Thoughts spring up and swirl
Triggering a chain
Proliferating inside
Causing chaos and clutter
They knock with fervor
To break free
From the locked brainbox
Waiting to take form
Category Archives: Poetry
I am not a poet
The first creative piece that I ever wrote as a child was a poem. There is something magical about poetry. Even a single line can evoke several emotions within the reader. Poetry is profound and gentle, structured and abstract, meticulous and carefree, broken and whole. It is everywhere, within us and around us.
On the occasion of World Poetry Day, here is my ode to poetry.
No! I am not a poet.
Who Am I?
Who am I?
Is this a question
Or a discovery
Maybe, a mirage
Sometimes, I see myself
In the vibrant butterflies
Flying with buoyance
Devouring the sweet nectar
Light in Dark
The aureate sunbeams percolate through my pores,
Unlocking my shut eyes as the wonted dawn beckons;
The quivering and weary lashes grapple and stutter,
As they endeavour to make way for vision in the dungeon.
Just a few tiny drops
Few tiny drops, form an ocean in my heart;
Few tiny drops, blossom into intricate art.
Few tiny drops, make the dreary glow;
Few tiny drops, beseech me to go slow.
Few tiny drops, permeate into ebullient laughter;
Few tiny drops, indulge in puerile banter.
Few tiny drops, fuse melody in mundane chore;
Few tiny drops, orchestrate a tune encore.
Few tiny drops, open the door to my soul;
Few tiny drops, amass the smithereens into a whole.
Few tiny drops, nourish the turf to grow;
Few tiny drops, give birth to the mighty rainbow.
I am a not so plain Jane
My confidence is my pair of heels,
To me there are layers and peels.
My perception of the world is the kohl of my eye,
My dreams are the permanent mascara I apply.
The blusher on my cheeks is every life I touch,
Every smile is my precious jewel that I fondly clutch.
My imperfections and scars make me feel beautiful from within,
I am a not so Plain Jane who is comfortable in her own skin.
~ Anupama Dalmia ~
The Collision Of Two Worlds
Dressed in an alluring red gown,
To rave it up, she let her hair down.
Serenity embossed on her face, she sat in repose;
Click, smile, click smile – she dazzled every pose.
I’m An Unsure, Average Writer
With a swarm of ideas in my head,
I perch on the sofa and begin my tread.
I think, I write, I think and I erase,
Only to involuntarily find myself staring into blank space.
Treasure or Trash?
What is trash? What is treasure?
Can there be any standard measure?
Is it a state of mind or a beat of the heart?
Or a perception that has no delineated end or start?
I am sorry not before
When she wanted to express her fear,
they turned a deaf ear.
She couldn’t find strength to narrate her agony;
She had seen her sisters being shamed in the language of misogyny.