Go into yourself. Write, write, write.


Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose…

…Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. – And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.
Rainer Maria Rilke

Reflections


Sometimes I think of kheer, the rice pudding and its coconut richness melting in my mouth at Kothri

Sometimes I think of a yellow saree clad woman with a toothless smile

Sometimes I think of a pond in a barren land

Sometimes I think of home.

Sometimes I think of what home is

In this homeless land without no hope

Sometimes I think of what hope is

And I wonder if humans need tangibility 

I wonder if definitions define us

If our scope is limited to the science and fiction of mind,

If we will ever move beyond

On nights like these I think of my mother’s flu inflected voice croaking through the phone

And I sit inside and hear the yelps of my intoxicated peers

I wonder how two worlds can coexist

If a person is capable of holding more than one land within his soul

I wonder if home means more than India and my mother’s scent to me

I wonder if America will ever mean more than just identity to me.

On nights like these I wonder if I will ever discover home

And I realize some questions are best understood lived.

I am living home, in this homeless country,

With a soul in this godless place

I am living in two worlds at once

And neither at the same time

I wonder if I will ever be the same again.

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The human experience


Stand at your window. Nonchalantly notice the greenness of the tree leaves and observe your windowsill. Let your eyes wander till they settle on a speckled red flower. Observe its yellow markings and lose yourself in marvel. Feel the stillness surrounding the trees surround you and hold it in your hands. Look at it- its overwhelming presence, its nauseating fear, its piercing clarity- feel the gentle thud of your heartbeat pounding against your chest in synchronicity  with the trees’ movements. Realize that the trees breathe too. Feel connected. 

Hold a rabbit in your hand. Feel its heartbeat running a million miles a minute, notice the gaping terror in its eyes, feel its pulsating clock reverberating with the rush of your veins and realize you hold life.

Fight with your mother. Know that the fear in her eyes brings tears in yours and turn away. Become numb, stoic and insensitive. Clench your insides and draw yourself into a shell. Bend over and internally release the silent conflicts. Let them play havoc in your heart. Feel the anger shaking within making no effort to release without.

Hug a lover. Feel the invitation of his heart stretch itself wide enough to make room for you and feel welcomed. Feel the throbbing vulnerability of his being as he kisses you. Feel loved.

Lie awake at night. Watch your heart, twisted, clenched, and dirty, suspended in mid air and hear its blaring conflict. Ponder over your miseries and your need for fervid self annihilation and know that you are gloriously, infuriatingly and inevitably human.

The Invitation


It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon.

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

–Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Flowing like a river


And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river
For many men come and many men go
But I go on forever

But this curving and flowing tires me
Leaves my legs and breasts sore
Many men enter and many men see
Though none show love to this whore

My body twists and turns
Struggling to join the river
Night after night my heart churns
Will I get to see him ever?

The speed quickens, my mind struggles
As I try to keep my pace
My legs twisting in these endless juggles
Will I ever get to see his face?

Once upon a time,
Was a story I well remember
Passion was love, beauty was fine
And two hearts dreamt of forever

She was the lyric and he was the song
In the endless chasm of space
Ardor was unbridled in a land of no wrong
Yet, she struggled to keep her pace

Through the many penetrations of chance
She tried to join the river
Hoping for that one last song, that one last chance
And she resumed dreaming of forever

And then she arose to bubble forth
As she glimpsed his face and smiled
Picking her clothes from Fate’s mighty wrath
Ready to flow yet another mile

This was something I wrote for my poem writing auditions. The first stanza is from Alfred Tennyson’s poem, “The Brook”

Hmm….


I’m sitting in the balcony, legs stretched out over the parapet with a book in my hand. I gaze absent mindedly at the view outside. Hmm. It’s rather scenic.
It has started to rain. From a slight drizzle it has picked up speed and is going into a full blown torrent mode.
There is a knock on the door. My brother barges in with his dirty shoes and football with my parents at his heels. I return to my spot and resume my gazing.
The rain has slowed down now. I can hear sparrows chirping in the trees. In the distance, I can see smoke spiraling out of the kitchen window. It rides along with the smell of the wet earth and reaches my nostrils. Mmm…I can smell something tangy and delicious.
Far away, I can see the rolling green hills disappearing behind moisture laden clouds. My attention is diverted back to the lunchroom where I hear the clinking of several plates. There is soft music playing downstairs. A car horn is sounded by a frantic driver somewhere.
I see a stone pathway winding away to some road. I wonder where it leads.
It has stopped raining now.