Sounds of Mumbai Morning

Not one simple sound performs the surya namaskar.

Awake are the birds with clear calls that spring into jigs,
and crows throwing husky shouts into the air like shotputs.
A melange of twitters turn into arias that
compete for a place in the open sky.

The brush of a straw broom as it grazes the ground,
sweeping the ever present dust and
pushes the fallen leaves aside to begin a clean new day

...OM

The sound that broke the universe
into its glorious self
breaks the morning as a neighbor prays.

The fruit seller strikes a bell and calls
a nasal ditty as he pushes his rickety cart,
laden with the weight of pineapples

A truck engine burps.
Cars honk their presence to the school buses.

The city brims with life
before the sun has fully stretched its arms over the sky.

Neologism Poem

The writing prompt was to create a word, and use it as subject of a poem. This was all I could come up with. However, my poem doesn't reveal its true meaning of the word, but its essence.


A meop came to me and asked if I could
take it under my wing.
It would only be temporary and oh, such a brief stay.
Why, it's hardly noticeable.
I welcomed it to shelter
under the shade of my soul.

It scurried quickly to bury its head first
next to me, and then nestled its heart
close to mine.
Before I could realize it,
the meop’s heart was fusing into mine.
My breathe was halting
just as its breathe was.

Suddenly I longed to take shelter in its soul.
The warmth and energy it emitted was
more luscious, more lucent
than my own.
The rise of energy lead
me to a moment of clear elation
yet a light intoxication
of a love and power
so divine that it could not be mine.
I surrendered to the meop and apologized
for thinking I could be its shelter,
when I was the one who needed it.

"It was at that age that poetry came in search of me"

The Dance of Enchantment

So, my friend D. is courting a young lady and commissioned me to write a poem to help woo her. He's quite smitten and excited about her. I accepted the challenge to write a love poem though I've never met her. Her MySpace page confirmed she was a belly dancer and had eclectic interests in theater. It gave me some ideas. So I banged this one out quickly; he was IMing me while I was writing!

The next day, he told me she did like it. I kinda liked it too, and thought I'd share it.


The Dance of Enchantment
He first heard the tinkle
when he thought he was alone.
It was this stirring chime that
caused his heart to blink
a little faster, a little more in tempo.
It was a rhythm anew, yet familiar.

The golden chimes announced her before
she floated into the room
like a willowy bird.
Each step pulsed a song, guided by the thrust of her hips.
She let him watch the trembling movements,
knowing he was mesmerized
hypnotized,
magnetized
by her alluring dance

Her arms reached up to touch the sun.
She plucked it with the grace of ages and
tossed it around her wrists. Her silver bangles hummed
as he silently mouthed the lyrics to this new song.

A silken scarf flew into the air,
fluttering downward into gentle folds
and casting their charms upon him.
He gathered the scarf and breathed in
the soft aroma, allowing himself to succumb to the intoxication.

Her laughter had sparkled
and left a lingering glow
that he must follow.

Traces of Emily

This poem landed in my inbox from Poemhunter.com. I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and did a few deeper studies of her work. I don't remember reading this poem, but I found that it reminded me of one my poems. Perhaps I did read this, and traces of this poem had stayed with me in my mind.

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because—The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

~*~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~*

Violet Hours

And though they share the breath of Dawn,
the morning Dew does not
listen to the Stars.
She surfaces when she chooses.
One day, she realizes that

there is a song she had not heard before.
The Stars.
They rise alone,
and long to touch the other,
to know what it means to glisten
in the violet hours.

Dew stands atop cushions
of Grass, but she
tumbles
down.
into
Mud.

We mustn’t try to so hard.
We should stay where we are.

Oh, would you have me dance alone,
ne’er be able to wipe your delicate tears?

Dew leaps and the Stars dive,
but each fades into the arms of the Sun.

Fondly

Fondly

I still think of you fondly, she said to him.

Fondly? It might as well be “pondly,”
a stagnant body of algae-laden water.

No, fondly as in how the sun kisses
a watercolor portrait.
The paints have faded, leaving a dark outline of the images.
Faint pastel colors remember and blush at
the passion and vibrant colors
they knew that adorned my world.

When I think of you fondly,
the flaws and mistakes are erased
and only the delightful moments are outlined.

Writers' Resolutions

This was forwarded to me and I saved it. Now, I must remember it and live it.


I will write every day. Whether it's an e-mail or a short story, I will write carefully and well, and I will take my writing seriously.

I will accept that which I cannot change. I will accept the rejection that comes with the submission process. I will graciously accept other writers' successes without whining about my own frustrations. And I will accept where I am in my writing career.

I will always have a certain number of submissions circulating while I work on still more pieces.

I will master the query letter, the synopsis, and the book proposal. Period.

I will set manageable and attainable goals—and stick to them. I will break down daunting tasks into realistic goals and enjoy the satisfaction of checking them off my list.

I will try different types of writing and explore new markets. Experimenting in new genres will make me a more well-rounded writer, and I may discover a new talent!

I will read more. I will pay careful attention to character development, plot, and dialogue, and I will emulate those traits in others' writing that appeal to me as a reader.

I will finish unfinished projects and revise old work. In the process, I may find a gem of a piece that risked languishing forever unread.

I will attend a writers' conference and make new contacts. I will find a conference that showcases one of my favorite authors, and I will make the most of the experience.

I will get organized. I will create a workspace that lets my creative juices flow, and I will organize the business side of my craft. If I set myself up as a serious writer, others will treat my writing as a serious endeavor as well.

I will claim my dream of being a writer—and I will not let anyone take my dream from me. I will take criticism into consideration, but I will not let it define me.

I will extend a helping hand to at least one other writer. It's not a competition, after all, but a road we're all traveling together.

I will treat myself kindly. I will celebrate my successes and view rejections as a learning experience.

I will remember that writing is my passion and not necessarily an easy path, and I will treasure the process as I go.

Quotes

If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, you must be the one to write it.
- Toni Morrison

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
- Wallace Stevens

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
- Jean Cocteau