The LoudSpeaker

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Sunday, October 1, 2017

From the dumpbox

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Toyland

Matchbox cars on ribbon road,
Concrete, and your hand to hold:
Specks of human, red and gold,
Light our midnight way
Of Northwest winds that think aloud
Of lonely star and monsoon cloud.
I spin a yarn, for you and me,
Of a passing stranger's day.
===================================

I had absolutely nothing even barely publishable left. This is my last stand. Send help.
This poem was written one of the last times I actually enjoyed eating Domino's.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

My buttons got pushed

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Your Mom

Things don't have to be new to hurt.
Things don't have to be old to matter.
Beauty and history are different things --
Shooting stars last
Barely for a minute.

My glimmer of hope;
My gales of unexpected comfort;
My struggle to keep my feet on the ground
Just how he would have liked
Because intelligent intellectual modern men
Like stable women sure of their worth,
Because intelligent intellectual modern men
Should like the woman I want to be...!
My discomfort
With who I sometimes am not
Fits nowhere.
Men of yore will stifle and ask for surrender,
Men of now will drown you in rightful care,
Men in the middle will laugh --

And I haven't hugged a woman in ages.
I haven't felt solidarity
Because we all hide vulnerability
Because vulnerability is feminine and feminine is hate.
Weak women are subhuman toys for the boys.
Strong women are superhuman machines
Whose existence is evidence that we don't need feminism.

Your mother raised you to speak your mind to men and women alike
And so the whole world must be fine now for women like me
Because equality is warped to mean we all must hide our souls.
Respected women are women who act like the men of yore
And other women,
Like the one disgusted you sometimes suspects I am,
Are your guilty muses,
To be moulded into art or sculpture or fantasy or bedclothes
Or queens or goddesses or porn
Or your mother --

And I say it should be simpler.
No rules to laugh, rules to speak,
Rules around
Who to be around,
About the right amount of fear,
Whom to let yourself be near,
Rules to hug, to shed a tear,
Rules to love.
Love
Should be allowed:
On both sides, and as it is;
On both sides, crazy or sane;
On both sides, brave and sweet --

And a man should be allowed
To be swept off his feet.
==================================================================

I wrote this a long time ago after binging on slam poetry videos. I didn't think it was any good but I kept it. Today, I wanted to post because it's been a while, and had nothing else to post, so I finally folded and posted the longest complete piece from my Google Keep.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

That's some horrifyingly beautiful shit right there

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A Phoe Gyi

Where our deepest fears roam
Shall we, together, go;
And bloodless hand in bloodless hand
Our darkest fortunes know?
Shall we be ourselves for once,
My creature of the night?
Shall we tell the truth by candlelight?

Chain our souls to borrowed time,
Defy the gods above,
And leap into a river of souls,
Shall we, together, love?
Shall we summon an army
To strike our enemy?
Shall we call forth demons, thee and me?
======================================

 Dota 2 x Penny Dreadful

Saturday, July 15, 2017

I Would Start A Series But I Do Not Trust My Creativity

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Divergence

I picked you up, sweet test of faith,
In the vagrant days
When good old friend ruination and I
Ambled 'long our ways.
The halls of black and cowering rage
Would tremble in your wake
And I stepped off my brazen trail
For expectation's sake.

I held you close, my safest place,
When you had lost your own
And here, like branches forever twined,
Twistedly we have grown.
How much they spoke, the sightless beasts!
How much they spat and clawed!
Oh, how seethed the angered men,
And women deathly awed!

And then your hand, my solitude,
In mine I softly pressed;
Knew I, as ruination and I
Lay in bed undressed --
'Tis in faith our bravery lies,
And our encumbrance all;
And tremble will, these halls of pain,
From your inheritance tall.
=============================================

Don't you cry for me.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Disturbed

With this, I'm out of publishable poems again.

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St. Jude

Paper cuts in a million places, pen is mightier than the sword,
Sticks and stones will break your bones and so will potent spoken word.
Ink will fail to hold the faith you put in stroke and slant each day.
Rainbows will yield gold and, yet, your master's brush will paint in grey.
Cold will be your summer wine and warm will be your winter mead!
Scorch you may the land, but forests still will spring from springtime seed!
Light will be the blade you lift, their blood to spill, their hearts to cleave;
Weighted sins will lift your pride but you will die by songs they leave.
======================================================================

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Edgy Foreign Title has Funny Unrelated History

As promised.

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Freude

Come, O Disastrous Joy,
Bold and drenched in youth!
Come when beasts are more than men.
Come when lies are truth.

Come, O Treacherous Joy!
In laughter shy or proud,
Come, though every door and gate
Conspires to shut you out.

Come when life is new and fast
And come when life is old;
Come when blood runs boiling hot
And stay when blood runs cold.
========================================

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

I still write

It had been a while since I'd last written, and then suddenly I ended up writing three poems in one sleepless stretch. This is the first one.

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Survey

I live in wet country, where it rains without warning,
Where clouds arrive without wind on their tails
And leave without promising sunshine;

I live in war-torn country,
Where anticipation of disaster kills
More than disaster itself --
And more blood is shed in dreams than in reality.

I live in a land that is awake in what it knows
And asleep in what it does;
Certain in what it wants, yet wavering
In who it wants from, or for.

Loyal as I am to all that is familiar,
I return to history that I trust to repeat itself.
I track the whims of weather, scars of conflict, trails of truth.
I become a broken map
Of my imperfect home.
====================================================

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Shorts 6 / Old Classwork 1

The third cue-word in this post was given by my English teacher in Class 10, as classwork, to practice for the composition portion of our ICSE examinations. Written in limited time by a much younger me, it qualifies both as a short and as the first part of my new series, Old Classwork. Being an assignment, the piece carries a title different from the cue-word itself, as we used to be required to supply. Though it contains certain word choices I would not make today, I have presented it here unchanged.

The second cue-word is mine.

The first cue-word was suggested by:
Ritwik, the all-knowing, all-encompassing, philosophically massive presence that pervaded the atmosphere of the CMI campus for over half a decade. A few of his myriad mysterious strengths lie in coding, gaming and dispersing gyaan. His chief weakness is being an extremely annoying brother. He wears ugly glasses on his ugly head. Disclaimer: this bio totally carries may carry extreme personal bias.

------------------------

Torture

It is a constant battle of tactical revelation. If I tell people too less, I miss out on the understanding that I unavoidably require to survive. If I tell people too much, they tend to guess what is wrong, and when; and then, it is worse then ever, because I've spread my darkness to other souls, and the guilt consumes everything else that I could or could not feel. All my life, too many that should not have been trusted (and, were not -- how strange) have convinced me that I am a source of inconvenience and trouble, a cancerous and depressing burden. Now, when light is offered, I can never tell how much is too much to ask without offering nothing in return.
Nice people. Gratitude. Friendship. Sympathy. Wonderful concepts, these, and also awful sources of torment and confusion. I am convinced that I cannot escape, and burden be I or not, a burden I sure do carry. My greatest fear is that the burden will have its way, and that is, on most days, worse than the idea of making some other lives a bit darker. If I forget all honour, what stops me from crying in front of others? Am I selfish? Am I a thief of happiness? Am I cheating the trade, gaming the system, swindling people out of light that is theirs? I shall never know, because my burden sits on my eyelids and my brain. It's on my throat, my limbs, my tongue, and it hurts. 
I don't tell you, but it hurts.

------------------------

Rewind

Right at this moment, all over your face and eyelashes, there are tiny mites living, crawling and having sex. All around you, electromagnetic waves are carrying speech, sound and words -- making memories, breaking hearts, and saving the world. Hence, the small and the seemingly insignificant appear quite important to you, if you think about it.
These days, I feel small and insignificant in the hierarchy of who you consider worthy of your company, love and approval. To you, perhaps, this moment is what decides if you will wish for a time machine, and to have never ever even met me. At the least, when you know, tell me before you go.


------------------------

Window

Pane of Pain, Pane of Joy

Could you imagine a foreboding castle, in an impenetrable fortress, rising before a stormy skyline with its imposing towers -- but without a single window?
Could you find a happy home, full of love and laughter, lacking only in that quaint little opening in the wall -- decorated with dainty curtains with frills and fringes galore -- could you?
Could you imagine how Rapunzel's story would turn out without a window in her tower, how journeys would have been if trains and cars had no windows, how school would be if the classrooms had no windows?
Sad thoughts, those. Sad, because conversations with the neighbours through the kitchen window keeps the homemaker entertained; because schoolchildren spread their innocent joy and cheer to the world when they yell and wave through the school bus's windows; because bereaved mothers, jilted lovers and betrayed friends weep beside the window, wistfully staring into the middle distance.
The window is a perfect little outlet for that yearning in all of us to be one with the world outside; despite our attachment to the safety of closed doors, we can communicate with the outside world -- feeling its vibrations of feeling and bursts of colour -- when we open a window.
The window is also an opportunity -- an opportunity to feed the birds, smile at strangers, be inspired to write poetry -- and for the neighbourhood's lovable five-year-old Robin Hood, an opportunity to steal a little something for his best friend, the son of his housekeeper.
The quintessential charm of a window increases manifold, and the window metamorphoses into a jolly theatre, when it is no longer stationary. Who can deny the charm of watching cows grazing in the fields, women drawing well-water, and people of all ages working in the farms, in the green little villages flanking the railway tracks?
The everyday person does not have the courage to brave all dangers and live in the open, but people like you and me will always have our windows. Families will always dine on mother's excellent cooking, the old man living alone will always play the piano, the ex-serviceman will always polish his weapon, while the stranger passing through the street looks at them through their windows.
As night falls, the lullabies sung to kids will always involve the bright white lights in the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the child from behind the window drapes.
Miserable is the man who lacks a friendly window.

------------------------

More cue-words are always welcome.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

This Could Well Be The Limit

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Convergence

A tiny spirit lurked
Where you used to be
Not entirely you, and yet
Not quite a part of me.

Sometimes, the wispy ghost
Laughed the way you did --
Head thrown back, eyes closed in mirth,
As would a gleeful kid;

Many a starry restful night
A shyly prodding finger
Of a smoky form touched my heart,
Resembling yours, dead ringer.

It whispered in my ears at times
And played your games with me
And with your voice, just like you did,
The ghost begged to be free.

Tonight, the apparition
Decided it was through
And I said I was done pretending
That the wisp was you;

And so into the artist's night
The spirit sang and flew --
I said farewell, and watched my love
Slowly grow untrue.
=================================================

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

When It Clicks

The original plan was to post this poem on the International Day of Music, but then I found this amazing artwork which just goes with the poem, so I'm gonna post it now with full homage to the artist.

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Lift Me Up

In correspondence
And in scribbles and scrawls shyly hidden
Lie favourite tunes, tentatively offered
To souls momentarily mistaken
To have bested transience.
Songs, tears, and love are the same
Up to isomorphism.
The same songs play for years
And people listen in different ways
For whatever it means to them.
At times kept secret,
At other times shared inadequately,
Meanings change fast.
Fights unresolved by songs of love
Will end for the love of songs.
============================================

I shall be asking permission to feature the artwork within this post itself. Meanwhile, I'm making a playlist of songs about songs, and I invite suggestions.
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