writer's blues

So I sit down to write and I’m blank. But the desire to write remains. Ted Hughes’ “Thought Fox” suddenly comes to my mind, and I glance through my previous writings. I cringe at the thought of not being able to write anymore. I wonder if anybody out there feels the same and that’s when I vaguely remember the interview of either Ruskin bond or Jeffrey archer of which I’m not sure but they expressed their fears of not being able to write anymore.  There is a wave of re assurance in my mind now. But the ghost of writing still haunts my grey matter nevertheless. This is the time when a writer goes into the self doubt mode. Not that I am an established writer, probably I don’t even deserve to be called a writer but I write and that’s what writers essentially do. The definition of a writer can be looked into some other time but my major concern now is the apparent dearth of topics to write about. This apparent dearth equals to a feeling of death of creativity. The feeling increases when you seem to come across bundles of creativity around. I would not say there is nothing to write about but probably there are too many things being written that leaves me feeling how is my opinion going to matter anyway?  Even with the slithering sinister like cynicism, one does not give up. Its only when the writer’s block is overcome can we say that a writer has proved her mettle. So here it is *wink* 

The Monotony

The creaking noise of the fan

Pervading the stillness

Of the sultry sluggish summer afternoon

The sun shining at its peak

Reflecting the leafy shadow on my cheek

As I sit by the window

Contemplating the monotony

While the balmy breeze

Comforts my glistening sweat

I summon my thoughts

I reckon my memories

Will I ever break the monotony?

I confront, cascade and escape

But it still comes back to me

As if it was meant to be

I give up and reconcile

Guess we all do

And seek harmony

In the good old monotony.

MIRAGE

Disillusioned by dreams

Disoriented in reality

I often find none but myself

Trying to find meaning in the maze I dwell in

Introspecting and interrogating

The very purpose of life

Having begun this quest long before

I wonder if I have a companion

Maybe there is no answer

Or is the answer lying within me?

Sadly one shall never know

I realize my significant insignificance

Thus I abide with the language of the world

That is spoken and understood in terms of-

Creation, maintenance and disappearance

There is never a perfect end

But only a pause

Leaving you feeling a bit stagnant

Rather poignant!

Soon enough we seek a new beginning

The eternal cycle continuing

Creating, maintaining and disappearing

Like a mirage!!

A Face in every Phase

Numerous faces I see daily

Each face has its own story

Millions of faces going through unique phases

What they think that is distinct

Is actually playing on everybody’s instinct

Funny is the way

How we carry our social interplay

Interweaving each other’s history and mystery

Your life becoming as much a part of mine

Lasting for a moment or stretching until a lifetime

Some faces easy to forget

While others bring regret

Each to its own, nothing to disown

Because all those faces and all those stories

Are the myriad beads and patterns

Of the kaleidoscopic journey which we all embark on

MISTY MORNING

I wake up to a misty morning

Not that I am an early bird

But it felt as though the mist

Was waiting for me

The warmth of the sun

Trying to embrace me

Gently maneuvering its way

Through the dense canopy above me

I have walked this route many a times

Always in a hurry

Because the time is ticking

Now I enter a world of timelessness

Overlooking the maddening chaos

That passes by me

I stand here in stillness

For things may come and things may go

But not the clear blue sky,

The mist, the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze

Bitter Candies

The poem ‘Bitter candies’ is about a young boy of about 10 years old who is a child laborer. The poem tries to express the evident disparity in our society and how all of us have managed to live with it unaffected by the stark grim reality around us. The child however has lost his right to an innocent, carefree life; his right to education. He can only wonder if things will turn out to be better and if his dreams will come true.

He is fending for himself

Running errands

From one corner to another

Ever so ready and bubbling with energy

Willingly finding himself

Doing almost any chore

At an age when

He must be obliviously playing

Fluttering and hovering around

Like a lovely butterfly

His face radiantly beaming

The walls reverberating

With his unheard sound

An outcry!

Of resentment, of hopelessness

Of self pity and longing

What is behind his innocent eyes

And charming smile?

His innocent eyes speak of

A not so innocent life after all

He is in a league of his own where

Scanty are the chances of a championship

His eyes are but a mere window

To the world that beholds him

Will this lovingly cruel haven

Embrace him or Shatter him?

Whose apathetic hand does

These decisions lie upon anyway?

And until that happens

All he can do is to continue

Smiling and hoping

And in the process

Of making his ends meet

He shall meet his own end.

The Rains

The rain!

Soothes me, gives me relief

It settles the dust

Of conundrum, confusion and grief

And then there is

Serenity and tranquility

Even though it is but momentary

I can see my sorrow

Flowing with the water

But the memories

Are safe

Like the water in the puddles.

Even though it is but momentary

The roaring of raindrops

That I hear

Only assures me

That I am not the only one here

I get drenched in the rain!

Pure and cleansed I feel

Even though it is but momentary