Trashing all my poems

Dear Caitlin, Jacob and the amazing bunch of spirited writers at the table,

I am deleting all my poetry posts from the poetry full marathon 2020. i hovered over the trash button indecisively for three days, till i had the confidence of letting my poems go beyond the secured sanctuary of this blog. While Caitlin and Jacob birthed another poetry marathon, Annie and Amanda nurtured it for half of the time and now Shloka is here to immortalize it in an anthology. fellow travellers in this journey always gave a shoulder to rest tired thoughts. more fellow travellers of poetry shared their ubiquitous experiences of reading others’ poems. i have been enriched in more ways than one. but now i must walk alone, with a dream of publishing this set of poems, written in remembrance of my maternal grandmother who died of self-immolation and whom i knew so little; this set of poems celebrating three generations of women, my grandmother, my mother and me, who stand tall together, irrespective of their personal her-stories.

i take each one of you together in this journey, for the poems were born in your company, under one grand chandelier of purpose- to create poetry.

with warm regards and hope that you all continue to thrive in poetry

greetings from Austria



p.s. there could have been a “CONCLUSION” in the Categories section. Just thinking out loud, you see.

A little bit of introduction

Last year it was a skeptical approach.

I had registered  for the Poetry Half Marathon,  12 poems in 12 hours. I was pretty sure I was going to fail. Being sure of failure took away the sting of a possible incomplete marathon. At the end of 12 straight hours of writing poetry, like my fellow marathoners I was exhausted. More than that, I was awed at the possibilities that participating in the half marathon opened up.

It is that awe and inspiration that gives me the courage to participate in the full marathon, 24 straight hours of creating poetry. How am I equipped for it? Firstly, keeping myself hydrated with plenty of water as the temperatures touch 30 degrees this weekend in Graz,Austria.¬† Secondly, I plan to keep the inspiration flowing with my life’s bible, Letters to Theo by Vincent Van Gogh, in arms length. Thirdly, coffee. Fourthly, I plan to document my thoughts when I am not writing that hour’s poem, so that i can share them later with others. And finally, write as my thoughts bleed.

succulent turtles poem#9

in frozen wonderlands

little succulent turtles

grace the window sills

white and plain


the green effusing the room

with a gentle breath


the depths of life

are often grasped in plastic hugs


the succulents have dreams

the turtles they weave

will bear the gene of retention

and freedom,

acing lies.