I wrote that letter.

I wrote that letter: a follow-up to my previous poem  “A love poem for a stranger”

I wonder if you know

That it’s me who wrote that letter.

I hope I could seduce you

With that shoddy poetry on a paper.

I might have been a bit too much

But that’s the thing about honesty,

It spills over like water from a bucket.

I hope I could make you feel something,

Something for me,

Or at least my poetry,

That to me sounds like vomit

From the mouth of a sick

screaming disgrace.

This whole affair is strange,

I know,

Sometimes I wonder if you would have written back

If I had given you my return address.

But my courage lasted only till the last

Line of that verse after which I just

Had to finish it and be done.

So I signed it off as J.W, the initials

Of my favorite author,

Hoping to leave an obscure clue

If you might want to find me

And write to me too.

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I saw it.

I saw it.

I saw it.

I saw it happen.

Clothes being ripped,

Life being gripped,

And breath being nipped.

But I pretend that

I saw an empty street instead.

 

Who is watching?

Reflections of my insides have

surfaced on the screen

can you see?

They say they are watching

watching me.

watching me from the lenses

of their own encrusted filth

through the filter of human lunacy

Are you watching still?

Watching them bathe themselves clean

watching them eat?

Reflections of your entrails have now

surfaced on the screen

I can see

I am watching you

watching you watch me

metro rides

Date: 7th April 2017

Watching moving cars and trees from the thick transparent glass of the metro had a soothing, almost therapeutic effect on my frenzied brain. “Next stop Shivaji Stadium”, the recorded human voice declared from the speaker buried in some strange corner of the metro walls. I thought to myself – two more stops till I reach home, which is almost 20 minutes, which is quite a lot of time for giving in, to my FOMO and so I slipped my hands into my black backpack and pulled out the book, I had recently been reading. “page 56”, I repeated to myself as I took a moment to stare at the cover: a picture of a red-haired girl curiously gazing at the pebbles around her feet, above her head written in big, ‘Strawberry Girl’. The image of a boat and the ocean surrounded her from either side lifting her figure into the red tinted light of a sky that I can’t completely explain. As my eyes skimmed through pg 56-57 to find the lines where I had left off, a strong smell of Jasmine filled my nostrils. I looked up and realized that the metro had reached Shivaji stadium and a tall middle-aged man with a thick mustache was making his way towards me. His corrosive smell burned into my sanity like a broken bottle of perfume. Not knowing what all that Jasmine scent was doing to me he quickly made himself comfortable in the seat beside me before directing all his attention to the virulent game of candy crush on his tiny screen. Unable to read or move, I just stared at the page until my stop was near. I couldn’t be happier when the voice from the walls proposed that the next stop was Delhi Aerocity. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I pushed the book into my bag and zipped it shut.

an elegy to lost time.

i miss you or will

it happened quickly

was a slow death

you suddenly stopped looking

you suddenly stopped living

remember the time you

ran around laughing at me

while i cried my eyes out for

someone to find me crying

remember the time you slept

while i waited for when i

would be home again

you were like that always

wanting me for yourself

but you were company

tough company

is it silly that when spelled backward

you emit? because

in your black hole like abyss, I have lost

many lovers and flesh

you were a strange friend

i will miss

in secret bliss

PROMPT 3 – Today I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy – a poem that mourns or honors someone dead or something gone by. And I’d like to ask you to center the elegy on an unusual fact about the person or thing being mourned.

how to make a dead man.

how to make a dead man.

a simple dish it may seem

but the preparations are a bit twisted

to start, take some lost cause and whisk it

till its foamy nature spills over the bowl

in it, you must add some citrus

till it smells of fatalistic detritus

rising up your nostrils like a vulgar mistress

when satisfied, pop a bottle and add some beer

to soothe the sourness, to soothe the sheer smell of vengeance

it is optional, but it sure does soften the tendons

now fill an aluminum tin with the mix

and heat the oven to a tight 250°C for an hour half open

while you wait, you may sip the leftover liquid fix

when the heat is ready, the tin goes in and the hot air takes over

you can now bend your waist and watch the red beam light up like a nova

wear clean clothes and tidy up after

and be back in a few days

to find

a delicacy of rotten flesh and cold skin for you to savor

PROMPT 2 – Today, I’d like you to write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe! It can be a recipe for something real, like your grandmother’s lemon chiffon cake, or for something imaginary, like a love potion or a spell.

new tree

 

NEW TREE

You left behind

brown leaves,

crisp and dry;

leaving space

for lush ones

that smile.

Like a season anew

and alive, you can

forget what you

left behind. You

can forget and

leave it to die.

Forget it will again rise

into a new tree,

into a  new life.

PROMPT 1 – I’d like to challenge you to write a Kay-Ryan-esque poem: short, tight lines, rhymes interwoven throughout, maybe an animal or two, and, if you can manage to stuff it in, a sharp little philosophical conclusion.