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!

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!

Coffee shop conversations

Tendrils of steam rising 
From earthy cups of caffeine 
In hot chocolate fudge 
Melting emotions converge 
When the heart is in love 
Coffee shop conversations 
Are warm, tender, pleasing
Like swirling shapes on a latte
Until they dissipate 
When feelings turn cold 
Just as the pale beverage
That has lost its allure

Fragile

#FromOneLine

She left me waiting
Holding porcelain tears
In my heart so full
It was ready to burst;
Bone china dreams
Brimming with whispers
Of promised togetherness
Now threaten to crack;
With pain throbbing in veins
Heated rage of being alone
Burns me from within,
Staining with fine details
Forlorn thoughts of longing

Wrinkled Memories

Time after time
I return to the glade
Of joyous thoughtscape
Silver dandelion
Golden sunrays
Aroma of a picnic lunch
Love notes in the basket
In windswept letters
On fragile paper
Gossamer stories
Of loving, leaving, longing
Blowing in the breeze
With yellow petals
Wrinkled memories

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