"napowrimo" poems
It’s day seven of NaPoWriMo;
I have to write a fresh poem.
But it is also Monday
and I have no topic,
no inspiration.
So this feeble
nonet will
have to
do.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Stars sprinkle the inky night sky
Like crumbs of diamonds on a still, midnight ocean.
I am not afraid to be here, alone,
In the vastness of twilight.
For these few moments, time is as long
As the space between those stars,
And as empty, too.
The uncertainty that sunrise will follow.
As sure as the sun is destined to rise everyday,
When there's only darkness surrounding you,
Pierced slightly by the silvery glow of moonlight...
You're all alone and helpless.
You only have the vague hope that the sun will return.
And as I sit here now, star-gazer,
Faceless nomad on the damp grass;
I feel immortal, and I am afraid
That I will always be alone with the stars.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 8:17 AM UTC
oh but my love is not
a red, red rose.
i chose to replace
every tear on my face
with dying embers
of every memory
you said you would remember.
i trust
that you must know
that i am not a summer's day,
i will never play
at being warm
or temperate.
you can berate
me for not knowing
whether i am to be
or not to be,
but forgive me
if i don't play by the rules
and exit
the right stage
in a wrong scene.
it just means
that your music
is not the food of my love.
i will continue to shove
your thoughts
under a carpet of denial.
do not throw away
any vial you might find
in my room,
you sealed my doom
when you stomped down
that staircase,
tripping on the last time
we went for a walk.
my face doesn't run
smooth like the course of love,
you should have known
this truth.
my eyes are not rose petals,
my heart not a white dove,
my love
when they say hell is empty,
they haven't been inside
my mind -
here
you'll find horrors
of a sweet kind.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 1:37 PM UTC
The Internet arrived; they are confused
"Do not trust everything you read online!"
They warn us sternly, and even threatened
To take away and ban us from the computers
.
The technology advances, oh so, so very fast
Gone is the concept, of a single shared home PC
The smartphones, the laptops, the tablets etc.
Took the world by storm, and we are all amazed.
.
And then... Remember what those boomers told us?
About being skeptical and fearful of online information?
Guess what those hypocritical ******** are doing now!?
Fake news fake news fake news fake news fake news!
FAKE! NEWS!!!
.
You nonetheless heed their advice, and learnt fact-checking
Yet, gods forbid you try to "show off" with your evidence!
"Aiyah, I only forward what was shared to me. I'm just caring"
"It seems harmless, so what's the problem??"
My absolute favourite must be...
"Don't talk back to me! Don't you disrespect me! Be silent!
Don't try to show off how smart you are!
I ate more salt than you have eaten rice!
If you don't believe this, just shut up!"
.
Gods bless Asian parents
.
What to do... What to do...
#napowrimo #napowrimo2020 #fakenews #asianparents #poets #writers #poems #poetrycommunity #NationalPoetryMonth #false #asianpoets #poetry #factchecking #iamboey
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 6:50 AM UTC
Pain.
It's tempting.
Hidden in hearts
That hold onto memories.
Addiction.
Healing.
It's reluctant.
The mind fails
But it always continues.
Affliction.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
Many days,
Poetry will not coax me out of my stupor
with the zest of a child
on the first day of summer.
Many days,
she will not make a sound
as she runs through a house
made of my words - no anklet tinkling against silvery feet,
no soft swishes of her dupatta across the sofa.
Many days,
Poetry would like to leave me alone
- in my home of rust and rubble,
in the middle of technicolour trouble,
me surrounded by blunt edges
of half-chipped words,
half-baked rhythm (never rhyme), half-sighed syllables onto blank paper.
Many days,
Poetry sees me accept complete defeat,
with art gathering dust
in the pages of notebooks that will never need filling,
with pens that will never be picked up, with ideas that will never be strung into a poem.
And yet here I am.
Picking up frayed string ends,
trying to tie them into a verse,
to leave it on the first shelf for her
to hopefully pick up.
It might be time for Poetry
to take 29 slowstumblingstuttering steps towards me,
this is me taking the first.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
There's something about
opening a bottle of colour -
knowing
that any way it spills
won't spell A-R-T at your hands.
let's call it the audacity of trying,
and
move on.
Same thing for a lump of clay -
lying in front of you,
waiting for creative violence,
but you know that your thoughts
don't have fingers,
your ideas don't have arms.
let's call it the pointlessness of wishing
and
move on.
Don't look at the camera -
the eager buttons waiting,
glinting in the hope of your touch
a lens waiting to be turned -
knowing that your eye can never
translate your sight into art,
your vision will never equal
an image.
let's call it the imperfection of waiting,
and
move on.
My last hope is a pen.
my fingers rush over it,
finding solace in known grooves
where my fingers have settled
time and again.
i call it the comfort of a story.
and this time,
i stay
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC
There's few spaces
in this world where
a sea of faces
doesn't scare me.
There's fewer spaces
in this world where
the faces turn up
to me and smile -
real, actual smiles -
and not the fake ones for shady profiles.
I love you guys.
I see Open Eyes -
filled with a thirst
to know more,
see more,
be more,
be better than before.
Eyes that do not blink
at the introduction of something new, views that don't flinch
when given something
to think about.
I see Open minds -
welcoming the creation
of a brand-new world,
one where art doesn't
have to shuffle along the sidelines
of a room,
where society can leave
its guidelines at the door.
I'm sure that we here,
today,
are the first to realize
that art creates a life
beyond the arbitrary
beating of hearts.
We're children
of the first thinking generation,
catching on to swinging anchors
from sinking ships
to swim up and
breathe in the first gulps of art.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Truly my pleasure,
Like the spring sun on my face,
Writing with you all. –
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
To tell you the truth about travel, I hate it.
Someone once told me
that travel is a compromise
for teleportation.
Everything
is basically a compromise
until higher tech arrives.
To tell you the truth about travel,
I really don't want to.
I want to let you hold my image
against long winding roads,
against the sad shrubbery
by the side of the highway,
and believe
that I'll be happy
when I'm not at home.
My loud voice and excited manner
may even trick into believing
that I adore the hustle bustle of a new place,
new people,
new traffic,
new smells,
sights,
sounds.
But to tell you the truth, I really hate travelling.
Save me from suffering the pains
of packing a bag
with the most essential items
designed to make you look like
a Prudent Traveller™ - I want to carry
only my fatigue
and annoyance
at being asked to move out.
(Some Hajmola, perhaps - the green and purple flavours)
I am not seduced by lines on a map
telling me where to go,
and how to get there,
I swear.
I would rather have
someone trace the edges
of imaginary continents
across my mind
by virtue of their words.
Cartographers aren't redundant to the world,
perhaps - but have you ever had
a laid back holiday with
only
i n t e r m i t t e n t naps?
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 8:53 AM UTC
It was written in deep magic -
in tongues that danced in shadows
of bubbling cauldrons
as green smoke filled the air -
that no witch will stand alone.
It was said that we will stand
and stand together,
down to every drop of blood,
down to every dry bone.
And stand we do,
for the night brought on by Man
is not the easiest to melt into
a new dawn.
Stand we do,
for our first lines of defence
are the very hands that we bring along.
Never bring a sharp tongue
to a witches' fight,
it is said -
for our quiet strength alone
can bring your downfall,
as long as we stand together.
And stand, we do.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
I'm proud of my words.
In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.
The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n
the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
upon layers
upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n
i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n
What do i do, then?
Then, i run.
i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n
I'm proud of my words.
In secret, mostly.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
A year ago
I was an empty shell
Of the girl I used to be
Floating through life
With no ambitions
No hopes, no dreams.
Always looking down
Instead of at the world.
I was a wreck
With a messy heart
That couldn't be at ease.
Before I knew you,
I wasn't the happy
Bright person I am now
But you came into my life
Found me in the dark
As I was trying to climb
Out of the pit
That I had spiralled into
We slowly progressed
And I began to see the stars,
See the light in the dark again.
I made it a mission
To climb out of that pit
To feel the light - your warmth-
On my skin
Before I knew you,
I didn't know my worth
But now, I'm beginning to
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
Missing Someone
is the name
given to the space beside you
that you assign to
someone else.
do I remind you of a summer's day?
does the memory of my eyes
slip between your skin
and your clothes,
teasing your spine
gently,
working its way
to the small of your back?
(small, like me - haha)
do my bad jokes
make you see my curly hair,
my crumpled figure,
all scrunched up
in the middle of numbers
that you can read
but don't register?
do my words flood your brain
and corrupt
whatever you're listening to,
adding my accents here,
and contorting languages there?
do your sentences lose count
of the number
of tongues they're made of?
Missing Someone
is the name
given to the space beside you
that you assign to
someone else.
does my taste of my laughter
linger in the air
beside you?
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Sunday would knock on our window pane - repeatedly.
once
twice
thrice
once -
sneaking out of her place
in the weekly schedule,
Sunday tip toes,
t i p p y t o e s,
into the bedroom -
she sees a troll's rule
on the floor,
almost picks up a broom,
but then lets go.
twice -
creeping into the kitchen
now - takeout pizza on the counter,
unimaginable amounts of sugar,
a pile of dishes flowing like
a fountain -
the chaos seems to amaze her.
thrice -
we've woken up, so she
skirts the living room walls.
as I untangle my arms from your hair
she sees your eyes rise to me-
then fall.
"Five more minutes?"
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
Poetry carries the weight of
ten thoughts,
nine feelings,
eight emotions,
seven sins,
six thoughts,
five complaints,
four heartaches,
three joys,
two heavy eyes,
one pouring soul.
Poetry fights her way
through layers
and layers of jargon,
through depths
of useless words just floating,
skimming the surface of nothing.
she claws her way
through overgrown shambles
and tangles
of unnecessary parts of speech.
Poetry slashes her way
through tumbling creepers
falling from broken terraces.
she drives away unimportant thoughts
from fertile fields of words.
i see Poetry survive against all odds -
against joy - that sweet, sweet burden.
against rationale - a double edged sword
against doubt - a ghoulish green monster
i see Poetry survive.
no, rejuvenate.
and then i know
why poetry takes a feminine pronoun.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
याद पिया की आए
i miss you.
my disgruntled face,
constant gnarling at the sun
might have already betrayed
how much i hate the summer.
i hate the summer,
i miss you.
i miss your movement across the earth
as you
t i p t o e / march,
tread lightly / thunder in,
caress / trample,
r e j u v e n a t e / strangle.
most of all,
i miss you because
i wish you would rush in,
darken the skies with clouds
like kajal for a goddess.
shove the sun
under a celestial carpet
woven from cool water
and colder skies.
i miss you.
my hatred for the sun
only progresses with the months
till july, till you descend.
they say that when love arrives,
you can hear a hundred violins,
you can see the colours in every living thing.
when you arrive,
i see only joy -
pure liquid joy.
i miss you.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
the art of procrastination
is just that -
exactly what it says
on its faded, beaten label -
an art in itself;
a weathered process
that has divided humanity,
much like its more
celebrated
brethren - painting, dancing,
maybe even writing poetry.
the art of procrastination
makes no bones -
it is made of unequal
and ever-changing parts
of chaos and consistency,
passion and practice,
destruction and discipline,
all at once.
it is learning that
you can train yourself
to not feel fearful of
whatever doom is upon you,
but also struggling to stay
just barely afloat
when the tides of said doom
sweep you off your feet.
it is both vain strength
(to think you can outrun Time)
and smart cowardice
(to trust that you can hide from Time)
the art of procrastination
does not beat around the bush -
to master it,
you must walk on the serrations
of a double-edged dagger -
both balance
and falling beyond measure
can ruin the practice
of the oldest art
in all of existence.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 3:38 PM UTC
You are silent storms
in balmy summers,
and I am a drizzle
rushing down to
embrace the
tepid earth.
You are
steady hands on
a keyboard and I am
haphazard syllables
splattered on pages.
You are knowing nods,
I am half-laughed
arguments.You
are the stillness
of the sky,
and I,
the
rippling river.
You are the
strength of knowing
what colours are willing
to listen to, and I am the
unexpected blooming riots of paint.
You are red evening skies,
and I am three and a
half lonely stars
- a heart, a soul, a mind,
and whatever lies in between.
You are the changing of the seasons,
and I am a foreign wind on
your skin. We are both
autumn, and what
it feels like
to fall.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
i stand out
in any room
like the only exception
to any rule.
i recklessly disobey
the sciences,
math,
and art.
i stand apart
like every wobbly word
in a sentence
that lives
in a secondhand copy
of a book.
i am not easy to look for
in a room
full of talent, though.
i h i d e
between the pauses
in a conversation that
i shouldn't be interrupting.
when you talk about
art
and love
and life
all I'd like to do
is
hide.
besides,
i could never belong
in the same sentence
as any of the great artists
that you talk about.
so i stick to the walls
i line the sidelines
with a fraction of my presence
- one thirds of me
simmering away at
the bottom of the sink.
i think I'm the only exception
to a world-wide rule.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
I cross seas
of tired backs
with broken bones
and stretching haversacks.
an ocean of people
f l i n c h i n g
at invisible attacks
from a faceless few,
a layer of dew
s e t t l i n g
on morphing faces.
veins that appear
blue,
green,
yellow,
red
on the skin of this city
often pop out and disrupt it.
where lives change
as easily iron tracks,
where lives are organised
into shelves and racks,
when a chain pulled
is a life lost,
or
losing.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
my brain is useless.
it is my eyes
that run over
the edges of your mouth,
greeting the sky,
when i watch you
watch the birds
fly towards
their innocent idea
of a home.
my brain is useless.
my ears hear
the quiet sound
of your laughter,
when it tries to peek
through a steady stream
of my babbles.
my brain is useless.
it is my arms
that i trust
to not miss a single second
of encapsulating your
every word,
every glance,
every movement
that you lavish
on me.
my brain is useless.
it is my words
that do not fail me -
i can dress you up
in the prettiest allegories,
the most mesmerising
of metaphors,
the most flattering adjectives.
my brain is useless,
but you
have the power
of rendering all my syllables
an extravagant waste,
an unnecessary hindrance,
with
one
single
word.
(or maybe three)
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
*single book of matches
gonna burn what's standing
in the way*
a lone flame might look like
a pitiful part of an inferno
that perhaps was,
but never will be
a l i v e.
you can try to magnify
warmth into heat
using all sorts of transparent things -
one - a glass,
two - your face that can't hide what you think,
three - the lone tear the dresses your cheek in the night;
but let me know
when you succeed at
caressing cold embers into
a living, breathing fire.
*burned out flames
should never re-ignite,
but i thought you might*
i hoped to the patron saint of
hopelessness that you weren't
beyond her saving grace.
**** falling stars, i wished on
burning planets to see
if i could salvage the last light
from their core
to plant their fire in yours.
i will never be your cornerstone
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 1:20 PM UTC