Unlearning

In rooms crowded with pigtails
and half pants
They taught us maps
and shapes and swirls.
They’ve changed now into
very different rants
As Atwood’s ‘I’ laments all the
maps are coloured in
And Edward said it’s an
orientalist thing.
They are not swirls anymore but
Yeat’s Gyres.
we keep winding upon new meanings each day.
And in our mad search we forget
to hear what Beckett had to say.
This is not a poem
Just as I am not learning anymore.
I am unlearning the things they have chalked in
about good and bad and gods in books and sin.
I want to know why are ballets full of bullet holes?
And in brothels we find most purging their souls?
Why you and I can have our fifteen seconds of fame
But we would still not know the neighbour’s name.
They managed to strew most half truths on the classroom floor with chalk dust
But our brains still rust
because they skipped that lesson- discernibly the most important one-
the one where they should have taught us not to learn anymore.

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The Things You Left Behind.

I was looking
For the perfect dress to wear.
I looked
In the old box, It found me there.

Tears
rolled down my eyes.
Rushed
back all your memories
Undressed
All your clever lies.

I picked it up
It stared back at me.
I unwrapped it,
emotionally
It barely responded
like a new born baby.

I bring it close to my face,
Hold it in a warm embrace.
It does not
Smell of you anymore.

I drown myself
in it, again.
Like I used to bury
in your arms
my face.

Only now I see how
it really is.
I can’t trace your smell now
Or the way I’d miss
You, every breath.

It has been so long.
Can I even, in one go,
sing the lines to our song?
And In my head will you still hum along?

But,
One last time I’ll
dance with it.
And I guess
I’ll forget you
bit for bit.

Not today, certainly
But someday I’ll laugh
About you and me.

It brought back to me
All your forgotten self.
And I’ll hope it finds me again sometime.
To show me, how you were mine.

For now,
I’ll fold it in neatly.
And put back your plain white T.
I wonder,
Do you ever think of me?

Footnote-
This poem was not written in the best state of mind, as is evident from the rough edges. That said, it has come out exactly the way I wanted it. Rough. Disturbed. Raw. Emotional.

Will you lend me my own to keep?

Will you lend me
two smiles and a sigh?
I want to grow wings and fly.

Will you lend me
a verse and some rhymes?
I want to be a lie and shield to your crimes.

Will you lend me
three days and a night?
I want to be a scene and a sight.

Will you lend me
a morsel and some wine?
I want to be artsy and shine.

Will you lend me
some knifes and a paper?
I want to be a muted poet and a shaper.

Will you lend me
a carpet and some dust?
I want to be a candlestand to sit and rust.

Will you lend me
some guilt and some pain?
I want to be a clever charmer and a dab of vain.

Will you lend me
drops of rain and frost?
I want to be the love found and lost.

Will you lend me
an emotion and some fire?
I want to be an irony and satire.

Will you lend me
Someone not yours to keep?
I want to be alone and never again meek.

Will you lend me
My own ?

Will you?

But here I am Yours, Unloved.

Found but here I am
lost again.
Healed but here I am
in pain.
Begun but here I am
at the end.
Real but here I
pretend.
Read but here I am
untouched.
Tall but here I am
crushed.
Safe but here I am
exposed.
Stable but here I am
desposed.
Sane but here I am
deranged.
Owned but here I am
unclaimed.
Crowned but here I am
subverted.
Believer but here I am
converted.
Brimming but here I am
exhausted.
Filled but here I am
vacated.
Ripe but here I am
juvenile.
Confessed but here I am
in denial.
Accepted but here I am
refused.
Sorted but here I am
confused.
Bound but here I am
unchained.
Flowing but here I am
retained.
Expected but here I am
turned away.

Unloved, but here I am yours.

As the days go by.

Every minute that passes is
a minute we never get back.
you can’t relive the moments
that mean the most to you.

but you can remember,
you can smile laugh or cry,
and you learn and try,
you love and hate as the
days go by.

the pendulum keeps swinging,
the days, they count away,
through honesty and lies,
no one but you knows the way.

its beautiful and ugly,
warm and cold in this
erratic life, we don’t always have a hold,
we should listen its up to us to do as we’re told.

and in the misery we live,
and in the happiness of life,
we do not know where we’re heading,
through the heartache and the strife.

mistakes seem to rule us,
and we change as we grow,
the ironic contradictions,
No one seems to know.

but you can remember,
you can smile laugh or cry,
and you learn and try,
you love and hate as the
days go by.

Have thoughts, Will Rhyme.

I am often asked questions on the lines of:

“What were you thinking when you wrote that?”
“Did you just make that whole post up in the Anatomy lecture?”
“DID YOU REALLY WRITE THAT? YOURSELF?? ON YOUR OWN?”
“Where did that thought even come from?”

Apart from the utter amazement that people convey by hurling questions at whatever little writing skill I possess..these questions tell me that I must be doing something right. If a reader is intrigued and engaged enough to want to know where the writer is coming from(in terms of thoughts and ideas) and not just swallow a couple of fancy sounding words the writer throws his way, then there is no better justification to your efforts.

That said, I’ll have to agree that sometimes these questions make me doubt myself. It’s difficult to decipher if it’s the quality of your writing responsible for triggering such reactions or that it is hard to digest that you could actually write something “on your own”.
On one such occasion when my Mother called me to say that she really enjoyed reading an article I wrote which was published in my school magazine and it was unbelievably well written, I had to stop her to ask what was unbelievable –┬áThe fact that I could write something or that it was REALLY good. Mother just laughed that off and my question remains unanswered.

So when someone I know posted a really reaaallly “surprised” comment on one of my posts on Facebook I instantly recoiled into my shell of self-doubt and zero confidence.
This is the conversation with my oldest friend that followed and made these remarks and ever considering them seem pointless altogether:

“You are not your usual self today. Everything alright?”
“Oh yes! Everything is just fine.”
“Just fine? Seriously? You think you can get me with “Just fine” after 9 years?”
“Alright. I am not fine. Its just something silly. You’ll probably think I am getting senile or PMSing.”
“Get it out. We’ll see it when we see it.”
“X just posted a really weird comment on that note I wrote. I just dont feeling really good about myself after that.”
“Remember what you told your Physics teacher in class 10 when s/he asked you what makes you want to join ’16 days with Shakespeare’ (debating and literature club) instead of ‘Science Club’?”
“Yeah, Vaguely. Why?”
“Bother to repeat it out aloud and hear yourself say it?”
“Nay, as if feeling bad over a Facebook comment is not lame enough.”
“Just do it, A.”
“Uhh. Alright.

Sometimes we hold the answers to all our questions. Maybe we just need to hear ourselves say it.

A Poetically Incorrect welcome post.

“If it doesn’t work horizontally as prose,
it
probably
wont
work
any
better
vertically
pretending
to
be
poetry.”

This quote is the inspiration behind this blog’s name and a lot of other things in my life.
To be here..it doesn’t matter if you are poetically incorrect or not. Doesn’t even matter if you are poetic, to be frank. If you respire, if you’ve created a carbon footprint (both of which are certain if you’re reading this) then you are a poet in your own sense. Everyday, every minute that you live, you create the stimuli for a string of words that, someday, will weave themself into a lyrical beauty some may call poetry, others song. The way you curve your lips into a smile, the sharp tip of your nose, the eyes you safely encapsulate a million dreams in, the hands tired from carrying on the random routines of existence, the legs only ever moving forward with the fluidity of your thought. Your every action is reason for celebration. And what better celebration than immortalizing that moment. And what better way of immortalizing than painting a picture with words? For it will not change with the dynamics of your growth into something else for someone else to immortalize in a pictue of words.
But some may say its incorrect to write more and live less. Then dont! Live more. Live each moment more deliberately. But write one word more than that. Write as much as you can. Dont worry if it is wrong. If it really is, All you’ll have is The Life of The Poetically Incorrect.

Carpe Diem.