A Worn Out Note

NaPoWriMo Day#7: Write a poem about money

The rickshaw driver handled me a worn out note, frayed

At the edges. As lined as the palm of his hand. The

Dirty tape that held the collapsible material precariously together urged

That I should return it, But he, reading what I was about to do, turned

His watery eyes on me. They bore an uncanny resemblance to the

Dirty tape that held the collapsible material precariously together that

I reverently folded the note into my purse. The thinning paper gingerly

Sat amongst crisp, fat younger notes. The worn out rickshaw driver cycled

Away, and I felt he would tear apart, the tape being so precarious. .

Listening

NaPoWriMo Day#4 Prompt from http://www.napowrimo.net: Write a “loveless” love poem. Don’t use the word love! And avoid the flowers and rainbows.

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I tell you the most inane things:

i need to shampoo today, a mosquito kept me awake at night

I feel blank when people tell me goodbye and maybe never realize they’re gone

Night is my favourite part of the day.

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You listen in a way

That sometimes irritate me

Sometimes make me laugh sometimes make me angry

Sometimes make me feel your unknowing, still hands

Can hold just tight enough everything I want to forget,

In you.

Goodbye Television

NaPoWriMo Day#3: Write a fourteener, a poem with each line consisting of 14 syllables.

Prompt from http://www.napowrimo.net

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Beneath the neem tree, towards the gleaming water I run

Away from your grip, your hollow talk and dull dirty eyes

My feet rush faster as my mind tries to forget all the

Minutes, the hours, the days, and most important, the moments

You took away from me, my brain too numb, too weary to

Realize how limited my time at home was, how short,

Shorter than your one twenty second advertisement break.

Finding You

Writng 201: Poetry

Prompt: Landscape, form: found poem, device: enumeratio

I haven’t followed the suggested form for this one. Too much work. :P

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I want to find you, away

From these four walled brightly lit rooms where people sit in a daze

Away from the dull voices, the meaningless walks with a definite destination

Away from a place where trees grow in near lines and the grass is levelled

Away from all this order, neatness and death.

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I want to find you, again and again

Discover everything that I had lost, forgotten, ignored and unloved

In a world of ticking clocks and calculated meals and tight schedules.

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I want to find you in a place

Where I can love you like I want to

Love your hands and your eyes, your fingers, your forehead, your smiles

Where I can listen to the shifts of your voice, your laugh, your breath

Where I can lie down, feel the grass pressed hard against my knuckles,

Look up at the endless sky patterned with haphazard branches and swaying clouds

Where I can know and love, for sure, all that you are,

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I want to find you where I can love you,

I want to find you, away.

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My Bible

Writing 201: Poetry

Day#8 Prompt: Drawer, Form: Ode, Device: Apostrophe

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You have travelled with me, you thick worn out text littered

With bookmarks and letters and dry flowers to commemorate

Some memory of some vague day spent with some person

Whose smile is already blurred, a part of another life, another me.

You’ve find your place in different spaces – the bookshelf on the corner,

Stuffed in a bag of things which didn’t fit anywhere else,

Locked inside a cupboard, in a box of sentimental yesterdays.

And now, you rest on the drawer next to my bed, closer

To me than you’ve probably ever been in your younger days.

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I didn’t realize how much my life was linked with yours –

How your place changed according to the battle I was waging.

Your words were beautiful, rigid utopias which could never

Neatly be fixed into the sheer irredeemable mess of the everyday.

I held you at arm’s length: sometimes deriving comfort,

Sometimes agony at the distance between what you proposed

And how life actually was, sometimes an intoxicating joy

In being momentarily blinded from the world. Mostly, I was

Weary of you and everything you promised.

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Now, after the repeated amens and endless recited

Rosaries and routine masses and alienating sermons

And the agony of my soul at the distance, the

Gigantic gap between what you contained and the hole,

The emptiness and death and stupor I saw my life as,

You rest on the drawer next to my bed, closer

To me than you’ve probably ever been in my younger days.

What to Make of You

Writing 201: Poetry

Day#7 Prompt: Fingers, Form: Prose poem, Device: Assonance

I could look at your restless long fingers the whole day long.Your soft, fond fingers rubbing my aching back so tender, so gentle. Your nervous fingers, fumbling confusedly as you speak to someone you don’t know. Fingers that fail at tying my hair. Experts at holding me before I fall and dividing food. Fingers that lazily tap on your stupid phone. Make me feel loved, make me feel covered through their warmth, no, their heat, through all the different ways they know to touch. Scare me like nothing ever has or ever will when you are angry, the grip of your fingers so icy, so strong on my arm that I am choked. I don’t know what to make of you or your fingers: should I trust the warmth or the cold anger? Your fingers lay waiting and apprehensive as your mouth asks for forgiveness. My eyes are still fixed on your fingers to read what you’ll do next.

The Lovely Lady in Grey

Writing201: Poetry

Day#6 Prompt: Hero/Heroine, Form: Ballad, Device: Anaphora, epistrophe

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The children loved to wait in the way

Where walked the lovely lady in grey

Their lives were mostly sad blues

The lady’s smile gave it a brilliant hue.

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The children were poor, you see

Their clothes were torn and dirty.

But when walked the lovely lady in grey

They felt the beam of the brightest part of the day.

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The children in wait every morning lay

For there walked the lovely lady in grey

She brought food, she lingered a while

They loved it best when she would smile.

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The children led rough lives in mean streets

And slept cold beneath tattered sheets

So when here walked the lady in grey

Her smile was like a pretty bouquet.

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One day the lovely lady in grey looked in the mirror

And decided life wasn’t worth living with all the horror

Her death mattered to few, no flowers on her grave except

The wayside flowers picked by the children who wept

For the lovely lady in grey.