Young Writers Society

Mizz Iceberg's NaPoWriMo Thread!



April 1st: Alive Still

April 2nd: Bharat

April 3rd: Untitled

April 4th: Never Say Never

April 5th: Making Plans

April 6th: The Peanut Wala

April 7th: Choices

April 8th: Spring

April 9th: The Orange

April 1st:


Alive Still

The livid winds blowing about.
Each breath of earth, of stinging dirt,
A sharp slap in the face.

Each step a courageous feat,
to battle on, and take a step
even if it leaves but a pathetic print
on the ever rippling sand, only to be brushed away,
like faint memories of yesteryear.

What do I matter to them?
My existence no business of theirs.
Let go, I will not,
To be flung carelessly like a grain
of sand that holds no meaning to anyone
but its puny self.

To live, to breath, to strive ahead,
to resist the harsh unfairness of reality.
to keep my heart ticking,
while wild winds scream and rage.
And listen to it ticking away,
reassuring me there’s more wrath to come.
-a comfort that I am alive still.

Bharat

Her red skirts a flurry of movement,
Keeping in tune with the rhythm of her feet and the tinkling of the delicate bells
Wound around her skinny ankles.

Drunken they watch,
A cloud of smoke about their heads,
Mint, tobacco, a fusion of smoke and flavors wafting about,
Graceful hookah passed from mouth to mouth.
Reveling in the beauty of the poets’ words as they’re repeated again and again,
Faint whispers of shadows to come,
Of years when the drunk poets shall hold sabers ‘stead of quills.

Enjoy your lavishness while you may, lazy sultans,
Soon your gem burdened wine cups will be tipped
With the blood of your kin flowing over your tired land,
To be snatched and fought over.

You are a Golden Bird, you are,
But you notice not as you waste away,
Till it’s too late,
And there’s nothing left,
But a tired nation, weary and astray.

April 3rd

Luminous rain drops,
made from faint memories
that form dreams.
Try as you may
to grasp them from the air,
and keep them tightly in you fist,
but they slip away,
like the silvery threads they are,
fabricated of incidents.

for April 4th


Never Say Never

When the sky kisses the earth,
And the moon blinds the sun,

When the stars burst, the dust
Gently settling over the land, sparkling like glitter,

When the flame burns out,
When the desert freezes,
When snow turns to dirt,
When the wind stops whispering,
And the world stops spinning,
When the mother stops loving,
When the babies stop crying

When the pages of time stop turning,
Forgotten like rotting bodies in the cemetery.

And then, and only then, you too shall fly,
Along with all the pigs in the world.

for April 5th

Making Plans

Sometimes fate acts like a stubborn child,
Kicking up a rebellion at the last minute,
Just won’t behave.
And sometimes planning is like,
Trying to straighten out the knots in my shoe laces
Just won’t cooperate.
I want to
tackle you, wrestle you, jump over you, grapple you,
Hold you tight, and smother all your squirming and wriggling,
Till you straighten out like a telephone wire,
Going on and on, stretching out into the known,
Ever so predictable.

for April 6th



The Peanut Wala

Torrents of rain
against the tenebrous backdrop
of late, late night.
The distant clanking of
the unseen mumphali wala
swinging his bell,
slowly making his way around,
the yawning puddle that catches
the rain drops.

Swift winds blowing gently at the
throng of legs stretched on
the weather beaten coffee table.
Congested, warm, comfortable.
An argument unheard by the wailing winds
as cousins bicker over the amount of coins
rattled on on the coffee table from each pocket.

The clanking is just under the roofed balcony.
A red plastic basket,
swung over,
dropping in to the concealed rush of the wind,
to be pulled back
within it a neat warm paper bag,
void of rusty change.

The clanking of the bell is distant yet again,
overlapped by the
eager voices belonging to the hands
that snatch up the bag.
Peanut shells crunch and crackle,
squeezed open, forced to reveal
the roasted nuts
in their rough wombs

for April 7th I think. Lost count of date. I'm falling behind aren't I?

Well, here's another one:


Choices

When you look over your shoulder
And those frozen footsteps look back at you,
You wonder if you could place your foot in each,
And walk back time through those steps,
Back then when you set out to walk,
Carelessly imprinting your mark,
On the soft snow.
Perhaps to a different destination now.
But even if you do,
Those foot steps still remain,
Of choices taken long ago,
Frozen, dully staring at the sky.
Can’t erase them, no matter what.

I'm not too fond of the next two poems, but they were all I could up with. I hate forcing myself to write poetry.

For April 8th


Spring

Spring crawls up,
the bare twisted branches.
Graceful blossoms,
blushing like young brides,
frilled in creamy pinks and whites.
Birds twitter sweetly,
about the rush of green,
green grass,
encouraging the tiny leaves, shyly peaking out.
Nature is in chorus.

for april 9th

The Orange

The orange is a fruit with many
unpleasant qualities, quite like loose pebbles
in one's shoe:
Plump and bitter seeds,
and the strong odour of the pungent peel.

But then there is the orange itself,
the flavourful flesh,
pockets hanging closely,
filled with sweet nectar,
that bursts on your tongue,
the refreshing taste that
seeps through your taste buds,
tantalizing, riveting.

Despite the foul smell that lingers by, and
the bothering seeds,
the orange is worth it in the end.
And so is life.