3 A.M. Laying on the bedroom floor, My head rests on the side of the bed, Lights are out and my fingers inked. My diary finally closed. Couple of scribbled pages and a tear-stained face later, I realize I am “happy”.
9 A.M. Leaning out of my window, A gelid breeze gushing under my nose, The emerald leaves of the tree abreast, Giggling and waving and swaying, In the warm sunshine, A sneeze and a zone-out later, I cognize I am “happy”.
7 P.M. A room full of people, Familiar faces, familiar jokes, Cliched gossips, cliched chuckles, A couple of laughs and a feeling of a certain emptiness later, I think I am “happy”. 9 P.M. Walking home, alone, Counting my footsteps, Pretending to be a part of a music video, Laughing at the reminisce of an overused, cliched And customary joke at the meet up. After one last chortle and shrugging off a mean comment, I register I am “happy”.
12 A.M. Laying under the blanket, Reading my e-book, And listening to Taylor Swift, Whilst casually browsing Instagram once a while, I stifle my hilarity on reading a savage roast, Careful not to wake the ones already sound asleep, A few likes and yawns later, When, I close my eyes, I discern I am “happy”.
11 A.M. I opened my mouth to say something, But closed it just the same, I had the alphabets, Maybe the rearrangement to make ‘em words, Was missing. An ignorant, mean, inhumane comment, My breath got caught, trying my hardest, To not break down. I smile, The need to justify dissipated, Yet another time of being misunderstood, And several steps in the right direction later, I am “happy”. This is true happiness, I knew. In that moment, by taking that one right step. You see, “happy” like many other things in life, Isn’t definable. It’s like those fictitious castles in the air, It doesn’t have a shape, a form, It isn’t substantial and I guess that’s the beauty of it, You can feel hurt, but still be happy, You may be empty but still be happy, “happy” isn’t a utopian trail of positivity, “happy” is the contentment of the acceptance of reality. It is the realization, an enigmatic cognization of how brutal this world is, That the world is bad, but, contains plenty of good. Its that enlightenment of knowing that you’re alone, But not always lonely. It’s a hope of the better times, No, “happy” is not laughs and giggles, “happy” is the understanding that it isn't supposed to always be laughs and giggles, And after all, life isn’t about how to survive the storm, it’s about how to dance in the rain, And “happy” is the rain, in which I hope you’ll dance, always :)
रेप Culture. क्या काहू? क्या अब भी कुछ कहना बाकी है? खयालात तो बहुत है, लेकिन शब्द होते हुए भी, आज अपने आप को निशब्द महसूस करती हूं।
Hands, I feel hands, All over me, hands, That don't belong here, Hands that disgust me, Hands that forcefully muffled, My desperate cries for help, Hands that make me feel violated, Hands that leave traces, Of the crime, They remind me, Of my vulnerability, Hands.
रोती आज मैं भी हूं, और रोता वे भी है, बस फर्क शायद इतना है, कि मेरे हज़ार बार बोलने पर भी, तुम नहीं सुनें, और उसे एक बार भी, बोलने की हिममत ही ना हुई,
I lay on my bed, Wondering how to tell, And to whom? Will anyone ever believe me? Or would they think, I am just putting on a show, Just because I am a boy? There's this uneasiness in the pit of my stomach, A certain void, I wished to get drowned in, I am ashamed of the sins I didn't commit, Or perhaps, it was all my fault?
काश, मेरी छोटी स्कर्ट से पहले, लोगों को अपनी छोटी सोच को, बढ़ाने के लिए सिखाया जाता, क्योंकि इस बार, न ही मैं दुखी हूं, न ही गुस्सा, बस थक गई हूं, बार बार दोरह कर, बार बार यह बता कर, कि 'नहीं' का मतलब 'नहीं' ही होता है, कि मेरा जिस्म तुम्हारा कोई खिलौना नहीं, थक गई हूं बार बार ट्वीट करके, Instagram पर पोस्ट करके, या एक YouTube वीडियो बना करके, थक गई हूं यह सीखाते सीखाते, कि लोगों की कर्दर करो, कि किसी की मां, बहन या बेटी होने के नाते नहीं, बल्कि एक इंसान होने के नाते मेरी कर्दर करो, थक गई हूं यह सोचते सोचते, बार बार अपने आप को पूछते पूछते, कि यह करते हुए, क्या एक बार भी तुम्हारे हाथ न कापे? थक गई हूं।
We see her, In her room, Muffling her cries, So that we don't know, But how could we not hear? How could we be unaware of, What our child's going through? It's been 10 years, since it happened, And not a day has gone without wondering, What if we were there? What if she hadn't been there alone that day? What if the circumstances were different, What if...
आज सोफ़ा पर बैठे, टीवी पर न्यूज देखती हूं, एक और केस की हेडलाइन देख, सोचती हूं, क्या कल मेरी बारी तो नहीं? ~Charvi.
Okay, so quick confession, I don’t know why I love this verse so much. Like the poem on the whole is beautiful, but this verse is the best poetic piece I have come across. The verse kinda warms your heart. Especially the last 2 lines. One of the reasons why I love this piece so much and Emily Dickinson on the whole is maybe because she normalises death and even makes it sound melodic. And we really need to normalise death. _____________________________________
I was nine then, I am fifteen now. “Hope” I figured had a different meaning then, It sure does have a different meaning now. It was serene then, It’s complicated now. It came easy then, It’s… well it’s…I am not sure what it is now. I remember giving hope a metaphorical reference, To the silver lines of a cloud, “Every cloud has silver line”, My nine-year-old chanting, Found a line in my first actual poem, “Hope”. But now as I see it, Not every cloud has a silver line. There’re clouds which are magnanimous, There’re clouds darker than venta black, There’re clouds so dense, You can’t help but wonder if the sky will ever be clear, There are clouds producing the heaviest of the lightnings, There are clouds producing the loudest of the thunders, There’re clouds shaking your entire core, Questioning your very existence, But then, there’s this one cloud, A tiny little one, Perhaps not even visible in the sky, That one cloud may have a silver lining, That one cloud is your hope. When I was young, Hope to me, danced with the winds, That blew kisses on my face as I opened my window each morning, It waved to me, As the emerald leaves on the tree in my baranda, Swayed in glee, It beamed at me, As the sunflowers twinkled in the golden sunshine, It…it was just there, In my every breath, Every step, every giggle, Every hop. But now, it’s like I am caught up, In the deep blue seas of chaos, The waves are high, belief low, The swirling storms resonate my core, The cold biting air, mock the emptiness of my soul, My hair matted, sticking to my face for support, I am alone. I always have been. My breaths are heavy, my conscious lost, My vision blurring, my eyes dozing off, That’s when I see, a little speck of light in the sea, It’s a figment of my imagination, or a hallucination perhaps Maybe it’s simply just a delusion. As spontaneously as it flickered, it vanished, But instilled in me a desire, And so, I swam, to find that little speck of luminesce, To find my own lighthouse, When I was young, Hope bloomed in the room, Proliferating its fragrance in every nook, But now, it is just a remnant, indistinct odor, In a foul-smelling, nose-stinging construction site. As you grow, you need to fight the fiercest of the storms To find your hope. It is a real thing now, not just a beautiful naïve illusion. I was nine then, I am fifteen now. “Hope” I figured had a different meaning then, It sure does have a different meaning now. But there’s this one thing that was constant then, And it is constant now, I ended my eight-line poem like this then, I am it ending it the same way now, Always have hope, And never lose it. ~Charvi. __________________________________
@void look I posted :). Also I need to tell you all something. Hope was my first actual poem, I wrote when I was 9. And this is just change of perspective since then. Hope you all like it. ;)
Gelid wintry dawn, The sky boasting it's royal scarlett hues, Trails of golden sunshine, Dazzled upon the petals of the Lone wallflower in blue, As it emerged from the tattered crimson brick, On the dust-laden sidewalk. A soft breeze gushes by, Kissing the wallflower underneath, The prussian petals sway in glee, Aknowleging the wind that joyfully sings, Intoxicated by the winds lullaby, A prussian petal follows it's lead, Humming the lullaby, it flies off with wind, The four remnant petals curl up in fear, And slowly return back to their intial sphere, The sky is now a pleasant shade of deep orange, With yellow freckles, A ringing sound is heard, A cycle swiftly slides past the wall flower, Slicing a petal along with, Staining the sidewalk with a muddy trail of its tires, And printing upon the wallflower shudders from shock, The remnant three petals embracing each other tight, holding onto dear life. Sky is washed by a citric hue now, The three petalled wallflower beaming in the apricity of daylight, Sporadically, senses a shower of a dense liquid with a gush of wind, pulling away a petal, An adorable woof is heard, Ah! When did snow grow up so much? The remnant two petals faintly smiled, Then deeply sighed, They tried to stand right back up, But drooping gave 'em a greater comfort. The sky yet again sported a different hue, This time it was a menacing baby blue, In their droopy state, The petals cognized thundering footsteps, And approaching giggles, Jesus, they were far too near, Another gaint lep and three year old Mary, Smothered yet another petal to death. The last petal of the Lone wallflower, Was lonely now, It felt a tickling sensation which turned into razor sharp cuts, As it was pulled off the source by the beak of a mocking bird, The last petal of the Lone wallflower died, Rubbing off every evidence of its existence, And it would be a lie, if I say the dynamic sky didn't cry. It rained heavily for days and nights, Then, one fine morning , Yet another wallflower danced, As it bloomed in the grey skies... ~Charvi. _________________________________
I was told, poetry should rhyme, So I obliged, I wrote a line, Then searched for a word that rhymes. I changed my words, I altered my musings just to fit in the 'standard', It was difficult to find words that sounded so similar, It was unsettling for me to change my thoughts just to make them rhyme. "It flows better that way" they said and it kept ringing in my mind, So whenever I sat, with a paper and a pen, Words ceased to ooze out from my soul, 'Coz I looked for utopia in this flawed world, I tried to machine-cut my natural words, I tried to be perfect with my verses, 'Coz I thought only then the they will worthy, worthy enough to be validated. I tried chaining my notions and my words to some stupid norm, It felt constricting to be bound with so many regulations, When I just desired to bear my heart on a paper, Poetry, it is more than than an amalgamation of words, It is the cry of a soul. How then, can I limit such a sacred emotion? 'Coz as I grew up, I realised, Poetry, it isn't about shine and shimmer, It's about scars and crevices, It's about marks and stains, It's about those minutest details, It's about bruises and wounds, It's about hurt and relief, It's about joy and grief, It's about love, it's about envy, It's about poise, it's about grace, It's about those crooked smiles, It's about coffee stained tables, It's about a memory so faded, That it's barely alive, It's about those inside jokes, It's about those midnight giggles, It's about those starry spheres, It's about the muffled tears, It's about war, it's about peace, But most importantly, It's about you and me. And we, we're far from perfect We are flawed, we are scarred, we're bruised, Why then, should our poetry flow flawlessly ? Why then, should it be smooth as honey? There's this uncanny rhythm, In tainted things , There's a miraculous flow, On sinned roads, There's a magnificent beauty, In scars, in marks, in cuts. There's immense power In joy and grief, in hurt and relief, There's this poise, In your crumbled castles. There's serenity, In your imperfect giggles. There's peace, On that coffee stained table. And your crooked smiles? They're lovable. But most of all, That broken crown on your head? It's dazzling. It's a mark of growth, It's a mark of strength, It's a mark of control, On the mess in your head. So that's why, in the world full of rhyming words, I choose to be a free verse.
This poem is no crash course Nor does it come with a starter package Or a reader’s manual / guide Much like the Whatsapp forwarded jokes Of a man searches in google ‘How to control your wife’ And google has zero search results This poem is as dry as your sense of humour And the repetitive need of controlling All the woman around you This poem is dry As dry as the summer nights Where the ac fails to work And you have lived enough To see the nights treachery And died enough to mourn for the dawn This poem is the discomfort As you switch positions And end up curled in the foetal position Imitating a mother’s womb This poem is the fundamental human instinct Of demanding familiar physical touch Yet as the Sun arises And the leaves sway with the wind It only reminds you of women swaying hips The type you would secretly ogle As you come across lingerie posters And underwear adds When you think no one is watching But we women always know Call it a woman’s instinct For last summer a girl of 14 Had her first menstruation and the Whole village celebrated her ripening / fertility The next day as she sits on the local bus To school, the journey feels a little longer A little more unnerving And suddenly the bus ticket collector’s gaze Feels a little more disturbing As her stomach churns unpleasantly As she notices a man thrice her age Staring at her and then at his manhood She pulls her skirt further down And the man grins That pure predatory grimace Her heart shudders and mouth shutters She’s felt fear Fear of being a woman For the first time After all ripened mangoes must fall of the tree Suddenly he stares at his handkerchief And the name of his wife Woven with strings borrowed from the Sun’s ray And he looks away as the girl descends down the bus
( II) Close your eyes gently What happens when you think of the word W-O-M-A-N Do you see women running? Running in wheat fields or mustard if you are that creative as their lovesick lovers run behind close your eyes or have them done so by a woman seductively, as she feeds you grapes and what not do you see woman with purple skin and neon highlights as hair whiskers and ears of a cat political and profound or do you find them shying away, their cheeks now a pomegranate as you pull their drape or do you find them sitting sitting at a family function all nice and tidy even when the touches are far from acceptable or even decent, do you find them cowering away Or do you find them with their hands shaking Eyes downcast as they give you the glass of milk And crushed almonds on their wedding night are they feminists and feral? Are they submissive or dominative? Are they bottom or top? Are they shy or a tease? the girl and the woman the girl with the woman the girl now the woman are all this poem with no syllable count Nor even your aabb ccdd they do not rhyme they don’t need to but in the kingdom of poems where the rhymes sits as a monarch and creativity will be a slave where every syllable shall praise As haiku's and limericks giggle Over a cup of masala chai this poem will be a prude, an outlaw and when they shall search this poem They'll raid it's home, it's identity It's origin and individuality And after they have checked all the surveillance devices CCTV footage and of course the internet strip a poem, you will find a woman Strip a woman, you will find a free verse.
I'm not back. Just wrote this because I wanted to and I could. Illustration by @/ richakashelkar I'm starting to hate everything I write Stop deleting your posts beautiful hooman. Or else I will shave your eye brows
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