Green shoots

#NaPoWriMo #GloPoWriMo Day 1

Neil Munro. Gilian the Dreamer, His Fancy, His Love and Adventure. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1899. Cover by Thomas Watson Ball

The dried twig that lay still
At my doorstep is not dead yet
It has sprouted green wings;
The cracks in the sidewalk
May hide magical abodes
For I spied tendrils of a beanstalk.

Burdened by daily chores
It takes a moment to see
Hope arrives in the strangest ways
In a message bottle,
Washed ashore
Or in a heart,
Just weary of being sore.

Poetry inspired by the book cover designed by Thomas Watson Ball for Gilian, the Dreamer, His Fancy, His Love and Adventure by Neil Munro. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1899.

NaPoWriMo – April 2023

Today is Day 1 of the National (also Global) Poem Writing Month of 2023. This implies challenging oneself to write poems and verses daily for 30 days. So, as I kick off day 1 on my blog, here is the official NaPoWriMo site link and also the prompt inspiration they provide. I am hoping to cover all of these book cover designs during this challenge.

And here’s our own prompt (optional, as always) for the first day of Na/GloPoWriMo. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but they never said you can’t try to write a poem based on a book cover — and that’s your challenge for today! Take a look through Public Domain Review’s article on “The Art of Book Covers.”

The Moon is me

The Sun inspires and speaks of brightness and ambition but I am always drawn to the Moon because of its transient quality and the ability to shine through the darkness. I see in it a reflection of human life – the indomitable spirit to attain glory even when destined to cyclic highs and lows. The Moon is me; it is each one of us. Here is an ode to resilience.

Moon rising from behind the clouds. Image generated using dream.ai.

In the swirling, shifting caramel of dawn
Goodbyes of the Full Moon awaken me
With gentle caresses; in silver disguise
Strings of glimmer blaze past the drapes
In to a space where sleep plays truant
Yet, again.

Moonstruck, I gaze at the sparkly face
Shimmering in the celestial expanse
My friend of many slumberless nights
I wonder how you waltz through it all –
The waxing and waning, here today
Unseen tomorrow!

Do you tremble when pieces dissolve
Or when the dark side overtakes you
How do you tiptoe through desolate fear?
Sailing on stormy clouds; only to evolve
From Night’s blue veil, in splendor whole
Perfection galore!

Amazed, I ponder over your dire destiny
Patiently cradling oblivion and agony
You’ve known fawning painters, poets;
How do you concede to Time’s sly games
Embracing both radiance and gray shades
Always with eternal grace!

Unseeing Spring

A row of red and white Dahlia

I sat there on the iron bench
Amidst the large concrete pots
Overflowing with seasonal flowers
The evening sun shone
On my tired face; for a moment
I looked up from my phone
Pausing the search for a cab
And the frantic need to be home

All around me, I could see
Hunched shoulders, quick footfall
Towards the exit gate.
And what for?
To run away from the fatigue
Of a hectic day at work
Or to rush into another con call
With an unending to-do list

I sat there rooted in silence
Aware of the breathing
Of the weary and their worry
I wondered where all this leads;
Why we never stopped to see
The radiant blooms of Spring –
Wilting sooner than ever
In the heat of our distress

Magenta and white flower bed

The stories they told!

Writers often lament writer’s block and procrastination as colossal hurdles to a regular writing practice. While both hold a genuine place in the writers’ list of woes, it is my experience that nothing is a bigger enemy of the creative journey than ill-disposed mental health. One can create masterpieces in sorrow and carve out brilliant art in happiness but it is hard to get a grip on artistic pursuits when one is stressed or anxious. 

A stack of books and an open notebook

Since mid-November 2022 until now I have been struggling – first with a long spell of flu that lasted for a month and a half. Then, somewhere during this difficult time, debilitating worry and paranoia found their way into my life. I was trapped in a maze of repetitive thoughts and stress-induced negativity. I tried many things to heal my mind but it was a lonely journey.

The biggest casualty of my mental ill-health was my poetry. I realize how delicate a device poetry is. It demands total dedication. A disrupted mental frame cannot do justice to the pursuits of the poet. 

One of the tools recommended for mindfulness and healing is journaling. I do vouch for its benefits but that is a post for another day. What I discovered amidst these trials was that for me story writing is closer to journaling.

As my physical health gradually recovered after Christmas, I came across the Penfluenza 3.0 contest by WriteFluence. I decided to start writing because the theme of Ritual called out to me. Each day, I poured a lot of love and care into my draft. It slowly became a healthy diversion. My mind would be at ease at least in those crafting moments. The story itself was therapeutic.

My efforts were worthwhile because when the contest results were declared, I was glad to know that my short story was one of the winning entries. Today, I received a heartwarming message that the anthology that contains my short story is now available for purchase. Read about The Selection of a Sacred Strawberry.

Meanwhile, I tried to go back to my favorite daily activity of writing for poetry prompts. It didn’t happen. Thoughts arrived wrapped in imagery but the words wouldn’t manifest. I felt for my forsaken blog but when you are broken, you can’t create a piece that is as fragile as poetry. Short story, in my case, was the sturdier sibling of the poem!

This weekend, I returned to my blog to publish a book review. Some words formed and then they started to string together. I am not sure if I will be able to write frequently because unresolved issues still camp in my mind space. But I am trying – each day – to let go of what I cannot control and to get a grip on the things I can create.

As I try to recover, sharing what I wrote last night:

All through the days so cold
I wanted to write
But the words had died
Slithering away in a whirlpool
Of frantic anxiety;
When they knocked at my door
I struggled to make sense
Of the jumbled letters.

I stood at the threshold
Surrounded by the bellows of
Unrelenting stress and misery
I could barely stay afloat
Wallowing in fear and self-pity,
So, I shut them all out –
Now no one will ever know
The stories those words told!

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