The Poetry Marathon

An unmarked grave

Sans name, sans words

Lies outside the town

Somewhere around the old library

My friend says, it must be a poet

But I do not agree

Surrounded by weeds

Only wildflowers to be seen

This tiny space in earth

Must be a resting space

Of someone’s dreams…

Their words stolen

Their story untold

Their imagination, fascination, wonder

All buried to make way for life

Real life

Of dragging oneself

This job to that, this chore to that,

The whole practicality.

So you see, poet or not

they live still, albeit pragmatically

It’s only the naive hopes

That were dealt a death blow

And laid to rest

Inside this unmarked grave.

She was borne with love

Born and grew up with

affection, safety, comfort

She lived as they all did

With forgotten words and

Faded memories

She died like anyone else

After a life full of

Little moments

A little life with little happiness

Little love, little sadness

Little fear, little anticipation

A little soul with her own

Little space

A little heart beating for a little time

She was just a little part

Of this grand universe story after all

Where little lives come and go all the time.

(Title and first line from Tagore’s Red Oleanders)

O the joy! The joy!

Of being, existing

Taking in a breath

Full of petrichor laden air

And to look!

O to look at the stars

Far off yet warm

From among the trees of past.

Hear!

O to hear the stories

Of ages afar

People to people, heart to heart.

O to speak!

To be able to tell

Stories and poems and

Songs that travelled far.

O the joy! The joy

Of living

Life among the beautiful

The Earth, the Sky and the stars.

They bloomed but for a day

Now the roses have withered

The scented air just as thick

Bordering on stench

It was pleasant for a day

Now the roses have withered

In a sad, grieving sight much like a funeral

Though they are not mourning flowers, perhaps

They were happy, but for a day

Before the rain fell

Washing away the happiness

Now the roses have withered

Scattered petals

Thoughts, Memories

Only thorns left

They bloomed but for a day.

The setting sun

makes for one

hell of a

picture to inspire

Painters, Poets, Philosophers.

It’s an End

Beginning as well

It sounds cool

When said so

Looks pretty too

Always an option

to turn to

when nothing works!

Truly a beginning

and an end

of one’s imagination.

The Void

Nothingness

It exists

within me

and you, as well.

It makes up the space

we exist in

And the one

we can only dream of.

It connects

me to you

you to me.

Even with eons in between

my words reach

You

yours, Me

through Shunya

where everything exists

yet nothing remains.

Changes

in my heart

yours as well

the Only thing remaining

Unchanged

The Void

Nothingness.

(Note: A theme I am just beginning to contemplate.. ‘Shunya’ is a Hindi word, which means Zero. In the context of Indian Philosophical Thought, it also means the void, Space, vacuum and the Beginning among other things. It’s a deep topic and one with a lot of room for creativity and thought, which I would like to learn and write about more… Someday!)

A laughter,

carefree, happy, unrestrained,

used to ring out

in bustling halls.

It never reached many others

before getting lost

in the crowd

of similar sounds.

But it was there.

Now it’s not.

The bustling seems quieter somehow…

how many did that make now?

Hell is not a place
It is a heart
One that beats too many times a minute
At the thought of you.

It’s telling myself to be calm
When this stupid muscle goes crazy
Just at the sight of you.

Hell was never a place
No, it was always a person

And fear… With no end.

Fear of losing, myself, of being unable to let go.

My personal hell consists of this fear
And of memories of you.

The source of it all, you know
Just a sight and I can’t help
Feeling the need to run and hide.

Hell is not a place
It is you
All that you did not do and it is a heart
That still beats for you.

So it’s that time of the year again… one of the rare times to look forward to and look back to as Life keeps running and running around us. My first marathon was in 2016, it was a tough time then, it’s still a tough time now but everything in between has changed- me, especially. I am older now, wiser (I hope at least) and closer to the ‘me’ than I have ever been.

Of course, it didn’t come easy and sometimes, that feeling of loss just engulfs the heart out of nowhere. That’s why, I am grateful for these times, for this place, for this is a place to belong… no matter what you are, where you are from, how life has treated you, all that matters is that you are here now, and you are a part of this story just as much as the other person.

So write away… I tell myself. Write whatever you want, no matter the content, style or lack thereof, no matter if you consider it ‘good enough’, no matter if it hurts… write away.. for this is your story.

I close my eyes

My heart sending out a silent prayer

Let these memories stay with me

At least these memories of today

I always tend to forget, I know

Important things, precious times

But just this once I want to

Never forget, always remember

How much fun it was

How bitterly I cried or freely I laughed

Remember how much I learned

And how much I hold these feelings precious to my heart

So even to forget and being forgotten

Is my fate inevitable

Let me just remember these times

With just these memories I will be fine

I close my eyes

My heart sending out a silent prayer

Won’t you give even this to me

O great fate?