Death of a Language

Your death was the last breath of a language

Our language.

Now when we laugh, it is

In a foreign tongue.

Many of us have been rendered

Mute

Some of us hunt for words

To capture your peace.

But the script has changed;

We cannot read these signs yet,

And we’ve already forgotten

The way our mouths used to move.

.

We know we have lost our language

We sit on your green bamboo chair

Stare at the trees you had planned

And squint to see your smile

Dancing with the swaying branches

.

Sometimes we remember

A stray phrase

The edge of a word

Or a whole syllable.

And for a flash your face lights up

Again.

.

But who can we tell, of

Our flashes of happiness

When you took its language

Away with you, smiling

All the way?

 

Grave

Hi!

I’ve been feeling that persistent itch to write regularly again, but regular inspiration is hard to come by.  Riding on the optimistic wave that decided to remain with me for a while, I’ve decided to seek inspiration from prompts. WordPress has amazing courses to engage you to write, and I’ve enrolled in the Intro to Poetry course. Hopefully, I’ll complete all ten days.

Prompt: Water

Form: Haiku

I’ve used both optional prompts. As usual, I brought about the most depressing interpretation ever. Always been a morbid person. Will you believe it if I’d told you I’m a happy person, outside of what I write? I contain my sadness in my words.

Anyway, here goes:

 

wilted flowers sag

unable to lift raindrops

falling on granite

The Lovely Lady in Grey

Writing201: Poetry

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

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

The Day My Friend Cried

Writing 101: Unlock the Mind

This post is written in context of the flood that is ravaging Jammu and Kashmir, India currently. This is a personal account of a friend’s grief. If you can contribute towards the cause, please do.

I saw her cry for the first time. The person whom I thought was the strongest in the world. The person who goes through more in a year than what I have gone through throughout my life. She cried in my arms. As her sobs travelled up her body, I felt so inadequate trying to contain her sorrow in my arms. But I couldn’t let go.

Her parents hadn’t called her in five days. She didn’t know where her sister was, or half of her relatives. Were they alive and stuck? Had they been rescued by the army? Or, was it…too late? She didn’t know. Being away from it all made it harder. It was her land that was drowning, her people that were isolated. And all she could do was cry in my inadequate arms, trying to contain the sorrow within her. There was nothing she could do. Helplessness is the most painful emotion. It compounds grief and kills fleeting moments of relief. She was helpless because she was away. She was alone because she wasn’t there.

She scans the news every day. When I sit next to her in class, I see her refresh her screen every now and then. Her eyes are constantly drawn towards the unresponsive phone, as if staring at it would make it ring. For the first time, I see that the allure of Literature has failed to seduce her. As our teacher talks about Eliot’s existentialism and Hemingway’s sparse writing style, her mind roams, refusing to be captivated by words which she’d hung on to eagerly, earlier.

I do not know how to comfort her. I hug her as tightly as I can, trying to contain the sorrow, letting her know that she’s not alone. But when she looks at me and says, “What will I go back to? Everything will have changed. When the hard earth which I can feel on my palm begins to slip away from my grasp, what is home anymore?”

I cannot answer her.

Falling

Dedicated to my parents

 

On days when the clouds cry

To express my wordless anguish

When drops of the sun’s heat

Suck my entire being dry,

I fall into your smile

And remember what it is like to be happy.

 

On days when every slight word

Makes me bleed crimson pain

When the shallow pools around me

Turn my mind into an ugly brown,

I fall into your acceptance

And feel I can breathe again.

 

On days when my laughter

Rings of choked sorrows

When every breath I take

Scratches like dead leaves

I fall into your arms

And life surges into my corpse.

 

On days when an inaudible gasp

Signals my heart breaking quietly

When life loses its music and. 

Haunts with its cruel silence,

I fall into you

And know that I’m never alone.

Look

Look

Do you like being scared by books, films, and surprises? Describe the sensation of being scared, and why you love it — or don’t.

 

You look at me, 

And I remember

A dream which recurred;

Me running away, chased

By shadows of people.

 

You look at me, 

The waters rise

I cannot breathe 

As my lung screams

For what it took for granted.

 

You look at me,

The room shrinks

My body is paralyzed

The walls which comforted

Now form my cage.

 

You look at me,

And I see how I’ve died

For you that day, now forever.

The death in your eyes terrify me,

I know I can never live for you, again.

Elevator Ride

Parents have a tendency to repeat themselves, especially when they talk about their children. Her parents were no exception. When talking about her childhood, there was this one story that they always laughed at: it was about how as a baby, she would cry from the moment she got into an elevator till the moment the ride ended. She used to smile when her parents recounted this, though she could never figure out what was funny.

She still hated elevators. They were tiny, claustrophobic and stifling. She hated the wait between floors, as if the elevator was suspended in time, while the rest of the world went on as usual. She felt empty: the kind of terrifying emptiness you feel when you know that something dreadful is going to happen, but it hasn’t happened yet; and you’re waiting, tired of the sickening anticipation and yet, wishing that it would never end. When people talked about souls, she pictured an elevator as its antonym: empty and enclosed. She hated elevators because they made her feel empty, even when she smiled to shake off the feeling; even when she stepped out of it.

She still took the elevator, though. In one of the magazines her mother read, she found an article which cautioned that riding an elevator was always safer for women than climbing the stairs. So she stuck to it, even though her heart quaked until she stepped out.

The day her father died, she felt like she was stuck in an elevator. She knew she was supposed to scream, to cry, to tear her hair out; but she felt suspended in time, her mind weighing her down with the anticipation of tears that would come, of emotions that she would feel. She was stuck in an elevator: empty, enclosed. She couldn’t get out. She couldn’t feel. She couldn’t cry. All she could do was wait.