The Poetry Marathon

Self-portrait | Surya T | Poetry Marathon Poem 19

Cacophonous sound of the alarm
rings still in my ear, an hour after it sounds
I drag myself out of bed, beginning the day
Start the day happy – I feel immediately guilty
Alas, there’s no hope of gaining lost time
Nor any chance of dripping spilt milk
I fill the bucket with water, the day must begin
with a hot shower and a clean shave
A man must keep his face clean shaven – told repeatedly
It has become a habit, one that I cannot miss
Think of the lessons that can be learnt early in the day
Do your work before most people even are awake
Study well before the sun creeps through the horizon
Lighting up the sky and heating up the world
I open my mail for a morning motivation email
I need my dose of mantras to begin the day
I pour myself a hot cup of coffee
and listen to the daily dose of mental caffeine
I must be vigilant to protect my focus
I must be constantly guarding my attention
I must ensure I do not fall prey to marketing scams
I must protect my attention and direct towards my goals
Each day, a routine similar to that of Sisyphus
Each night, a routine similar to that of Sisyphus
I will reach the goal one day for sure
I will reach that goal very soon
Until then, it is rolling the boulder up the hill
only to have it fall down from the summit

–Surya T

Self -portrait hour 19, text poetry prompt

There’s dead grass growing all over my body as i annihilate another day in the shower, the water

Drips off my chin into the rotis i make. I think of myself as a shop owner, a service provider to a variety of people in need. Paid in love and pain,

I wait at the doorstep as my son crosses over into his realm, not looking back. That is what i want.There is no difference in memory and reality as

I had cooled off my ambitions and dived into the tumultuous tornado of desire. It surged me up, bolstered me into a new galaxy of dreams while

I tasted the valour of petty nomadic lives. Now, i cool off in the summer breeze as my limbs soak in the vitamins of life, spread across writing  groups and magazines  while

My country lives in a tumultuous moment of despair. I no longer belong to a place. And yet i have my roots . Much like the trees in the rainforests- they jump up towards the sky, soaring, and yet, grounded by destiny and a pure play of chromosonal fate.

Self-Portrait

Between the blank pages of my journal my pen and sticky notes, half the day passes especially on a holiday

Rising early from a deep slumber filled with my sweet dreams of honeycombs and candies

Penning down my thoughts and words to inspire me to a beautiful smile from the face of the radiant sun

Shining through my window leaving traces on my honey skin caressing my face softly

An hour in the bathroom doing my business thinking on what to wear and how to hear it

Wondering how the weather be, will it be raining or sunny? will it be windy or calming?

And off I went skipping breakfast grabbing a cucumber taking the long bus dropping at a terminal strolling all the way

For the little breeze that blows onto my face what a calming effect it is and slowly thinking on thoughts and building plans and making stories

And listening to the soft song from the Frank Sinatra playlist nodding my head swinging,sliding, gliding my hands conductively

Now it’s time to work focus I tell myself to focus and slowly undoubtedly ready to face today’s business

Before the sun starts to go down I work slowly checking the time trying to avoid the traffic skipping the long bus taking the fast bike to home

Where my heart is and I’ve always have been a place of solitary confinement and mindful experience

A quick lunch of my native swallow rich in carbohydrates and protein to prepare me for the evening before the sun goes down completely

A friend calls another visit and we spoke into the night and drank slowly as we fed each other gists

Bye she says to mark the end to the day unto my bed I crawled to get ready for the next day

Another day to write to oblivion and to face the days and my other business.

 

Hour 19 – Cliffs (image prompt)

Crags and cliffs have often called me

In both curiosity and caution.

Their striated secrets are plain to see

If I could just read them.

Yet, cliffs turn to sand and soil

Far slower than I age

Unearthing their stories is foolhardy

And calls me to the void.

Lost in Literature – Hour Nineteen

“Books were safer than other people anyway.”  – Neil Gaiman

In merely a week, I have traveled the globe
Via airplane, by boat and on trains
I’ve swum with the dolphins and ridden a camel
I’ve crossed o’er England’s fertile plains
I’ve gone back in time to when dinosaurs roamed
I’ve met not one Indian, but four
I’ve learned how to sew, to knit and to cook
And how to grow plants at the shore
I’ve seen people born and I’ve watched others die
I’ve witnessed great love and heartbreak
I’ve cheered for the triumphs and cried through such pain
That I can honestly say my heart sank
A good book can do that, as it fills up the mind
With food for the soul deep within
For once you are lost, you are just as soon found
In the pages from an author’s pen
One is never so lonely, so small or so blind
Than before a good book hits his hand
For when lost in its pages, engaging his mind
Life is thereby evermore grand
For gone are the trials, the troubles abound
Cast aside for the moments or three
That within a good book his inner psyche be sound
Bathed in peace and such great sanctity

Just be Still

Just be Still

…Just be still, and listen
the mottled wishes are rioting
below the molten magma
the basalt heart cannot hold longer
the spirit is to fly soon
and then, a new life will be invented

Hour 18

@varenyas

19. Self Portrait

I’m a grieving thing
monsters shushing stars
under my tongue.

I’d rather just be silent
but my silence screams for audience
and calls the Monster’s war.

Stars surrender
hide in vocal folds
slide all the way down back…
escape.

Sometimes, I am funny.
Grief is not funny.
Monsters shushing
stars protecting grief
are sometimes funny.

It’s a balancing act.

I’m no good on the tight rope.

Put your sunglasses on
before I open my mouth.

(Hour 5 of 24) “A blast from the past”

There was an old man from Gansu,

Who thought he found a time capsule.

It was the site of a war bomb,

And setting it off made it his tomb.

That silly old man of Gansu.

 

© 2021 S Phua

self portrait: dancing alone

when you are learning to dance by yourself
it helps
if you are first experienced
at having a meal by yourself

not in front of the television
but at the kitchen table
with silverware and a napkin on your lap;
I open the window and the curtains
so I can watch and hear the birds

sometimes while I am eating alone
the zen bunny comes
and eats my radishes in the garden
which I let her do
even though that means
technically
I am not eating alone

but these are not times for
technicalities.

to dance by yourself
takes similar intention
and not any music will do
for some is too saturated in memories
of the good and bitter kinds
and some music is just too cheerful
though  a dirge is never right either

I choose Tracy Chapman, of course,
you already knew that,
or guessed, at least,
and I wear a skirt that would twirl
if I wanted such frivolity

but I begin with just my hips,
though you can’t move your hips in isolation,
can you?
for the shoulders must follow
and that brings in the arms
and now I am dancing
swaying
like a Pride flag in the breeze
and basking in the sunshine
for I open the windows and the curtains again
this time
so the birds can listen to my music
the bucket is tipped
and the zen bunny,
she’s laying all zen and such
where the radishes used to be
as she lets me relish
dancing alone

some of my half-knowledge on circles and related topics

some things are circular

in their precision

golden ratio

meets pi

meets sience, petri-dishes

magnetic fields (oval? but still)

meets a car flying around a curve

wheels about to break out

because physics