Self Reflective Essay

The two major reasons that initially moved me to opt for this course while trying to figure out the possible electives I could opt for during early January winters at the start of this year were selfish to a degree, one might argue. Given that this was my final semester, I wanted to opt for a course that wasn’t as heavy (which is obviously a very subjective matter) as some of the other elective courses being offered. The only other intention was to take this course in order to try and somehow deal with the haunting absence of written creative output in my life owing to countless reasons over the last two years; a lack of a will and way to express just how I’d been rummaging through every day unwillingly over this period without having written a single song or poem as I’d been doing for well over a decade.

To provide an honest and self reflective look on my journey through this course using each of my weekly submissions as an indicator, the changes, in not just the expression of my thoughts, ideas and emotions, are quite visible to a keen eye. And genuinely, as I had hoped for but not entirely expected from the course, I could find myself discovering and gelling within a space to share how I felt through my submissions and in-class discussions which without a doubt turned into cathartic and therapeutic processes. And the midterm reviews that I’d received on my submissions until that point have now completely changed the way I went ahead with writing poems; the feedback, online and in person, has helped me find new ground as to how to talk in a similar voice, but one that resonates more with passing time. So as I listen to a classic Norwegian Black Metal album (Bergtatt – Et eeventyr i 5 capitler by Ulver) about a maiden who gets lured into a forest by trolls, I’m going through my submissions and at the same time looking at the large number of poems (and fortunately, a few songs) that I’ve been able to write over the past few months.

From mes pensées sont française to How to Remember a Love (a response to how to cut a fish by Nitoo Das), for me there is a visible change in writing how I’ve felt at the moment of figuring out how to speak through my poems. Even the manner in which I have expressed my feelings over the twelve required poems has matured and become less clichéd (or cheesy) to some degree. To write mes pensées sont française for the first week of the course, under Love Poetry, had made complete sense to me in starting out to reflect on myself and just how I had set myself in a strict and repetitive pattern that only resulted in frustration and sadness. And I figure, remembering now how I felt back when I first wrote the poem, I wanted to keep it as personal and vulnerable as I could and that probably happened to a greater degree once I edited the poem after the midterm submission.

Most of my submissions over the course of this semester have been experiments to try and be as open, vulnerable, self reflexive and honest as I could, which is where A Faun Sighs at 3 A.M.  stands out because not only is it the first ever ghazal I wrote but also because I tried to project two personas onto each other, and surprisingly it’s stayed like an ever blossoming flower giving new meanings and interpretations to each different reader, which honestly I’m proud of. To work around the rules of constructing a ghazal is what I really enjoyed; to test myself to a set pattern and create something that would make sense and convey emotions was quite an invitation to a creative wellspring. And eventually, in a later ghazal, with It’s Somebody’s Special Night Tonight, But Screw That., I really let myself go and finally embraced my sense of humour within the form while still being sad as ever.

It was around the time we started to write City Poetry that I first encountered a somewhat grave problem. I happen to relate to Delhi not in the grand romantic way one might relate to the capital at all; I live in small moments and do not find myself even now to view the city as one being that I feel connected to. Luckily, I was able to write The Car Path from Saket to the E.R. (previously titled For a Few Cheetos More) over an Uber ride through south Delhi and I’ve found myself going back to this submission over and over, because I’m really happy with the shape the poem finally took after I incorporated all the suggestions that I received. Car Path reminds me of the countless emotions that run through me every time I travel alone in this lush, melancholic and transient city. The problem of finding a suitable subject to write about was actually somewhat solved towards the end of the course when we went to Old Delhi railway station as an exercise in Place Poetry, which is what had happened earlier as well with the Uber ride, but that happening has strangely gone unnoticed by me till this very moment.

The week on Political Poetry was difficult as well. Given how I have been overcome with certain motivations, or dominated by certain set of thoughts that have inspired a majority of work that I’ve written over the past few months, it was difficult to occupy a space and a mindset where I could be politically reflective. Love, or separation, or anxieties over abandonment aren’t political. Maybe they are, and I might come across as naïve or obtuse but I haven’t given much thought to these ideas as political, so it might be wrong to comment either way. Taking some inspiration from the title of a song by one of my favourite metal bands, The Lotus Eater by Opeth, I wrote I Devour Lotuses as partly a caricature of myself, willingly avoiding political debates whilst being affected and bothered by the same. I Devour Lotuses, for me, ends up echoing countless political songs I’d been writing years prior, inspired by bands such as Black Sabbath, Lamb of God, Rage Against the Machine, Gojira, Tool, Megadeth, Metallica among various others only this time, the repugnant subjects pointed at included me.

The independent submissions i.e. I feel I’ll sleep tonight, My Left Arm and Cocoa (along with It’s Somebody’s Special Night Tonight…) are some of my shameless plugs where I just wanted to be as raw and emotive as I could within set ideas of what I wished to present to the readers. I feel I’ll sleep tonight was changed drastically after I incorporated changes suggested during the midterm review, and honestly, it turned into one of the more beautiful poems that I’ve written and just the way it looks on paper increases the sentimental value it holds for me. My Left Arm has been the most ‘biology heavy’ poem I’ve written so far in my bid to humanize psychosomatic tremors and aches, something that I’ve tried to highlight through most of my works over the semester but nowhere as openly as in this submission. Cocoa is a collection of images that haunt me from time to time, never menacingly though, but there’s not much that can be said about this.

Moving on to the villanelle Melaina Chole, I was deeply moved by Elizabeth Bishop’s One Art and how it conveys countless things that it doesn’t even say. I tried to create something that would resonate on a similar plane as her work, whether I’ve been able to achieve that or not is subjective, but I find Melaina Chole as a mantra to calm and hold myself in place since I’ve written the villanelle. Again, testing myself with particular emotions and a set pattern really helped me bring out the best I could at that time. The next poem, いちきゅうはちよん (Ichi Kyuu Hachi Yon) is a direct retelling of an incident I was a witness to whilst getting a haircut somewhere around a decade ago. I believe Ichi Kyuu Hachi Yon stands out as a better Place/City poem in terms of grounding a particular incident to a particular place, which unsurprisingly is relatable to a number of middle class Indian individuals, and the incident which gets mentioned within the prior incident was very important to be put out in the world as a question on the continuous violence we as Indians, as North Indians, as Delhiites, North Indian/Delhi males, as humans have exposed everyone else to.

Finally, to discuss the responses to Nitoo Das’s poems, the two workshops with her; Jokhini has stayed with me since the first time I read it, and not just due to my interest in the occult or supernatural, but because of the innocence and naivety that humanizes our young witch in the tree. I chose to respond to poems other than Jokhini because I feared I’d end up turning it into something campy (case in point: Aatanki Halwa); I responded to The Poetry of Everyday Life: I as an ode to a few essential and unnoticed objects (barring the photograph) that just seemed necessary. The other poem that I responded to, i.e. how to cut a fish with How to Remember a Love was written over two weeks of constant head scratching and late nights (rather super early mornings) in a dark room. The content of the response is self explanatory and I’ve tried to incorporate as much as I could of myself whilst also trying to create the poem into a recipe for memories and sleep.

I feel I should say something that concludes this collection of disjoint thoughts. I feel I’ve half-assed my way through this essay that exceeds the word limit and says little about the creative process and my experience of the course. As I inch closer day by day to graduation and the inevitable uncertainty of eventual ‘adult life’, I really wish I could’ve opted for a course like this every semester and stayed in a perpetual bubble or a loop of creative exercises, shuffling words and emotions.

Response to Nitoo Das' how to cut a fish

How to Remember a Love

Lie down and turn off the lights.

Listen to:
   -   the music on the ceiling;
   -   the winds outside;
   -   drunk karaokes from parties next door.

Eyes might act as ‘refresh’ buttons.
         Press them.
Aches last till you push
into a new day.

Listen to familiar words
in your own voice tonight,
against a silent march of the alarm clock.
A hint of what’s to follow.

Reach out to an omnipresent abyss.
Then, turn over to the side
and let your hands melt
all over the bedding, inch by inch.

Live one memory per second.

Now, grab the nearest screen and travel,
as a flood of images arrests you
in a glass coffin, defined
by temporal dimensions.

Release the first
of countless sighs to follow.
Strip off the shroud of despair
that clouds your emotive tendrils,
all mangled, in knots.

Gather pixels, scenes and sounds.
“The closer, the merrier”, the winds might howl,
marking oceans of separation
set in stone; till you remember,
cherish, thank, dream, and sleep.

Cocoa

Cigarette breaths and icy mints.
Do smoke next to me, into me
once again.
I’ve trembled for your memory.
Close, birthing deep inside; slowly
‘neath my skin.

Slender hair and even slender neck.
Creep your hands around my elbow
once again.
Medicated, I do not wish for this
unease with which you speak
of your limbs.

You’re scouting in the doorway,
for tails of creatures we won’t capture
once again.
Water, knives, black t-shirts, golden hair.
The Sun on your breast, the scenes
on your lenses.

My Left Arm

“Get help…”
Before
an unwanted
amputation.

Breathe
in cycles.
In and out.
In and out.

Before colours
of ‘a new you’
even start
to come to life.

Or bloom
a new tinge;
a crack
in the bone.

As one limb
lays numb,
silent
and hurting.

Memories
of yesteryears
wash and amass.
Spring floods.

A shift
in sleep
does not help.
Pity party.

Tears are alright.
Pain is alright.
Alone is here.
Alone is now.

Life is sadnormal.
And arms
are extensions
of oneself.

Response to Nitoo Das' The Poetry of Everyday Life: I

The Poetry of Everyday Life: I (i)

A.C.

A flick of the switch.
A respite, or annoyance;
I bring a drop in the atmosphere.

Tubelight

An invitation.
Open to all. Or none.
Intimate, physical; public.
In broad daylight.

Wristwatch

Shackles, literal restraints.
Time bound and routinely,
I organize life,
and reveal your (de)merits.

Photograph

smiles galore.
coffee cups and airports,
White Lies and denim jackets.
Timelines paused. smiles, again;
memories and tears.

いちきゅうはちよん (Ichi Kyuu Hachi Yon)

6 PM one evening.
Right after a maths tutorial,
I felt the need to get a haircut.
It’d been two weeks since my last after all.

I used to visit a barber shop.
It was never a ‘saloon’
That’s how we spell ‘salon’, right?
Sounds swanky anyway.
Anyway.

Welcome sprays
of fresh, cool water
against warm skin
still murky with quadratic equations,
polynomials and geometry.

The smell of alum,
shaving cream and combs.
Or hair stuck on clippers.
Or faces of women
on cartons of hair colour.

Blades snug inside razors.
A pale white polish
on the walls and cabinets.
We sat on those,
right besides the mirrors.

The chatter of another body
was rising with each second.
But the chatter was personal,
indeed.

The account of a young boy,
now a man in his 30s,
maybe more, maybe less.
In purple, biceps marked clearly.

“O, he used to be a goon even in his youth.”
This was no surprise.
“Used to tease women, and fight.”
Yeah, no surprise.

“His family’s always been with this political party.
Great, now he’s a candidate too!”

It was my turn,
and I asked for the usual.
A well practiced crew cut.
Well practiced because I hated it.

“One day, sitting in my balcony,
from a distance I saw him
place a car tyre around the neck
of a young sardar, a neighbor,
and then he set it on fire.”

“I didn’t step out of my house for weeks.
Used to wet my pants every time
I thought about it or recalled it by mistake.”

Indira Gandhi had died that year…

In that moment,

with my insides fresh
from the recent
and violent scramble,
I decided to look over to him.

His eyes, probably still gleaming
from fear, or pain.
Or maybe just a yawn.

I returned home.
Hated the practiced crew cut.
But I was a fan of John Cena once.

I started growing my hair in 2014.
Visited the barber shop even less,
and decided to try a real salon instead.

Over varied lengths
of my curls (brilliant!),
I passed by the doors
of the barber shop.

Awkward glances weren’t rare.

Since a December afternoon
last year (and even now),
the barber shop is rubble.
A heap of thought bubbles,
wit and experienced advice.Rubble.

Melaina Chole

The bile in you will harden and dry
if you wade through life this way.
Live for yourself once, at least try.

Motivations to labour on aren't wry.
"Everything turns to callous one day."
The bile in you will harden and dry.

In time, life should turn simpler. Just pry
open jaws like eyelids, and stay.
Live for yourself once, at least try.

Burn pages, douse polaroids, set voices to fry.
Cry! Thrive on the release, a sudden hurray.
The bile in you will harden and dry.

Forget faces, alphanumerics and a cotton sky.
Scream louder than the Tsar on a Tuesday.
Live for yourself once, at least try.

Memories will blur. Trust and apply
some calm to your conscience. Due relay.
The bile in you will harden and dry.
Live for yourself once, at least try.

Signal #2909.01

Breathe.
Feel pink.
While I see
my own false self
in this mortal coil.
Snapping jaws, once every few
years that I'd create for you.
Slowly churning out, petals dance
on the television screens, like us. 

I feel I’ll sleep tonight

6 by 3.5 by 2.5
Three constants
for the past two decades.

Here: I dreamt of the death I desired.

On nights such as these, 

you composed new realities 

with words.

On nights such as these, 

I surfed silently 

through fields of elation.

Here: days seem to stand still.

With rich smells 

of what'd be 

conspired next door.

A missing pair of arms,

is the least of what’s alarming.

When nights 

stretched to evenings

the day after.

Songs stretched 

to letters, 

and phone calls to hours.

Here: I cried myself to a 104 degrees.

 (till we couldn’t anymore)

Galaxies lit

upon the slightest touch,

braiding into helixes.

  (sacred figures)

On nights such as these,

we were married 

for a millennia.

On nights such as these,

you carried a safe whisper.

Here: I reached for my shins,

and counted each vertebrae,

In this hollow case,

I entered Goya's sleep.

"All in, all in, all in a day"; 

"a sofa in San Tropez."

It’s Somebody’s Special Night Tonight, But Screw That.

Look what the universe has conspired: this unruly setting.
There I will be, in a short while, at a holy wedding.

‘The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll return’
But I’m still hesitant to step out of my roily bedding.

Mum fixes her sari, Papa, his collar: ever so elegant.
While I wish to remain in my pyjamas, comfortably snacking.

‘At least come for the food’, veers off my sister,
And I, for now, only wish to sit silently, worrying.

Shouldn’t I rather mourn these days of your absence?
A kryptonite for the ever so slightly brooding.

Words run amok in my mind, and on these fingertips.
Is this the price to pay for heartily dwelling?

Subdued finally, I’ll put on my best for this rendezvous,
My ghost lamps sit in the distance, shyly ageing.

Though would I capture your reflection in the sights tonight?
For even you, Lune, are so unsuccessfully hiding.

I Devour Lotuses

“So they went straightway and mingled with the Lotus-eaters, and the Lotus-eaters did not plan death for my comrades, but gave them of the lotus to taste. And whosoever of them ate of the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus, had no longer any wish to bring back word or to return, but there they were fain to abide among the Lotus-eaters, feeding on the lotus, and forgetful of their homeward way.”
                                                                                                - Homer, Odyssey [Book 9]

Yellow stems,
as pale as the backs
of those that bite
these blush petals,
with an excellence, or elegance
devoid of compassion, or thought.

Or the absence of choice;
The choice always is yours.

Springs birthing
from a body.
Washing clear
the mollusc’s prints.
Your sunlit streets
shove all but yours
into a deeper abyss.

Such is the case of a life of a gift;
The choice always, is yours.

(empires) tumble,
(emperors) perish,
(mechanisms) destruct.
ministers flourish.

Flounder ways
to season the founder.
Vines wriggling around beds,
flourishing eyes
as screens on your palms.

Blip’s on your forehead too,
Downers, you’re all downers.

The choice, always, is yours.

The Car Path from Saket to the ER.

i. Saket.

Proceed. For another cheese puff
I’ll proceed now.
And taste unwelcome posh bungalows.

I feed on the Sun
piercing through screens,
and start to disagree
with a change in simplicity.

ii. Malviya.

Shrug. I’ll let out another shrug soon.
Days pass by coolly, like strangers.

And as I pass by these lanes,
there’s a face, odd and familiar.

iii. East Kidwai.

Twitch. Here, I’ll twitch
my lips again.
It is tough to identify
shock from distaste.

These tin walls will touch
just the surface of attention.
And tall still, trade centers would stand.

iv. Satya.

Grin. My eyes will grin
at the sight of you.
Slowly descending the steps
of this grey streetcar behemoth.

The murals on the edges 
don’t scream ‘nature’; 
they wish to.

But I will still stand
in awe of your form.

v. AIIMS.

Sigh. Fine, this lone sigh
belongs to you.
You, witnessing this chassis 
rise over irregularities of time.

Gaze spread as far as the gravel
and boiling white lines.

And you (with an upside down smile)
wish you hadn’t seen any of this.

vi. Delhi.

Defeat. You’ll feel
a certain defeat.

I find it harder to notice You as such.
Perhaps I’d never noticed that I never did.

A Faun Sighs at 3 A.M.

December winds lay me to rest tonight, 

I’ll stray from the path that saves the rest tonight.

Feel these veins shrivel up, all blood has dried.
A shell or a husk, I fail a test tonight.

The mountains are my monuments, the seas my shrines, 
Open fields are the coffins on which I’ll invest tonight.

Unleash the darkest of shadows upon my Earth; 

A light on my sorrows is what I protest tonight.

Each scar is a scab waiting in line to be picked apart,
This, Lune, is not where I wish to rest tonight.

mes pensées sont française

                                                      come back to my arms tonight
                                     they’re as empty as the breaths I draw
                                  listen closely to the drops that I’ve traced
                                    on my face and my palms
                                           whisper what we’d wish we forgot
                                                              bleed me to a newer fate.

                                                      let this head rest on a muscle,

                    expand and collapse, and collapse and collapse
                                                be it a faint, fleeting desire
                           twisting your tendons against my strands
                                   peck tenderly to conjure vivid dreams
                                          reanimate all these nerves, suspire,
                                                                          tonight.

                                            allow me to retrace your collar bone

                                     dreamlike, the rise and fall in your ribs
                                     the gentle thunder of your shoulders,
                                          teases this jaw like harp strings
                 lay your cold feet on my broiled soles, tonight
                                                        and cease this cruel
                                                                                     expanse.