A series of poems at midnight

Written between 12.00 and 12.40 am, when the world outside is hushed, almost as if you are the only person alive in the universe, alone but never out of thoughts! Published utterly raw and unedited:

  1. These metaphors inside me

You never belonged to me
I was
Merely the distillatory for stories
I was
A girl who found suddenly
That words grew on her like little bulbs
Multiplying by themselves and
At times breaking off like leaves from trees in fall.

It meant little to you but
I was
Carrying a letter on my lips and yet
I was
Outraged in my silent victory
And the leaves ‘whooshed’ down, multiplying these words
Carrying them like whispers upon the wind
Until they were heard and they were seen

And I wondered, what was I if not these metaphors?
I was
Just a drop in this confounding sea
I was
Molecules begging moral release
In strange, sudden waves of realization
I saw you never belonged to me
You were only just illusory.

  1. Nobody died.

Nobody died, but I
Found a pressed rose in the pages of my diary
My mind is not a poor man’s luxury
My mind is trapped, controlled
Like a being breathing in and out on its own
It is pumped by something extraneous
Something- invisible
It will take my entire life, trying to define and redefine
These walls on which I precariously perch

Nobody died, but I
Exhausted all the options in my mind
My small hands have lines in them today-
Crooked crisscrossing contours across my fingers
These lines are easy to see,
These lines are deepening everyday
Almost as if they were on the cusp of discovery
This is the price I pay to maintain
The sanctity of my burgeoning cells

  1. Judging by my sense of self

The intimacy is beyond me, it lies in the light
I wonder which way I will be pulled by your arms
But it is ironic that in the mind of a poet
The present and the future can sometimes strangely merge

I can almost feel the smell- that lingering scent
That makes me crinkle my nose, wondering
What deeper meaning can I derive here?
Like searching into the roots of an equation for an explanation to the universe
I tiptoe around this act- seeing myself, as though in a movie
Dissecting which little bits and pieces of this sorcery
Are mine to keep, to play with, to write about?
And which I must give away to you, irretrievably and forever?

  1. The war of the binary genders

What a toll it takes on a woman’s heart
When she must navigate this strange web of emotions
Hunting everyday with a knife where not all men will go!
And she must transpose this world of longing everyday
With one that is inhospitable, hostile
It makes almost no sense that these two worlds
Can exist without collision

Surely, one must end to give way to the other!
Perhaps some day, when we are all asleep
In the arms of something bittersweet
One will pause, and the other emerging victorious
Will swallow bits and pieces that seem…disagreeable
Perhaps in such a world order
The war of the binary genders will finally end as a draw.

  1. The Script of Bipolarity

Whoever wrote this script was mocking me
By day, I am asleep and flirting with the rim of depression
At night I feel reborn, sometimes rescinding my shallow life
In return for relics of a fallen wall

I swim in deep disregard for everything I wish to capture
Within my heart, and with my imagination
During the day I cast anchors, finding temporary homes everywhere
By night I am a castaway, mocking the shores in derision

This bipolarity astonishes me-
Am I often in control or never at all?

  1. Criticisms

Nothing is free from criticism, and yet
Nothing can truly be pried open for its light to befall
This guidance system is broken,
we are cruising but only partly in control
battling embittered, impassioned wars


Reading 1Q84

Every night these days, I curl up with a book. I started by forcing myself. Not on the kindle. A real, physical, tangible book whose pages I can turn. An hour in bed with a story that isn’t my own. I cannot tell you how joyful it feels to read fiction, after having starved myself off it for so long.

I’m reading 1Q84- a Murakami classic. My heart is singing, connecting with characters, listening to their commentary, reimagining their works and my own. It is as the book suggests: 

No matter how clear the relationship of things might be in the forest of story, there never was a clear-cut solution…the role of the story was, in the broadest terms, to transpose a single problem into another form. Depending on the nature and direction of the problem, a solution could be suggested in the narrative. Tengo would return to the real world with that suggestion in hand.

That is what fiction does: it morphs the world a little, until something old emerges as something new, and you feel yourself renewed with a strange kind if glow that you had always possessed, but were running low on.

Oh Murakami, thank you for weaving your fantastically weird narratives with such grounded cores!