The poet in me


I was genuinely so worried. I thought I had lost it. Not my sanity which gets lost ever so often but my touch of poetry writing. Its been months since I sat down to write poetry and it hurts. Hurts because I am a poet first and foremost, before being an article writer or a short story writer or anything else. The last time I tried to write a poem the words got stuck and wouldnt come out the way I wanted them to. I had a different image in my head and on paper, something else which wasnt even a shadow came out. I blamed my muse- damn stupid muse who has nothing new to say.

I realised way too late why I couldnt write a decent poem- I couldnt find any inspiration around. Yeah terrorists are having fun creating havoc, the world is getting madder and Angelina Jolie is getting insecure about Brad Pitt; but nothing concrete that can be caught and released in a poem. Then there's the other half of me that says its purely my fault. How did the Romantics and countless other poets around the world get inspired all the time? Because they searched for it. Stopped in their tracks. Listened. Heard. Saw. Observed. Thought. Reflected. And then wrote.

I have been so busy making my pocket money writing articles for so many sites that I forgot to do all of the above. What relief when I sat down to write and this was result-

THE SONGS UNSUNG

Sitting here by myself,

On the edge of this cliff,

I can feel my thoughts wander,

And my heart adrift.

I want to flashback,

To escape into my past,

Drown in my emotions,

Let the hangover last.

I long to hunt out my muse,

Who ran away long ago,

I keep hallucinating,

That she is outside my door.

I want to remember the pain,

I felt when I wrote every line,

The tears that stung and the sorrow,

That felt divine.

The poet has wandered off,

Lost in a forest wild,

Leaving me with nothing more,

Than memories mild.

Where is the God,

Who supposedly gave me my voice,

He chooses to hide as well,

And makes not a noise.

I am not done yet,

I have my songs unsung to sing,

More tales of horror to tell,

Share the sorrows they bring.

My songs unsung may be,

Mere fragments in my head,

Bits that haunt me as I lie,

In my narrow bed.

But someday I tell you,

My songs that lie unsung,

Will take form like,

Honey from my toungue.

Halleliujah!! I still had it in me..

10 things I love of late-


1. Making myself a real cup of coffee first thing in the morning. NOT nescafe. But REAL coffee. With a rich aroma that only real coffee could possess.

2. Hearing my kid call me 'mama'. Then 'mamamamamamamamamama'.

3. Feeling the muscles in my legs and stomach stiffen whenever I work out at the gym.

4. Waking up at 1:30 am in the morning, thinking I overslept and then realising that I have so many more hours of sleep ahead till my day actually begins.

5. Seeing my articles on Temasek Review and then responding to some scathing comments about the stand I have taken.

6. Working my creative brains off on a project, and then being complimented on my work by a client. Nothing but a comment like 'you delivered exactly what I wanted' could make me smile.

7. Waking up with an itinerary chock full of writing projects.

8. Being hugged by my little prince.

9. Making a dessert every week.

10. Talking for 30 minutes on the phone with mom. It always feels like I havent spoken to her enough.

Learning to appreciate

I made a hurried trip to India a few weeks back in a desperate bid to escape the swine flu that has its arms tightly wrapped around Singapore. As of yesterday the number of cases had touched 4500, with an added 60 untimely deaths. Well. Lesson number 1 is that when you are in the midst of a pandemic, DO NOT try to run away from it. All 3 of us came down with the flu when we were in India. We paid a huge price to fall ill there, and then we spent the next two weeks trying to recuperate. By the time we got back, hubby and I were irritated out of our skins. What could have been a beautiful monsoon touched holiday turned out to be a dampener. AND my baby boy still fell ill with the swine flu. Thankfully he is making a fast recovery.

And I can never resist a book sale, even if they offer a mere 2% discount. Going by my experience, I have found some real treasures in the unlikeliest of places. The Penguin sale was good. Imagine my sadness when I was handed a pamphlet stating that there would be a much BIGGER Penguin sale, with books from every genre covering a whole stadium. I could have wept. Who knows how many gems I might have found there.

I couldnt resist dragging my dad, and sister to the DC book shop just down my lane. Thankfully dad wanted to carry my kid ( what are grandparents for) and I wanted to make use of the fact that it was the last day of the Penguin sale. Imagine my horror when I am told that no madam, there is no sale here in this store. The sale is happening at the MG road store. But point to be noted is that I had made it to the book store after all, and HOW could I leave without a book in hand. So, I picked up 3.
Selected works of Kamala Das, short stories by MT Vasudevan and selected works fo Basheer. Believe me when I say this, I would never have reached out for these vernacular writers a year back. So what happened?

Anita Nair happened. Of course, I had read her 'The Better Man', and 'Ladies Coupe' when I was a student at college, with free access to the neighbourhood library. She gave me my first taste of Kerala, in english. And then I lay hands on 'Where the rain is born', and 'Mistress'. The first is a collection of essays merely edited my Anita, but each has a very distinct Malayali flavour to it. Mistress is a unique novel. She has explained the emotions that are the soul of kathakali, and each chapter ( it is a love story of sorts), opens with a reference to each such emotion. How beautifully she had entwined the drama and ethos of Kathakali with fiction. I had just begun to drink at the poetry and soul of literature and I wanted more.

So it was without a moment's hesitation that I swooped upon O V Vijayan's novels and short stories. All of them celebrate what is Kerala, its many dialects, the many customs and rituals as well as traditions and superstitions of the locals. Even the names are so familiar that they could only be Malayali. I feel like I am unraveling a literary heritage that is so diverse, unique and beautiful. I am proud to say that Malayali writers stay that way, without trying to please a foreign audience. I know that the language would have been even more deep had I ventured to read the works in Malayalam, but truth be told, my hold on the language isnt so good, and what takes me a week to finish could stretch into a month's labour otherwise. I wonder if readers of my generation, go back to what their parents and grand parents grew up with. I grew up with Anita Desai, NOT Salman Rushdie ( I dont understand his works at all, his allegories and all that fly above my head), Vikram Seth I adore , Tagore and even Satyajit Ray.( am proud to say that I am now the owner of his selected short stories). I like Bengali literature. I can relate to it and the manner in which the Bengaliness is proudly show off, reminds me of Malayalam literature. Which is why I bought Choker Bali and Tagore's stories as well.

The poetry and beauty of such literature opens my eyes to the many different levels I have yet to reach. I am not yet there I know. Every time I read a line that spoke about "how the rain resounded like drumbeats' or how 'the sun had caught the dew drop on the lotus leaf', I wonder why didnt I think of that. Then it dawns on me. Because I am just a student of poetry. And they. They are the masters.

Tidbits

I dont know why ad agencies, and website development firms dont reply once you respond to their mail. Or is it a strange phenomena peculiar only to Singapore? I cant tell you how upsetting it is to wait in anxiety and believe that maybe this bleak phase will be over soon. Soon the sun will shine, I will be asked to write a short story or some content, and I will finally have something more to wake up to in the mornings ( besides kiddos soiled diapers). It hasnt happened yet. Correspondences just hang in the mid air, leaving me to wonder what went wrong, and why it happened. Slowly eating away at my confidence. I have decided that I am going to focus on penning a few stories for children once I get back to Singapore. Do what I do best. Put my heart and soul in imagination. Last time my book of poems ( that I am fiercely proud of, despite the meagre book sale), was thus born. For the record, I could have sold more books, but I refused to give Amazon the right to alter or modify my poetry to suit commercial tastes. Thats like saying Gone with the Wind should have more sex scenes, so lets rewrite the book. I am not saying my poetry book is a classic, but every poet knows when he has written from the heart.

My exercise regime has gone for a toss. I have put on much weight in my arms ( probably going to give some wrestlers a run for their money), and I am really frustrated about it. Kiddo chooses the time when I am not around to go on a rampage. He has succesfully broken a bedside alarm clock, and he is eyeing more unbreakable stuff to break so nobody really wants to take care of him. Add to the fact that little champ has discovered the power of his teeth and chooses to bite his aunt and g-parents if they try disciplining him. My sister walks around with proud mementos of four teeth marks on her arms and shoulders. Now if only I could lose some weight running after him, and burn calories with my high decibel screams. Works for others, but of course wont work for me. Murph was right- damn old man- if something can go wrong, it will.

Right now, my computer could make even an ageing tortoise look like an olympic winner. The words appear on the screen a good ten seconds after I type them out. Which makes me quite reluctant to type much more. This is actually my twenty min break thru out the day. kiddo is fast asleep. I have been planning to write a song in honour of Mother Mary for two weeks now. Have done nothing better than play with the words in my mind. Let me try putting them down on paper. till next time- adios..

In the name of God

Two days back, I watched a movie that I should have seen a year back- Khuda ke Liye. Simply put, the movie means "For God'. Maybe its my faulty perception at work, or maybe its the overdose of Bollywood that all Indians are treated to, but I did not expect this movie to be so good. Not that I know anything about Pakistani movies of course. Its just that, film makers over the years, have tried nailing down a culture they dont really understand, and they have only succeeded in making a mess of it, dramatizing it, or not really conveying the truth. Most often, what could have been a powerful movie, becomes something that you watched for 2 hours and probably wont remember after that.

Thats where this movie is different. Firstly, I didnt know any of the cast members. Which made it a fresh experience for me. Secondly, the film never swayed away from the story. It wove around different acts that happen in God's name, and it stuck by it. So, you have a father who cheats his daughter into marriage in the name of religion. You have a husband who decides that raping his wife is alright because by God, she hasnt allowed him to touch her since they were married. There is an innocent man, who gets imprisoned and suffers torture because he is a muslim. And who can forget how the mullah brainwashes his young flock, in that buttery voice and sighing Allah every two minutes. In the name of God. I think the best part of the movie, was the transition of an ordinary man, into something or somebody else. The way he changes his appearance, tells his mother to wear a hijab, marries his cousin in the name of religion, and eventually takes up a gun, was frightening. Frightening because it was so believable. Frightening because for a minute, you think about how many other young boys are probably going through this right now. How many children or men, have been robbed of their right to live a life on their terms, because somebody took a minute to brainwash them into thinking otherwise? How many people were told they were doing right, when they were realy doing wrong?

Its when a movie makes me think that I know its a damn good movie. I read somewhere that the director of this movie, made it for a friend of his who used to be a singer and then suddenly started preaching religion. Even after the movie ends, certain scenes, certain dialogues, certain moments truly live on. Kudos to the people who had the guts to make such a revolutionary movie.

And while, we are on the elusive subject of God, I wonder why theres so much of protest over giving gays a right to live. The High court decriminalizes homosexuality. While one section fo society is happy, the other is looking up religious books and verses to use for purposes of condemnation. My only argument is gays are people too. For the rest of society that's heterosexual, you wouldnt like somebody making snide remarks or harrassing you all the time. Thats probably what the homosexual side of society has had to live with over years. Am not saying that you become a spokesperson for them. Dont. Dont even try to understand them, if you feel you cant be bothered. But in the same breath, dont criminalize them either. The world is still big enough for everybody irrespective of sexual preference to live together. It always will be. So lets leave God out it.