writing a haiku - NaPoWriMo #25

sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table - 
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots - 
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel. 

sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest 
between the 
three 
simple 
lines
of a haiku.

the art of procrastination - NaPoWriMo #24

the art of procrastination 
is just that - 
exactly what it says 
on its faded, beaten label -
an art in itself;
a weathered process
that has divided humanity, 
much like its more
celebrated
brethren - painting, dancing,
maybe even writing poetry.

the art of procrastination 
makes no bones -
it is made of unequal 
and ever-changing parts
of chaos and consistency,
passion and practice,
destruction and discipline, 
all at once.

it is learning that 
you can train yourself
to not feel fearful of
whatever doom is upon you,
but also struggling to stay 
just barely afloat
when the tides of said doom
sweep you off your feet.
it is both vain strength
(to think you can outrun Time)
and smart cowardice
(to trust that you can hide from Time)

the art of procrastination 
does not beat around the bush -
to master it,
you must walk on the serrations
of a double-edged dagger -
both balance 
and falling beyond measure 
can ruin the practice
of the oldest art 
in all of existence.

on writing women - NaPoWriMo #23

the written word
will never do justice to a woman,
and yet i try to capture
the movements of strangers
as their lives weave in and out 
of each others'. 

with what ink 
can i write down the colours
of a woman's day,
as she goes about her day -
measured movements,
silent prayers,
unsettled glances.
what metaphor 
can ever perfectly capture
how she navigates tides and tides
of love and loss
and everything in between 
like a sailor without 
a North Star. 
what verse 
can perfectly worship
her strength, her fears,
her joy, her tears,
and everything that lies 
in the middle of nothing,
nowhere.

i try to write down
a woman,
but my words,
any words,
will never be enough.

moving in - NaPoWriMo #22

i do this thing
where i let people
make their homes
in the midst of my words.

they are cordially invited
to bring their joys into my home, 
(sorrows optional, if you do not 
have sorrows of your own, 
some will be provided to you)
i am always excited
to have new inhabitants living
in electronic pages of my memory,
if only for a night.

i love it when i know
the weight of a soul 
just enough 
to set it down 
gently,
surrounded by literary furniture
so it feels at home.
i love to watch from afar,
patiently,
while these people
find their bearings 
in the monstrous maze
that is my poetry.

they get lost sometimes -
in mixed messages,
messy metaphors,
silly sentences,
violent verses.
i am in awe of how gently
they can navigate my mind
and come to rest
in a corner that they make
for themselves, 
and no one else. 

i do this thing
where i let people 
make their homes
in the midst of my words - 
a small colony,
a peaceful civilization - 
with the occasional war,
a rare skirmish.

their homes have windows,
and on most days,
i don't mind 
letting the world have a peek.


i love writing poems for people who are special to me - and so they make their place in my words and in my heart - if not forever, at least for the temporary forever.

rainy days (or what it feels like to fall) - NaPoWriMo #21

i think they saved you up
for my rainy days -
collecting gentle drops of dew,
(your heart)
the peaceful dance 
of raindrops on my roof,
(your voice) 
the warmth of my bed
on a gray day,
(your arms) 
soft sunrays breaking through
dark clouds.
(your smile)

i think they saved you up
for my rainy days - 
you, 
with an eternity of love,
a gentle tide
to wreck ghost ships of tiredness
that live inside me.
you,
a serene potion to drink
on days when the other stuff
just doesn't work.
you,
head cocked to a side,
laughter clear and calming,
hands sure and soothing.

i think they saved you up
for my rainy days,
it's funny -
they forgot how much i love
the rains.

you rest easy - NaPoWriMo #20

to shruti krishnan, 
on her twenty-first birthday

you rest easy 
in hidden corners 
of obscure library shelves,
your footprints 
play with the dust -
disrupting and adorning, 
all at once. 
you rest easier
in reflections of your
many, many selves,
quiet passion, fierce silences,
bubbling pages in your diary
bursting at the seams,
half-smiled silliness,
half-charmed eyes.

you rest easier 
in stony silences -
silences made of
silver filigree thoughts and
bright colourful conversations.

you rest easiest 
in shared sparks of comfort -
dancing in and out of both our fingers -
pale yellow sunshine in yours,
and dark blue moonbeams in mine.

you rest easiest 
in staccato laughs 
and handwritten note.

you rest easiest
as my imaginary counsel,
for your voice is clearest
when it becomes 
the voice in my head.

happy birthday dumbass i love u 

who do you write for? - NaPoWriMo #19

my words are used to having a destination -
a conversion rate, 
      a like-to-click ratio,
              a saved post across timelines. 
my words are used to being weighed
in golden showers of praise
by would-be strangers,
by eyes almost in a daze
from the internet and its dangers.
my words are more than happy
to be forgotten the next day -
they get that from me. 

what happens when your words
fail to tip the scales
in any direction?
what happens when measuring fails,
and the mercy of others
is your only salvation? 
what happens when your words decide
that their life is not one worth living?

if a heart breaks
and bleeds words onto a paper,
but no one reads them,
did it really break?

if words spill onto a page,
but no one saw them being spilt,
was a poem even written?

scary breakdowns resulted in me not posting every single poem in napowrimo. I salute those who can, and revere the ones who don't care. but most of all, i am jealous of those who get away with it. 


if a tree falls in a forest, but no one hears the sound, did it really fall?

to 'In Country Sleep' - NaPoWriMo #18

never and never my boy, 
riding away and away
from the land of the hearthstone tales
to never look back,
fear or believe
that a look cast into the past
might trip you up ahead.

never and never my boy,
fear or believe 
that your Troubles,
dressed in cloaks of Joy -
snarling and snaking,
roughly and blithely 
shall leap -
my boy, my boy -
into a home under new trees
in a sunlit year
to eat your heart
in this house
in your whole new world.


note: 'in country sleep' by dylan thomas is one of my favourite poems ever. this is my reply/homage to it.

to not knowing pt. ii - NaPoWriMo #17

sometimes i make the bed for my bedfellows -
worries and fears are tucked in 
quite happily,
and sometimes,
i kiss them goodnight -
with love,
and with the knowledge 
that they are asleep, 
away from me.

i close my eyes,
and revel in my sleep 
knowing that they won't bother me -
i'm not in that deep. 
with ease, 
i cruise through 
the landscape of my mind,
wary of what might face me,
accepting of what i might find.

it is wiser to not challenge 
the faces and voices 
you hear and see,
you owe it to your dreams,
a half-awake debtor,
it is wiser still, 
to happily avoid loss -
the less i know,
the better.

to not knowing - NaPoWriMo #16

worries and fears
make for strange bedfellows -
they hold your hand,
as if to soothe you,
and then whisper into your ears
a long list of names
of the people who loathe you.

i try not to be bitter,
i try to escape mental quicksands.
but here's when i don't mind
being called a quitter,
at least i have time, 
and my own heart in 
my own hands. 

when my bedfellows turn 
to talk to me in the dead of night,
i turn too - a blind eye,
no indication of despair or delight.
it is better that they rest 
in a bed together,
i'd like to run as far away as possible -
the less i know,
the better.

self-description/vanity - NaPoWriMo #15

today i proclaim 
with absolutely no shame 
that Gilette straight up lied to you.

they promised you the best,
but let's put that to the test -
let's see what my wit and wisdom can do.

don't be sad, or even mad,
have patience, 
and you'll be glad -
i'm the best stress buster you never knew.

and in good time,
with some reason and no rhyme,
you'll find that you'd like some of me too.

untitled - NaPoWriMo #14

hi, it's me - 
you probably don't know 
that I live in the lanes that you'll never cross -
in life, or in your mind.

i make my homes 
in all the corners that you couldn't bear
to care about, 
except for appearances. 

you don't have to apologize,
not that you ever will,
for forgetting that i breathe in and out 
counting the seconds and minutes 
since you thought of me -
and so my breathing would seem relaxed,
because i'm in no hurry,
and clearly,
neither are you. 

hi, it's me - 
i don't expect you to dramatically turn around
one fine day
and realize that i was always right here,
a part of me just hopes
that you'd realize 
if i was ever missing 
(but i know that's asking too much)

hi it's me - 
you hurt me,
but that's okay - 
i don't expect you to realize it,
because i've made that mistake 
for far too long -
the one where i hope you'll come around.
(never works)

hi it's me - 
and i know you won't answer,
but i'll say hi anyway,
and i'll hope anyway.

bones and bones and bones - NaPoWriMo #13

skeletons in my closet
find that it is rather easy
to scuttle and shuffle,
to twist and hide
among piles and piles of doubt,
and the odd dress or shoe.

they rattle and rumble,
shift and crumble,
only piping down 
when someone passes by.
they fold and clatter,
chitter and chatter,
but are deathly silent 
when you don't turn a blind eye.

skeletons in my closet
know just when to shrink,
when to dress down their size,
to save themselves 
from indecent exposure,
or me 
from a pair of extra-enthusiastic eyes.

skeletons in my closet
live together in harmony,
and i know i shouldn't be scared,
but they're the ones who know it all,
and i couldn't clean my closet
if i dared.

blue moon - NaPoWriMo #12

hello, you -
tucked in soft covers,
your head on fluffy pillows,
your name in the prayers of lovers,
your light dancing in willows,
hello. 

you can't see it, 
but you paint the sky 
every night in lush silver.

you can't see it,
but every lonely eye
every solitary sigh 
looks to you for comfort.

blue moon,
your light cups its fingers
around so many sullen chins,
you, a night vision,
dance on so many fiery skins.
blue moon,
you're making a joke of distance,
you're making night blossoms bloom.

blue moon,
now we're no longer alone.

the original is by sinatra, but then ella fitz did a version, so obviously that is my favourite.

of golden hats and cool cats - NaPoWriMo #11

i have two(2) friends,
and we are all far apart,
we see different suns and moons,
and we breathe different air,
and we drink different water.

i have two friends,
and one wears a golden hat to all parties -
she will walk and talk 
and see and be 
with love and power and glamour.
her hat is magic,
it gives her the power to go crazy
and cause organized chaos.

i have two friends,
and one is a cool cat under a tree -
she needs words,
and she reads words,
and she loves to steal tea.
her eyes know what the universe doesn't-
and she hides wisdom 
in the most ridiculous cat corners -
under fifteen books on a teapoy,
or in her sarod case.

i have two(2) friends,
and we all live together
in the great big unknown,
under the same abstract roof,
sleeping in the same abstract bed.

my two(2) friends and i built our home
on tears and twine,
on fears and wine,
theirs and mine.

dark room dangers - NaPoWriMo #10

my body already knows
that not-light lies behind
door handles that are cold
to the touch,
skin is not stupid.

the door swings open,
the crescendo of blood pumping 
in my ears 
screams to a stop.
there is quiet, but no peace -
there is silence, but no comfort.

wiry arms made of nothing 
reach out,
hidden,
yet so clearly visible -
dancing around my ankles,
measuring my shoulders,
wrapping themselves around 
the air that i 
so sparingly 
exhale.

there are eyes watching me,
their sight made sharper 
by the absence of light,
finding shards of black 
along which they trace their way 
to me. 

my skin revolts,
but my limbs aren't mine anymore.
my eyes are wide,
but my brain cannot see anymore. 

the dark isn't a state or a condition -
it lives and breathes,
hunts and hounds,
it has fingers and a mind of its own,
it rests in shadows,
but also makes a home of its own.

people aren't afraid of the dark
for no reason -
they only fear 
that it may just be more human
than they are.


prompt credits: gargi ranade

to my dear ghostwriter - NaPoWriMo #9

to my dear ghostwriter,
or whosoever has to carry 
the burden of my unfinished thought,

if you're nothing like me -
and i hope you aren't -
you'll make a list.
a list of the things you think
i would want to say
even when my voice is still not silent 
and still echoes in sceptres 
of my favourite words,
even when they come out of your mouth.
don't worry when the numbers
in your list start to crumble -
you see, even the ghost of my presence
does not like structure.

dear ghostwriter,
if you're nothing like me - 
and i pray that you aren't - 
your first step after writing 
would be to edit what you just wrote. 
thin peals of laughter will echo 
in your ears when you do, 
ignore them, 
that's just me laughing at the idea
that raw thought 
can be made more powerful
by taking pickaxes and hammers to it.

alas, if you do turn out to be
anything, anything like me,
dear ghostwriter,
know that you are allowed to wander,
your words are allowed to escape
and run amok, 
you have the freedom 
to do literally whatever the hell you want,
as long as your defiance is written down.
then, i suspect, 
you'll begin to sound a lot like me. 

yours,
in death and in shadows,
in spirit and in words,
shivani lalan.

duality, not binary - NaPoWriMo #8

i live on the line
that is supposed to divide 
fury and peace,
but i studied theory,
and binaries are overrated.

i dance along the madness
of a zone where 
functionality meets sadness,
and let me tell you, 
i get so much work done
when i'm hurt.

i run across fields 
where ruins of patience
are overrun with the 
violence of life -
reds and blues and greens
bloom and disrupt 
the unnecessarily calm earth.

i am a study in dualities -
of smiling rage, 
of cold fury;
a filled laptop screen,
a blank page.

i find safety in numbers -
how many emotions can i fit
in my head and still survive?
i'll let you know when i do.

the high road - NaPoWriMo #7

what seems like a superhighway
paved with ethics and morality 
is more often than not 
a testament to 
the mortality of your own damn patience.

the high road may seem like
a one-way ticket to sainthood
but to buy the ticket,
you trade in tears and frustration,
some anger, some jubilation,
some friends out on some vacation,
some pacing around the house
with no destination. 

forgiving and forgetting 
sound like two different things,
but on the high road,
they make for unusual companions -
one sits wistfully in the back
of your mind's carriage,
and the other struggles and riles
against the very doors 
meant to hold it in.

on the high road,
memory can be a painful mistress,
tempting long sessions of reflection - 
turning into an affliction that 
l o v e s 
to cloud your sense of history.

the high road 
was built on backs of practice - 
a labour of hurt, a labour of defeat.
the high road 
offers exits at so many points,
but they're all marked 
with the danger sign.

my place in the universe - NaPoWriMo #6

at first, 
i assumed that the universe
is like a table at one of them fancy conferences -
where the screens are shiny
and the water is packaged for no reason.
i thought i'd have a place card,
one shade darker
than the cream-coloured tablecloth
it rests on. 
i thought that everyone at my table
had their own too,
placed as if by magical premonition,
or something even more abstract
like cosmic preordinance,
or something even weirder,
like fate. 

and then i grew up,
and someone told me
that places and spaces 
are found, not given,
and that i could make my own
from whatever i found.
i had no help from fate,
or cosmic preordinance,
or even magical premonitions.

you see, 
i found so many places 
and so many spaces 
that all seemed like home. 
you see,
it's not all pretty cafés 
and painted nails,
it's also smiles and laughter
of the people you love;
it's also rain and hail
and a grey sky above;
it's also wide eyes 
and open arms; 
it's your love that lies
in lucky charms. 

places and spaces 
are everything that you want them to be-
the universe can always, always 
make room for more.

prompt credits - Hindol Hazra <3

something about un-finishing - NaPoWriMo #5

stories often like taking strolls

sometimes in solitude,

sometimes in the company of others,

so long as they are happy, and their

sentences seem to 

subtly dissolve into one another.

stories talk to each other the most -

summarizing days and nights

stuttering on some horribly

scribbled words,

squinting at some alien scripts,

sure to trip on half-baked lines.

stories are the only ones who truly and

simply live in the moment. 

somehow, they are fully aware that

sections of their lives may never 

see the light of day.

still, they persist in haunting

sleepless souls burning all kinds of oil

so as to make their homes on

semi-wrinkled, 

       semi-stained,

   semi-torn,

semi-ingrained paper.

stories often forget that they might be incomplete -

so they dress up,

stars and strikes and notes and all,

sashay down pages - company or alone,

slowly turn to you and almost 

silently tell you to have faith.

someday, they promise,

someday they will return to you, in the

shape of an unknown familiarity,

silhouettes of a dream dreamt at 4 AM, or

shower thoughts 

spelt out on walls and curtains.

stories have a habit of making

sure that no matter when they leave, 

some parts of them will always be

safe with you.

stories don't mind leaving,

so long as you promise that their lives will always be

seen in the 

shadows of what you promised you would write.

Prompt : the idea of an incomplete story (originally by 2 authors, but i modified it to some extent) - Credits: Darshil Shah <3

elegy to kathak - NaPoWriMo #4

i remember moving 
in my mind 
as if it was just yesterday,
but my limbs seem to stutter
as i begin to utter the prayers.

there is a rift between
my words and my feet,
like a curtain 
between the felt and the seen.

i want to write an elegy 
to the way my feet knew 
just how loudly they must land
to match the beating of my heart.

i want to write an elegy
to the unspoken oath my back took
to never let me look like i was let down - 
to always curve and arch like
the weight of the world wasn't on my shoulders
at least for an hour. 

i want to write an elegy
to the wonders that my hands created,
an assortment of fury, love, shame, and passion - 
hypnotic
in the way they followed the music.

i remember breathing in dance
like it was the only air
in a sea full of fear and despair.
i remember feeling the floor change
into a sentient being,
giving me strength and joy as i moved. 

there is a rift between 
what my body remembers,
and what my mind wants to remember.
i can only hope 
that i don't have to write an elegy
again.

how to greet Hurt when she visits - NaPoWriMo #3

instructions:

hold the door open when she arrives -
she will either storm in or hesitate,
and you must prepare for both.
she will either drift away or gravitate-
you must decide this, 
for she can only move when you do.
her hands may be tied, 
but her presence can both 
arrest and resuscitate. 

smile at her when she steps inside - 
she will walk into your home,
not knowing the words you will use,
she might either be wound up too tight
or shaken up too loose,
depending on how right you thought 
you once were.

let her breathe -
in anger or in exhaustion -
either way, she will wait for you 
to settle down first,
and ask for unspoken allowances.
give them to her -
it has taken her time and patience and tears 
to get here in the first place,
just like you.

say hello, and maybe throw in another smile - 
the pain only stops
when your fears and her tears drop
to the ground. 

hold her hand - 
she is either raging or grieving.
either way, your hand on hers
means that there is a way out 
from the cycles of loss that you find yourselves in. 
(both of you)

listen to an old song with her -
when she is finally ready to leave,
she will either mourn you 
or take comfort in you. 
the words and voices of those wiser than you both
will guide you in this growth.
she is a part of you,
you are her home.

When Hurt leaves,
just ask that the next time she must visit,
she brings Hope along.
Three voices are less lonely together 
than just two.

on routines - NaPoWriMo #2

my days love to count themselves
on hands of a clock -
not time, not hours and minutes, no -
but the passing by of days
and running by of nights.

my days love to shapeshift
as i wake up -
from being nebulous cotton-candy noise,
to words that can broken down in 
any given table or flowchart of your choice.

my days love starting with the very thought of beginnings.
what gives me strength is stacking up
on little, little tasks -
breathing too, becomes too big of an ask
if not jotted down before bright sunlight can attack me.

i love the idea of a routine,
to have a dedicated slate, 
every day, 
to wipe clean. 
i love the comfort of knowing,
the idea of carefully sowing seeds
of whatever my body needs to do,
and my mind must dwell on.

my days, you see,
love being the last lines of colour
inside a drawing's border.
skipping beats is only useful to a heart in love, 
the rest of my worlds demand law and order.