Pragya Ranjan

Jan 2022

Fin de partie

From the fourth floor of my nineteen-story house, I peek out of the tinted windows. These are my only windows to whatever is outside, and they're tinted yellow and black. I am the first person on the moon. I am the first person on the edge of the planet. Will I fall off, or am I bold enough to carry on?

That, I think, is what has been bothering me for so long. I do not live in a nineteen-story house and neither am I peeking through yellow-and-black windows. No, these colors do not have any significance either. They are not symbols or metaphors. I have been making everything up as I hammer my fingers onto the keyboard and weave these unfathomable lines of thoughts. I am not the first person on the moon. I am not the first person on the edge of the planet. In fact, there isn't even an edge. I am an insignificant speck of dust. I am not even Horton's Who.

I just counted the number of 'I's in the first two paragraphs- fifteen. Fifteen of the same alphabet repeated throughout. That is, despite whatever you might say, a bad start to an essay (if you'd call this one). "Of course not, repetition is an important literary device!", you might say. Horseshit, I say. These words have no intrinsic meaning. These horribly structured sentences are disgustingly unfathomable. That's the second time I've said 'unfathomable'. Third. My 9-year old sister writes better than I do: "Today, I woke up. Today, I ate breakfast. Today, I horsed around with my dog. I am very happy. I am not hungry, because I ate today. Today, I ate." You can understand what she's saying- she woke up, she ate, she's not hungry, and she's happy. But what of me? I woke up, but just so. I ate and so I'm not hungry, but just so. I am happy, and yet I am not. These words that I write mean nothing to me, and yet they mean everything. Being the extreme nihilist that I am, life has no intrinsic meaning, and yet it is more meaningful than a poem that I once wrote about my tenth-grade crush. I've forgotten her name long since. The most absurd of all is that it hasn't been so long- perhaps a year. What is more absurd than the most absurd is that I am yet to turn sixteen; this I will do in a month's time- yet what is most absurd about the more absurd than the most absurd is the incongruity of the facts with reality. I shall not elaborate on this, for it has become nothing less of a meaningless telephone message constructed at the time of a drunken stupor.

Nov 2021

blankpoems

Stars and other metaphors

eyes like supernovas and just as stellar
your eyes were my favorite constellations
your pupils orbit your view of the world
slightly dilating when you see someone you love
I hope they dilate when you see me
I never owned a telescope but looking into your eyes
was the closest thing
galaxies kissed your lips and wanted to stay
so they painted themself in your mind,
keeping vibrant and brilliant forms of stars
each thought connecting the dots, forming orion’s belt
and your fingertips traced euphoria in the form of the big dipper
and the little dipper was the curve of your arms
where I would rest my head sometime soon
and soon I will look into those bright eyes
and I will feel at home in saturns rings
which were outlined in your irises
and you’ll look into mine
and our sets of planet-like pupils
will expand into blackholes

Mar 2021

Stephanie Cynthia

Common

Too much noise, too much misery;
    Fake beauty, false flattery;
Feigned tears, faint hearts;
    Mock presents, dainty pasts.
Too much singing, too much song;
    Far too empty, too wrong.

Too regular, too feminine;
    Too much constancy seen.
Too insincere, too blind;
    Too raucous to one’s mind.
Unhearing, unloving;
    Unknowing, unseeing.

Inconsistent, ravaged, savage;
    Not aware of youth and age.
Not knowing sins are fatal;
    Not knowing worlds call chaos.
Not seeing lives are mortal;
    Not seeing value, nor loss.

Too defined, too thin, too fair;
    No curious touch nor flair;
Not jubilant, nor merciful;
    Not knowing arts are plentiful.
Not voice, nor titles, nor vice;
    Not pictures, nor pride, nor lies.

Too soothing, too tedious;
    Too apparent, too obvious;
Too gracious, too grainless;
    Not an emblem of happiness;
Not distinctive, nor charming;
    Not distinguished, nor loving.

Too engaged, too dim, too forgetful;
    Too separate, too disgraceful;
Too priceless, too sensuous;
    No realness is to them, wondrous;
Too unbecoming, too wishful;
    Too known, too gay, too sinful.

Too delighted, but evil to me;
    Those boasting beauties of thee;
I am not part, nor flesh of thine;
    I live with the voice in my mind;
I love in silence, in seclusion;
    Only mirth salves my delusion;

Too sparkling, but mean still;
   Unknowing towards those I feel;
I cannot be, nor shall I be;
   I shall not place my soul in thee;
Thy voice remaineth loved still;
   But to love thee, I never will.

Feb 2021

robin

stagnant water

i heard a girl once say,
if i could
i would drown
in poetry.
i would throw myself
into a sea of verses
and sink in splendor.
oh, no, i thought -

no you wouldn't.

if there was a sea of poetry
the coasts would be ringed with barbed-wire
and electric fences,
and signs that yelled warning
keep out
undertow
and swim on risk of death -
the beach would be littered with broken glass
from all the drunks that took their last drink
on the edge of a stanza.
the water would be turbulent
and *****
and cold,
and you might admire it one twilight,
when the sun is drowning and turning the sea
red,
and you'd say, oh
that's beautiful.
and you'd take a photo of yourself
grinning with the sunset at your back
and leave.

i heard a boy once say,
if i could
i would drown in your poetry.
oh, no, i thought.
no you wouldn't.
why is drowning such a common theme
in the minds
of readers of poetry?
i imagine it seems
romantic,
in some twisted morbid way -
but i think seeing a bloated corpse
pallid with seawater
missing a limb
or two
would put these delusions to rest.
i imagine seeing
the corpse of a poet
missing a heart
or mind
would put these delusions to rest.

you don't want to drown in poetry.

you want to watch me drown.

i heard a boy once say
if i could
i would drown in your poetry.
so says the boy who calls himself an artist
because he can play
'hey soul sister'
on guitar
and will prove it every chance he gets.
you don't want to drown in my poetry,
and even if you did
i doubt you could -
if poetry was bodies of water
you would throw yourself into a hotel swimming pool
miles away from the polluted lake
where i wash in stagnant water.
if poetry was bodies of water
you'd have someone build a koi pond in your backyard
and call yourself a poet.
if i could
i would drown in your poetry,
he said
and i told him to prove it.

if i could
i would drown in poetry,
she said.

the only people who say
they want to drown in poetry
are the people who don't know what it means.

the only people who drown in poetry
are the people who have no choice.