I’ll tickle your ribs, turn you upside-down.

My one-night stand (up) in your town,

I don’t smile, I’m your modern-day clown.

Hour Ten – Personify an animal. Switch its trait. Example: a disinterested lion, a polite gorilla, an aggressive giraffe…

Holy Snake

She slithered across the floor

over the mat, where they sat, folded hands.

Palms, which unfolded briefly

to touch her, pet her, as she slid by.

The ones who touched her, felt blessed

their prayers answered, their wishes met.

For they had come to negotiate with God.

Bargain. Barter. Bribe

You give me a son, and I’ll give up smoking.

You make my sick wife well, and I’ll quit cheating.

Give me. Give me. Give me.

Sneha helped them.

She curled up on the lap of the favoured one,

and took his desires to her master.

And lapped the milk with her pointed tongue

almost purring with feline delight.

As they left, satisfied, into the night.

For Sneha would liaise for them.

Sneha, the Holy Sssnake