Poetry at the airport

I can never find poetry in airports. Something about the severe cleanliness of the place, the brightly lit shops selling merchandise for double the price you get them outside, the processed food outlets and the dull eyed people in an airport prematurely aborts any romantic emotion that was beginning to well in my gut. My eyes blink under the strain of the bright lights, and as I drink a cup of coffee which my consumerist mind bought, ignoring the silent contentment of my stomach, I feel the dullness of the airport set in inside me too. Somehow, this place has succeeded in squeezing dry any emotion, any sort of music from its vicinity. People walk around, purposeless until their flight is due, their hearts completely unattached to their surroundings. I find a place to sit, a small jigsaw piece in this great crowd; and yet, feeling that I somehow wasn’t made for this puzzle.

The lady next to me looks at me and quickly looks away before meeting my eyes. If this was a railway station, we would have at least graced each other with a half smile. I sit down; make phone calls informing people of the progress of my journey. When the last call is done, a dull sense of loneliness slowly seeps into my head. I miss the rush of the railway station, of people hurrying to different platforms, the way the crowd pushes you around or dashes past you. I miss the distant chugging sound of a train approaching, the smoke visible from far away, and the excited chaos in the station which commences once the train arrives at the platform. People hop out, carrying unbelievable numbers of suitcases and bags. Children desperately cling on to the tip of their parents’ clothes, sure that they’d be lost if they let go. The bustling surrounding the arrival of a train, excited relatives shouting to be heard, friends laughing with each other, those waiting for a train eyeing the drama unfolding with a hope that soon, they’d become actors too. Something about the accumulated smell of the station, the absence of silence, the huge mass of humanity meeting at that one point chokes a person with an exhilarating amount of emotions.

All this seem absent in the airport. Maybe it’s just that I’m not listening enough to the poetry whispered in the air all around me, maybe I’m not skilled enough to find a poem in every place I go to. Or maybe, the lights are too bright and the cleanliness too impeccable that poetry could find no dark corner to sing from.

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Hunger

Hunger

Write a post in the style of (or simply inspired by) a favorite author.

 

I’ve already done this on 28th May: https://barefootonrainydays.wordpress.com/2013/05/28/hunger/

Here’s the poem I wrote then, which was inspired by Jayanta Mahapatra’s poem of the same title:

 

I walked in
The crowd rose to greet me
Clapping, greedy for my words
I saw the hunger in their eyes
Wild, cruel, never satiated
I realized how my hunger 
Was now the nation’s desire
I saw the monster in their eyes
And my stomach growled
Their cries made me hungrier
As my mind yelled, “more!”

And then I remembered the other hunger
The one in the camps
Stifled, silent, terrified
I saw it in their eyes
The starvation to live
And to see me dead

Later, their dead eyes stayed with me
Feeding my hunger,
And making it grow.

Shadows

Shadows

Daily Prompt: Ebb and Flow, a post on your blog like it would appear three years from now

 

Shadows of my face

Crowd my facebook page.

Instagram photos with

Multiple hashtags ##

Receive a thousand likes.

 

My body spends days

Laughing and dancing

Avoiding time alone

Afraid of the dark

I used to love.

 

My mind rushes

Hurrying to success

With no time to breathe

I forget to watch the star

Which appears first in the sky.

 

But my blog remains naked

The last date I posted

Has remained the same

For too long for me to care.

 

Poetry stopped overpowering

Ever since I chose not to think

And crawl with the crowd.

I killed myself with the pen

With which I refused to write

And all that remained was

My shadow, refusing proudly

To accompany me to my grave,

Choosing to shine under lights

That made it go blind.

Am I a Poet?

NaPoWriMo Day#8

I wonder whether I am a poet

Whether I can actually spin words

And weave them into magic.

Lately, the signs have been telling me

That I’m not.

 

I can’t rhyme

Nor can I edit what I write.

I don’t think when I rant

And I just keep ranting on.

 

I can’t write to a specific meter

Neither can I follow most of

The NaPoWriMo prompts:

Still not able to figure out

How I can conjure up

A cinquain and a sea shanty.

 

Am I a poet? I doubt it

I can’t write when people ask me to

Neither can I write everyday

I can’t spend ten lines

Talking about a blooming flower.

 

Am I a poet?

My poems don’t listen to me

They flow around wherever they want to

And control me, forcing me to write them down.

 

Am I a poet?

I don’t think so.