Young Writers Society

Last year, I wrote 11 poems during NaPo. Failure.

But let's not talk about that.

I challenged myself to writing 50 poems (and set no time limit) in late January. I've written 30 during the course of February and March. Now the remaining '20' looks like a neat number. Let's merge that with NaPoWriMo and I'll try to finish both - my aforementioned challenge-to-self, as well as NaPoWriMo.

NaPo #1 (50-poem challenge #31)

my past is a museum
and I stroll in apathy through its corridors:
I hear echoes-
the cries of a newborn, the laughter of a nine-year old,
the silence of an adolescent introvert.
I hear his unhurried steps
towards adulthood
that gradually begin to sound
like my own.

(his feet leave no prints in the dust, only crumpled up pages
with poems written all over them.)

in some corners, I find the air damp and dark
as if blackened out by an effort of forgetting.
in others I see
nostalgia lighting up everything in its dim, smiling light.
and through it all
I am surrounded by the fragrance left
by the burning incense-sticks of time.

I walk out the door.
the perfume still stuck to my clothes.

NaPo #2, 50-poem challenge #32

at dusk, when the muezzin calls
and the birds come flying home.
when the tired lie back
and the restless go out for a smoke,
the sky, slowly,
ever so slowly, puts on kohl
to hide away the rain clouds,
heavy under her eyelids.

no one seems to notice
her empty, starless gaze.

That last one. Daaaamn. <3

NaPo #3 (50-poem challenge #33)

your small and fancy trash cans
are emptied into bigger trash cans
which in turn, are fed to dumpsters
a dump truck then takes all the garbage
and empties it all in the city's outskirts
making the towns nearby
smell like you-know-what

(you see, thats why
the people living there hate you)

<3 #2.

NaPo #4 (50-poem challenge #34)

I've often felt the slow,
pretentious breeze
running its fingers through my hair.
I neither love nor hate
these consolations made of air.

NaPo #5 (50-poem challenge #35)

all the poems that I read—
sitting in the light of flickering bulbs,
by the window-seats of noisy buses,
on the park-benches whose iron skeletons
would turn cold in the evenings—

through each of those poems,
I heard their voices — Whitman with his hat on,
his long, long lines demanding
plenty of horizontal scrolling.
Bukowski — drunk, his bluebird singing,
his voice the sound of bottles breaking in the distance.
Ghalib writing in an attic, absorbed in his ghazals —
sharp, tragic and subtle.
Neruda — surviving translation, surpassing language,
whispering to me
in a speech of thunder and lightning, blood and fire
Agha Shahid Ali, whose frozen words I melted
years later
to listen and listen
to the water of his voice.

with each poem that I read,
I felt their ghosts sitting close to me
in the light of those flickering bulbs, that went out sometimes
only to leave outlines of their words in my eyes
and I — flipping pages, swiping screens,
sitting on the cold iron skeletons
of those park-benches —
didn't always understand
but I could always,
always relate.

NaPo #6 (50-poem challenge #36)

hearts are made of bone china
just like your grandmother's favorite crockery set.
they fall to kitchen floor sometimes
and there's nothing you can do about it.

just gather...
gather the pieces. gather
the bits
and pieces.

Crockery? Hm.

NaPo #7 50PC#37

I stopped using this fountain pen in 2004
it was my favorite (still is)
I liked putting ink in it, liked the inkpot too
had a blue one and a red one
used up the blue one, the red one
dried up in its pot, unused.

I never really liked
these 0.5 mm ballpoint pens
that wanted to roll over the paper for me
with their "rubber grip"
and "smooth flow".

I have nothing against them
but I'd rather just type away
on a keyboard.

qwerty
qwertyuiop.

NaPo #8 50PC#38

dear delusion,
stay.
I could use
a hallucination today.

NaPo #9 50PC#39

your sunbeam touch melts
glaciers, still lost
in their winter thoughts
you usher w
__________a
___________t
____________e
_____________r
______________f
_______________a
________________l
_________________l
__________________s out,
you inspire rivers - they sing of your warmth.
leaving _____of valleys
______a trail
as they rush, carving rock.

NaPo #10 50PC#40

tell me all about yourself
pour your music
into my ears
play it
note by note-
the melody
and the noise

open up
speak

I want to listen
to you.

NaPo #11 50PC#41

there are letters that I've written-
detailed, tl;dr, sappy,
foolishly sentimental,
too honest,
too heartfelt.

I guess I won't send them
to anyone
any time soon.

they will need refinement,
some reduction,
some edits here and there
a little more work
on the structure, so that everything
is safely
camouflaged.