The Dancer and The Writer: 3

Three

I dance.

I try to tell him

How much he affects me

How his influx into my life

Has offset the harmony

How he has breached boundaries

That I let no one near.

How he forced his way in.

But I can’t find the words.

I am not like him.

Words do not come to me

As naturally as they do for him.

So I dance,

And I show him.

 

I write.

She is my muse

And she is my poetry.

I write to understand her

To define her

Pages and pages

Are filled with her

And yet it is not her.

Secretly, I am glad of my failure

Because once

I succeed in my attempts

It will be the end

Of us.

And yet,

For the life of me

I cannot stop.

So I write.

The Dancer and The Writer: 1

ezzo5

One

It was on an unassuming Sunday

As steam escapes my coffee

Into the humid air

That I see him.

He has already seen me.

His eyes are already on me,

It is the pull of his stare

That draws me in.

And I can’t look away.

His hands are frozen in their actions,

And I see he is paused

In the middle of writing something down.

But his eyes,

I remember clearly,

Hold some shocking familiarity,

An echo of some past.

 

I found her when I wasn’t searching for her

In a coffee shop that I visit

After sleepless nights

Of endless thoughts.

She is beauty in person

Even dressed in tattered nightwear

Sitting on the floor of her balcony

Enjoying her Sunday morning.

I correct-

She is poetry in person

And I want to make sense of her

To write her down

To make her flow from my pen.

I write down my thoughts

My eyes shifting from her to the paper

Back to her

When I see

She has seen me

And I am lost.

This is part one of a ten part anthology that I’ve kept wrapped up for a long time. Please bear with me. Image not mine.

Translate

“Will you do this for me?”

“Yes.”

The first evening, the first book. The cracking steps of a dusty campus building, weighed down by the stifling Sun. One voice reciting, in smoothly flowing Tamil, and echoing in English, the story of a crooked sage who dreamed of writing of a war that ended everything. The other silent, listening raptly.

The next, on a rainy morning, the second book. The iron-wrought balcony, and two black coffee mugs, steam spiralling into the nothingness. Through the muting sound of rain on everything, the first voice speaking of the dejected princess, her longing for revenge, and the beginning of the end. The second, listening, enthralled.

Then, the third book, as they sat beneath the sprawling banyan, as the mela existed in constant motion of color around them. In between bites of chaat and sips of buttermilk, the first voice, describing the tale of an unfortunate brethren, turned against each other by the deeds of their fathers. The second, listening.

The fourth book, on a summer afternoon. The sunlit grassy courtyard of a stark white colonial building, remnant of a chained and enslaved history, under the free open cloudless sky. A platter of mangoes between them. The first voice reading out some familiar age-old love story that was destined to end in sombre seperation. The other listening to the first, looking, but not seeing, the sky above, feeling a strange pleasant unease.

The saga does not end there, but the distance does.

The To-Do List

Call me with simple words.
I am your poet, be my poetry.
Dance with me as the city sleeps.
As absurd as I come,
Be more outrageous.
Be my voice of reason,
And let me be yours.
Be the warmth
That makes my hairs stand on end.
Write with my words,
Breathe my breaths.
Be silent, and make me wonder,
Feed my insecurities,
If only a little,
For we should be bittersweet.
Inspire me,
Let me find beauty in you.
Love me even as I hate myself.
And as I hate myself, I will love you.

Stop

You wonder what happened to her?
She stopped existing.
All that she was,
Her love and passion
For which she risked everything and everyone,
Her gift of taking beauty
From broken things
And using that beauty
To string shards of words together,
Her curiosity, and her innate tendency
To question it all,
All of it,
Ceased to exist.

Poet

She wanted to write stories.

She wanted to have such a vivid imagination that she would be able to conjure up even the most absurd of scenarios in seconds, and then express them with strings of words that just made sense.

She wanted to write about girls and boys, men and women, going on adventures, facing challenges, falling in love. She wanted to live vicariously through her brain children, and still let them be their own people. She wanted to give a voice to the many souls living in her head. She wanted to write stories like the ones that made her fall in love with reading.

But she couldn’t. The souls in her head spoke to her without voices, and she was always bad at translating feelings into speech.

She tried. She picked apart each emotion, cut them to tiny helpings, turned them into words, and stringed those words together.

It didn’t make grammatical sense, but it was beautiful, and the souls were happy.

It was poetry.

Block

There is a blank.
I try to push my mind forward,
And I can feel the strain
Almost a physical feeling
Filling my chest
Teeming at my throat.
My paper is blank,
My pen hovering over it.
Has life stopped to amaze me?
I don’t see the beauty any more.
All I see are greyish people
In their black and white lives
Where I once saw colour.

-A

Quote Challenge Day 2: The Writer

Assortmentbox has nominated me for this challenge. Thank you so much S!

Her blog can be found here :Assortmentbox
Do give it a look if you love poetry.

The steps to be followed for this challenge are :

1 Thank the person who nominated you.

2  Post 3 of your favorite quotes for 3 days (3*3).

3 Nominate bloggers of your choice on all three days .

Day 2: The writer

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“A writer never has a vacation. For a writer life consists of either writing or thinking about writing”-Eugene Ionesco

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“Amateurs sit and wait for Inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work” -Stephen King

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“If you don’t see the book you want on the shelf, write it”-Beverly Cleary

I nominate
1. poemsandpeople
2. shewritesoflife
3. wordsbecomelegacies

Feel free to choose not to do it, it’s all for fun.

-A

Quote Challenge Day 1: Free Spirit

Assortmentbox has nominated me for this challenge. Thank you so much S!

Her blog can be found here : Assortmentbox
Do give it a look if you love poetry.

The steps to be followed for this challenge are :

1 Thank the person who nominated you.

2  Post 3 of your favorite quotes for 3 days (3*3).

3 Nominate bloggers of your choice on all three days .

To give it a little twist, I’m following a theme per day. Each day will about be one of the three things that drive me, and the quotes will be the words that I’ve turned to for help countless times.

Day 1: Free Spirit

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“To awaken alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.” -Freya Stark

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“She was free in her wildness. She was a wanderess, a drop of free water. She belonged to no man and no city” – Roman Payne

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“Don’t tell me how educated you are, tell me how much you have travelled” – Muhammed

I nominate

1. eatwelltraveloften15

2. nimz

3. purplepeninportland

Feel free to choose not to do it, it’s all for fun.

-A

Reader

One of things that made me love him
Was the way he read.
He was one of those people
With such a vibrant imagination
That he was able to live the character’s life
Rather than just observe.
He is my kind of reader,
He embraces the fact that
Books are meant to be lived.
When he reads,
He puts so much into it,
That he is lost to the world I’m in.
When he reads,
I don’t exist,
He will be in whatever world
The pages trap.
And I don’t mind that I’m not a part
Of his Universe in those moments,
Because he is the most beautiful thing
In my Universe in those moments.

-A