Category: Poetry


Half-inch Poetry

Reluctant footsteps
at my door
should I ask him in?

****

Unfinished poems
at my bedside
I will miss evenings like these
smell of virgin rims

****

Unfinished bedside poems
know
to pause,

    sometimes,

is to end

****

I write
to remember
to forget

****

I live life
life lives me
Both lives-
are they mine?

****

A thousand
suns
rise
set
inside me
blinded.

****

Last Night
I made a wish to
a flickering bulb
far away

Sky was thick with black clouds.

****

Time and Time Again

Puppets by John Martindale@http://www.paintingsilove.com/image/show/20158/puppets

A-g-a-i-n
the Shake
speare stage
is set

an
other handker
chief mischief

an
other harm
onized madness

another
yet another
war over
poetic justice

The Trojan Battle
The Lankan Army
Henry’s politic-o’-love

another
yet another
haran
agni pariksha
pyre sacrifice

same questions
same answers

– of love
that lasts
unlasts.

Copyright, Tina Rathore

Painting by Debra Hurd @ http://debrahurd.blogspot.com/

To
day I
have

bailed out

that
day

clouds held back your tears
thunder outcried you
lightning hit flashes
in your eyes
sky wore
colors
of your skin

brown
black
yellow
grey

Will you
not
today

come out
play with me
raise castles of wet clay

I
I am
drenched
in memories
of days
that never were.

Copyright, Tina Rathore

Listen to Aram Saroyan’s Crickets

Aram Saroyan’s poetry may evade any poetry enthusiast reading for a coherent meaning in and between the lines. His one-line poems may seem outlandish and vague to many. When I first came across his oeuvre, I was stuck by the idea of communication through symbol; and they called it poetry.

Poetry, it is.

No matter how much we like to enjoy an art form without delving into its intricacies, It is true, that its impact grows manifold when we relate, understand and “lemon squeeze” it. We are constantly, consciously or unconsciously, on a look out for a meaning.

When I read Aram Saroyan’s poetry, I couldn’t put my mind to rest until I could decode the symbol, people call poetry. If coding decoding is poetry, as someone at wordpress.org would like to call “code is poetry” ( being technically challenged, I would refrain from commenting on the quote within the implications it is used at wp.org, allow me to take it vice versa), then the best way to enjoy it is to deconstruct the Derridian signifier-signified of the symbol. I wouldn’t hesitate to bring critical tenets to poetry, no matter how sacrilegious it may seem. Everything, afterall, is a quest for meaning.

Being an avid pessimist, I yearn for meaning in nullity; nihilism in reason. I guess that’s the reason why Saroyan’s poem (never mind if you think it isn’t one) Crickets drew me to its depths. A one-word poem running repeatedly until the end of the page, it runs beyond an ordinary understanding of a regular poem. If you read the poem, you are likely to shrug and conclude: this is nuisance! It doesn’t make sense.

I agree, it doesn’t. Yet, I insist it does.

The poem holds in itself a moment of epiphany. It occurs as a spark when you suddenly, for a fraction of second, pull down your hand-me-down glasses and see the world with your own vision. The recitation of the poem makes the experience unforgettable.

Crickets are the symbol of hope. They chirp monotonously after the rains, and even amidst the mundane ear itching sound, there is a message of rain. There is a meaning in recurrence, in monotonous chirping, in every chirp which may sound the same but is different. The rendition of Aram Saroyan’s Crickets is a reflection of that meaning. Every next word, even if it is the same, comes to life as an independent entity with its own meaning, as you hear it.

The poem is an art form of Nietzsche’s philosophy of ‘eternal return’- the belief “that this life as we live it at present, and have lived it; we will have to live it again once more, and also innumerable times; and there will be nothing new in it but every pain and every joy and every thought and every sigh, and all the unspeakably small and great in our life must come to us again, and all in same series and sequence, and that “the recurrence will recur ad infinitum.”

It is this recurrence that would occur ad infinitum, that is reflected in the poem. Nietzsche asks “Isn’t such a recurrence where you cannot change anything a burden?” With this poem, Saroyan answers that if at all it is a burden, it can be made bearable by opening ourselves to the possible visions of the world, in and about us.

Copyright, Tina Rathore

B’day Poems

This poem is dedicated to a friend. It is not often we meet people who bring us closer to ourselves and make us realize that we lost innocence while we were busy growing up.

The realization made me yearn for past, for the times when we were keen on becoming, instead of rigidly being; times when the only wars were that of palate; times when every event was the shade of multicolors; times when we were ignorant about  the marathons of time; times when mathematics of reason could be won over by rhetoric of poesy; times when we chased dreams and dreams chased us; times when broken hearts could be mended with an innocent smile; times when we sincerely believed that heroes outlast witches and dragons; and all stories have a happy ending, if at all, stories end.

I live that life again in this poem with a hope that I live that life again, always. Thanks.

I wish I were a little girl again
waiting
to grow up
wear make up
drape Draupadi’s sari,
and become,
Become

I wish I were a little girl again
troubled
over ice cream
chocolate bars
lacy pink frocks
and stains
on them

I wish I were a little girl again
excited
about occasions
birthdays, meetings, departures
juggling
smiles and tears
like circus clowns
of our village

I wish I were a little girl again
running
away from teachers
evening vespers
the boy next bench
whose book
I lost

I wish I were a little girl again
Counting
birthday sweets
calendars
friends with whom
I broke up over
sharpened pencils

I wish I were a little girl again
dozing
off dreamlessly
over the morning bench
In the classroom
where
thoughts themselves
were sleeping pills

I wish I were a little girl again
hurt
Only With bruised knees
Cane marks
A casual hit
regular
Beating

I wish I were a little girl again
Writing
poems about
fairies, dwarfs, Prince Charming
And the Witch
slayed
at the end.

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