The Poetry Marathon

I began with a poem about the ideal dreamlike 16th century courtship between Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, and I end with something more contemporary. Similar dreamy idyllic moments, but completely different realities. How will this story turn out? Read on…

My head rests against his breastbone

The canopy closing us in a cocoon of our own

Away from all forms of scrutiny

As I lean in to kiss him

My heart is like a lake brimming over in the monsoons

Filled not with water

But a positively caffeinated hormonal cocktail

I know I am not dreaming

As I smell his cologne

Perfumed diesel, after effects of a jeep breakdown and a spare tire change

A stormy calm

Before a calm, bubbling storm

I lean back

I look into his face

Pleasant, no doubt

But not what I want, not now

The canopy obscures us from outside scrutiny

But it also obscures the outside world and its treasures from us

And I am impatient and inquisitive to see the rest of it

The torrential monsoon becomes a faint New England drizzle

The lake has had its fill

I am ready to move on

Cinema dream sequences usually get the details right

It’s the ends they get wrong

Because in our world, there is more than one type of ideal end

“I had a great time.” “Me too.” “We should do this again sometime.”

We get up together, and embrace one last time

Walking back home in opposite directions

My take on the homeless prompt, was not expecting that I would write this at all. Late night writing magic? Just spent a while googling Mongol culture before I penned this down, to add a little authentic touch to my imagination.

You laugh at me today, oh young nobleman

You laugh at us and our funny savage ways

You grew up with a hard roof above your head

I, in what you would presume is a flimsy tent

The icy winds were my roof

You grew up training under careful tutelage

I was born with a blood clot in my hand

And fought my first battles in the steppes

Soil and sky were my teachers; I was trained by the best

You grew up eating wholesome hot meals

On hard days, I survived on game meat

The predators themselves have fed me their strength

I may be a nomad

But I am not homeless

This earth is my home

And I am here to reclaim it from you

And tomorrow, when my army crushes you to death

I am certain she will be pleased with my gift

I tried really hard to write something for my mom, but cannot do anything justice in this time frame. So figured I would do something lighter! Saving the other poem for later.

You are a two minute gateway to an explosion of tastes

Caramelized with Iranian dates on a cold winter evening

Or served with kiwi and pineapple in a summer paradise

Classic with blueberry or strawberries and honey

Or plain and simple apple, cinnamon and dry fruits

Often sweet, but sometimes savory

Mushroom and cheddar, or onions and bell peppers anyone?

With a dash or oregano, parsley and salt?

At first glance, you may be plain and uninteresting

But once adorned

You are a bowl of absolute pleasure

Keeping my taste buds and waist bags in check

The god of my kitchen, my solace on rough college days

Like wood in a jungle of concrete

Is my imagination

Breaking the monotony

Excel sheets, G-cals, bland academic papers

Demand equals supply at the equilibrium price

My imagination creates disequilibrium

What if the equilibrium choice is not the right choice?

What if I escaped?

If I were to step out of the bubble-like glass structure I am in

And examine the grains of wood

What would I discover?

What if I escaped?

Can I escape?

Like wood in a jungle of concrete

Are the vivid memories of my childhood

When my only worries were the next storybook I should read

Whether I wanted chocolate chip or vanilla

When home was where I slept

And the world my playground during the day

I was blissfully ignorant then, I am knowledgeable now

Am I?

The world I live in, the world economists hail as “perfect”

Is a bit of an anomaly

Am I surrounded by unlimited choices, or none at all?

What if I escaped?

Can I escape?

Thank you to Jacob Jans for that word generator. Here’s my take on the Pantoum, not very original, I’m afraid.

I just finished a quick workout
Thus excuse my weird analogy
But if the last seven poems were part of a marathon
This eighth poem is resistance training
Thus excuse my weird analogy
I’m a bit too tired to think of anything better
This eighth poem is resistance training
The workout that I hate the most
I’m a bit too tired to think of anything better
But it is important for me to flag
The workout that I hate the most
Is also my greatest source of satisfaction
Yes, it is important for me to flag
Although this form confuses me, it is my,
Is also my greatest source of satisfaction
An enigma of words, sets and repetitions
Although this form confuses me, it is my,
My sloppy plank and clumsy crunch
An enigma of words, sets and repetitions
That I have unsuccessfully tried to navigate
My sloppy plank and clumsy crunch
May only be a little less worse than this poem
That I have unsuccessfully tried to navigate
But no, I will not give up on either

This is something I have struggled with and continue to struggle with, but am slowly coming to terms with. The poem reflects my attempt to add some humor to my situation.

I walk into the sweet shop

And see all my old friends

Cakes, chips, instant ramen pots

On aisles at every end

Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!

They all seem to scream

What am I doing? Why am I here?

I’d promised myself I would eat clean

I’d promised myself I would eat clean

The day before, and two days prior

How else will I ever get lean?

Yet my goals sink in the mire

Of voices, nasty voices, voices of my friends

I’m sweet and crunchy, says the cookie to me

We’re not even fried say the kettle chips

I’m three scoops a dollar today, says the tub of ice cream

How are you still thinking about this?

How am I still thinking about this?

Why am I still thinking about this?

Am I even thinking about this?

No.

I am thinking about…..

That paper that needs to be fleshed out

The midterm results that will soon be out

My laundry’s not done, summer’s coming up

And I still do not have a summer job….

An hour later, with an aching stomach

Heaving, I scale eight flights of steps

Disappointed, angry, cursing my luck

Why can’t I control myself?

I make goals, break goals

So many goals, so many rules

And I tire myself, my mind, my soul

Till I feel in control.

In “control”.

Is any life crisis, let alone mine worth this angst?

I don’t know, and am too tired to care

Any dinner for you? I say no thanks

Food now seems like a nightmare

When will I stop? How do I stop?

When will this obsessive cycle end?

But the next day, I am back at the same shop

Hearing the voices of old friends

He saw water wherever he looked. Yet his throat was parched, his head was spinning, his bare feet smarting against the and as he walked- to life, or to death?

Not a mere mirage

Sweet cool water, cool palm shade

Paradise at last

Back to my free form pseudo poetry for now. This describes an event that happened a few days ago, when I was on the train to London from Edinburgh.

I am usually not a fan of children while travelling

They are perfectly cute when at home

But while on the road

They scream and shout and whine and cry

Worst of all though

Are the cellphones and the Ipads and the computer games

Beeping with Candy Crush and Temple Run and god knows what the next fad is

To be honest, it is not just the kids

But it is the kids I pity

The kids who miss out on so much

The joy of the outdoors, of board games and books

With a mix of pity and irritation

I sat across a family of four

A four hour journey from Edinburgh to London

Armed with Advil and a lot of grit

Waiting for those contraptions to come out

And the beeping and bickering to start

Yet, to my surprise,

The only clinks I heard were those of Connect 4 tokens

And the pop up wooden chessboard

Was the closest thing to a contraption

And instead of burying his head in phone texts

The boy wrote his sister a letter

I won’t lie

They screamed and fought all the same

But these children gave me something more

For in them, I saw my own childhood

I finally got access to the prompts and decided to try something different. By writing free form, I think I have been cheating a little since it does sound more like prose than poetry. My rhyme did not come out as well and with the additions and deletions it ended up being quite abrupt, but I enjoyed the challenge. Final version attached 🙂

She walked through the rain on the narrow street

Reliving her childhood memories

5 ruppee crisps from the corner shop

The footpath where they played hopscotch

She took a left into a bylane

Past new, unrecognizable window panes

Had war devastated her memories

In the same way it had done their lives?

But then she saw the whitewashed door

With rust stains, the same as before

And she knew she had come home

Except this time she was alone

Written on the road as I clearly struggled for inspiration.

I have been traveling a lot lately

To ancient Roman baths, birthplaces of poets and colleges that look more like monuments

Hiking up the Scottish highlands

And enviously admiring the crown jewels

Rushing through towns, lanes, bylanes

The typical tourist

Fascinated by everything

But afraid that I’ll miss my bus

to the next destination on my checklist

And in this mad rush

Through new sights and sounds and smells

The only thing I crave is

A hot cup of Starbucks

Skim latte, 12oz, no sugar

A basic desire

Overlooked in the heat of the moment

Yet remembered remorsefully after

As I struggle to write coherent verse