Kavya Wahi, Mid-Term Assignment

Prompt 1: DESCRIPTIVE POEMS

1.

A piece of Art

It was in a closed room

An art exhibition, where two eyes—only mine,

Met her,

From a distance.

With an undivided attention, I divided her

Into a three-by-three grid.

Gray hair wrapped in a bun

Creases on forehead reflecting her sealed thoughts

And her worries and a few faded scars

Swollen eyes shadowing sullen sadness

And sleeplessness

Coffee-brown iris

Fringed with lashes

Tear ducts filled to the brim

Another low and they’d flow

Stretched ears weighed down with

Experience and small studs

Cleft chin

Lips dry and colourless.

Long hands as soft as the bristles of a paint brush

Paint-less nails dipped in hues now and then.

A replica of her mother, she was

In the life-size painting

Hung on the white wall.

That was my last memory of her.

That was her last memory of her.

Note: This poem is about a contemporary artist and her description is quite direct. The last stanza may not clearly define ‘her’ and ‘her’. ‘Her’ in “That was my last memory of her” is about the painter in and “That was her last memory of her,” it’s the mother.

2.

The cassettes

I felt tremors,

Not in my heart, but

Under my feet,

The earth was shaking,

In reality today.

Roommate was glued at ninety degrees to the floor

Servant was hidden under the table

Me?

I ran to my room in haste, and

Opened the cache of memories.

A box of cassettes,

From your adulthood to my childhood.

Fifty three cassette tapes,

With lives of three:

Youngest, elder and the dead.

All sheathed in similar plastics bodies,

Transparent and with two holes,

Wrapped in the dust,

Some rusted, other packed,

Rest taped with random tapes.

Partially-torn notes attached to some—

Of birthdays, anniversaries,

Of sadness and fun.

I stared at them and heard all the voices,

I was clung to the magnetic tapes.

I felt the tremors,

Now in my heart, too.

Those recorded stories,

I played and rewound at once,

In seconds.

Earth stood still,

And so did I.

Without a blink, I scanned through our lives,

As I held those old cassette tapes,

The only thing I now call mine.

Prompt 2: POEMS TRIGGERED BY EVENTS

1.

A Real Dream

Chop-Chop. Squish-Swash. Chop-Chop.

Everyday activity, mundane routine.

With the sun, rise my mother,

With her, begin these sounds.

Cucumber, tomato, capsicum, onion,

Dance on the music of the machine when my mother

Rotates the lever.

Chop. Shmish. Kreech.

Sound very unpleasant. The red tomatoes ooze

Blood, just when

I dream of the reality of those kids

One moment painting with the colour red

Next moment painted in the colour red

Chop. Squish. Crack. Bang. Boom. Chop.

That night, I dozed off amid the shrill cries,

The bullets like the blades piercing the guts, and

This recurring dream doesn’t come

To an end

A few onions - slippery, naughty, lucky

Escape the grinder

Roll, hide, and lay flat

To save their lives.

The score at the end remains uneven

When I woke up I asked my mother: till when?

Note: This poem is based on an incident that happened in May 2018 in which a bunch of students were shot in a school in Texas by a 17-year-old. The shooting took place during their art class, hence, “painting with the colour red” and “painted in the colour red”.

I have tried to put light on the heart-rending incident by using another narrative of a usual activity of slicing vegetables at home in order to show how normal and common such incidents have become today. The specific sounds of both the acts are sometimes intermixed as they randomly pop up in the memory. The last line puts forth a question that is related to both the narratives in the poem.

In case it is unclear, in the third stanza, ‘onions’ are the ‘kids’ who managed to escape a round of firing.

2.

One amongst us

Two faces,

Torn pages,

Diamonds faded,

Papers traded,

Fate syncs,

Political links,

Flashing smiles,

Blurry lines,

With ease,

Flown overseas,

Nation scene,

Lost sheen,

Played with hearts,

Pierced with darts.

Note: This poem is about the scam done by Nirav Modi. The two-faced man, the trader of diamonds, managed to leave the country after alleging fraudulent transactions. The man, by no means, could have achieved his goal without the aid of any political connections. However, the plan did not chart out as perfect as his diamonds. After committing this huge fraud, he is currently sitting abroad with multiple passports. This poem is a satire on the whole incident that created a scene in the nation. Who knows if he had his Aadhar Card linked to the bank or not!?

Prompt 3: LINE BREAKS

1.

You and Me

When I sneak out of my room just to see

how breathing feels in your absence,

it starts raining.

They say it always rains

during the most difficult times.

So, I step inside with my hands stretched out

Of the window, thinking about these droplets

That must have accompanied you on some night.

They must have kissed you on nape,

Washed away your thoughts,

Touched your glasses and have watched you

Reading,

Writing,

Pining,

Breathing.

So, I collect them in my hands

For a little more than usual

Just to know what could your touch do to me.

When I think of you,

I go out to breathe all that you are made of—

Poofs, lies and cigarette stubs.

Parts of me turn sepia thinking about the past when

I once wished to be your last cigarette

Of the day, so, I could hold onto your lips

for long.

I wished to be wrapped around your fingers,

And stay there

Until both of us are burnt a bit

from the smoke.

I wished to find a home in your skin

But not anymore

For now I have found a better home

in my own skin.

Note: There are certain places where I have deliberately broken the lines in order to bring out the beauty of the poem using Wagner’s six S’s. The break after the line “They say it always rains” adds an element of surprise. The condition of always raining is known only when the second line is read. I’ve written four words separately in each line to give emphasis on the individual acts. The end of the line “I once wished to be your last cigarette” gives a sense of the wish which is to be just the last cigarette but it becomes clearer that the wish is to be the last cigarette of the day (and of every day). The break after the second-last line “I have found a better home” does not clarify which home and where the home is but it only qualifies that it is better. It is the last line that explains that it is in oneself that the home is found.

2.

Follow your heart

People say follow your heart.

But I ask what one does if they don't have one

or maybe they have one

but that's not what they call it with.

Heart might not be even a part.

Who knows where my heart is?

Does it hide under my elbow

when it misses you

or it comes in my mouth

whenever you pack your bags and plan to leave?

Does it go down there and make me go weak on my knees

every time I play the reel of your pictures on screen?

Is it lost somewhere in my bones and giggles shyly

every time I write you letters

or is it next to the clot that forms

when I forcibly stop the exuding blood from my palm?

Heart.

How do I follow my heart when I fail to spot its actual spot

Is it in your arms—

those arms that promise to do me no harm

or it moves to my spine

when you inject me with your smile?

Walking on the streets holding my ribs

thinking to save my heart from falling

because I can really feel it

crawling.

Did my heart vanish a little

every time I loved someone

or died a little

every time I tore one of their poems?

Is it still there beating behind an invisible cloak of everything

that is unreal because the last time I saw,

it was behind  my eyes pushing hard to come out

but I swallowed it saying, “Oh you lovely little thing it's time for a nap.”

Each time I try to follow my heart,

I peep inside every part of my body to find

this thing people call as a heart.

Note: In the second stanza, there are a series of conditional question whose condition is mentioned in the following lines. In the fourth stanza, the idea of the heart crawling doesn’t come to notice when it is just felt. “Did my heart vanish a little bit” would read simply as a question until the next line is read. So the elements of surprise, syntax and sense are employed in writing this poem.