Showing posts with label Payal Gusain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Payal Gusain. Show all posts

Monday, 30 April 2018

Self Reflective Essay


Initially, I was very skeptical about opting for the course because I did not like the idea of sharing my poems to a group of complete strangers. I had always looked at poetry as a medium for confessions. Now, in hindsight I’ve realized how naïve I had been in my assumption. For me, writing poems was more about discovering than it was about expressing. As is a case with many, for me too, it was a therapeutic exercise and remains to be so. I started writing poems last year to experiment with verse. Earlier, I only used to write prose pieces similar to journal entries. Writing was always a personal aside, kept for hours which would feel too heavy to bear. Was it only a therapy then? Why did I choose to write in verse? Why did I write?

It was of great significance for me to find an answer to this question. Perhaps, this was the search which made me opt for Crafting Poems. I’d expected the course would help me improve my craft but what I didn’t realize was how effective it will prove in enriching me, as a person. For the very first time, I stood behind a podium and recited my work. I could have chosen to not show up but being there, despite the overwhelming anxiety and sharing my work, has empowered me. Overcoming that fear made me feel like I mounted a hill successfully. It was that necessary.

According to Wikipedia, an Artist “is a person engaged in an activity related to creating art, practicing the arts, or demonstrating an art.” Thinking about the course now, we have engaged in a collective process of honing our skills and practicing a craft which is very dear to all of us. I will thus identify myself and my classmates as artists.

As I was re-reading the poems I’ve written for the course, I could not help but compare them to my previous work. I can clearly see how I have grown as an artist. My first set of poems for the mid-term portfolio were products of extreme creative labour because I was still struggling to come out of that unproductive phase where I was unable to put any meaningful word on paper. But slowly, as the course progressed, I found myself enjoying the process. I still remember the class after the love poem week, when we were discussing counter-intuitive metaphors. I could not shut up about it after the class. I even did the exercise with my friends.
As arrogant as a Chattarpur Farmhouse.
As anxious as a missed call.
But I was unable to incorporate it in my poems. I have found that I like to work with images and epithets more than I like to work with metaphors and similies. Perhaps, in future, I will work with these figures of speech among many others. This course has made me seek newer approaches to explore my creativity.

The most valuable lesson from the course has been realizing the significance which every word holds. I had never practiced writing in a strict form before and therefore, the Ghazal and Villanelle exercises were extremely challenging for me. However, I believe, in a way it liberated me. I weighed every word before I put it to use, making sure the rhymes and meter were precise and true to form. In If no one hears you, a Villanelle, I tried to explore the obsessive manner in which humans, in a society, need a sense of acceptance from others. On the other hand, my Ghazal, Anatomy of an Anxious Body, is a personal meditation on my experiences with anxiety. I thought, why not write about something that has been restricting me, in a form, that demands a restriction and so I did. Achieving it was exhilarating. I became a little less unsure of my craft.

Nitoo Das, in her session, said that her writings are always deliberate. I have made it my mantra ever since. My approach towards writing poetry was centered on the notion that it is an inspired activity. I have started practicing revision now. I no longer wait for the inspiration to strike me (it is a futile occupation to have). The inclination to write might be natural but it takes practice to improve the craft. I adopted this method for my end-term portfolio. I especially enjoyed reading and responding to Nitoo Das’s poems. How to think about Death is very dear to my heart. I never thought I would be able to capture an emotion I felt a year ago in a poem the way I did. I have used epithets to evoke the vividness with which I had experienced the setting sun by the ocean. Another poem which was inspired from her work was Paakhi. The first stanza in the poem which is in Hindi is from the song Zinda Hoon Yaar which is played during the ending scenes of the movie Lootera which was the inspiration for the poem. To be able to inhabit the persona of a fictional character in a poem was a first for me; something I would like to work with again.

The credibility of my work is for the readers to decide, I have stopped questioning it now. This is another invaluable lesson I learnt in the course. To be able to talk and engage with other artists in a homely atmosphere led to so many new discoveries. I have found a new admiration for other artists. It was wonderful to see how honest people were in class with their opinions and their craft. I do not know them personally but I think I have had the privilege of glimpsing into their inner selves. Their encounters with fear, shame, love, hurt or rage, on paper, were inspiring. I wish I had spoken more in class but the number of times the words were on the tip of my tongue and I did not speak are too many to count. That is the only regret I have.
Lastly, I want to thank Akhil for offering this course. I will always remember it with fondness.




The Bell Jar



Every man is an island.
Every life is in a sea of becoming.

In fall
I will unearth the truth for you, put it
on the side table. Once your gut starts to rebel,
consume it hourly. Maybe the tides will bring you close
to the other side of prejudice.

Unless, the fist-sized heart
keeps pushing against it
we can all stand together, stripped
frail figures in an exalted scene, gazing
at our outstretched hands, wanting to touch
more than we can reach.

There should be a way out of this bell jar,
relief from that sourness
which human isolation brings.

Remember,
the smallest indivisible human unit is two.
Alone, there is no forward movement.








Beta, kuch khaya piya karo!



Beta, kuch khaya piya karo!
Every time I touch my food
portions are reduced to calories
to remedy for my peeking bones
to “ we only mean well”.
Their joined brows of concern
leap at my wasting youth
forcing the nutrient necessity
down my throat.
When you tell me
Beta, kuch khaya piya karo!
you are also reducing me
to a shrinking body.
I am more than my shrinking body.
And If only you’d ask me
what causes the weight
to fall short of the ideal,
maybe I’ll let you know
 it is a symptom. Maybe then
you will tell me instead
Beta, apna dhyan rakha karo!

Saturday, 28 April 2018

Directions

Inch closer with static in
tandem with the supple paleness.
Elicit hunger with tongue tied irises.
Keep hands at the ready. See
rose blush on her crimson
cheeks.


Remember to listen. You must
wait for her to curve
into the perfect fit. Slowly


interlace the tepid skin, spread
Or spill. Learn the ridges of the spine
that holds her breath. Linger
at her coyness, seek earnestly.


Taste citric on her neck
mint and pulse. There is no tryst here.
Do not mark her unless desire
is borne out of need. When she submits
to your care with a weeping past
you exhale. Let her be.


Your fingertips should map out the indents
on her skin-folds. Find sugar on her tongue.
She has known you for years. Now
you must come home to her.





Monday, 16 April 2018

How to think about Death


By the ocean, violet hour
sky swallows the sun
leaves a trembling darkness
a patient anxiety-
stand, soak in

Watch the horizon submit
callously, in love
with a moody mirage
unashamed, the division dissolves
consummating, a lilac sky
a dipping shoreline and
the rhapsodic waves
lapping at your feet-
marvel, behold

Bequeath harrowing sorrows
slip them inside graves
vanishing footprints on sand
immersed or suspended
this bent life-
dangling by the crook
aching for a release
Rest, let go

Step into the water, walk
on liquid tightropes, bewitched
by a serenading sunset blue
a sensory assault, forgiving
all the sickness growing
out of your bones, heavy
stones or organs(i do not know)
half of you is now the sea
of salt, marine and gold

Then admire
the taunting hour
an agile ensemble, quacking
land and sky into a blended dark
accomplice to my death wish
of romantic sublime endings
is this sight, by the ocean
on a balmy January night
and all I feel is
the hands of grace, blessing
every crack on my human
heart is secured
I am alive
I am here










Sunday, 1 April 2018

Paakhi


 Hawaaon se jo maanga hissa mera
 To badle main hawa ne saans di
 Akelepan se chedi jab guftagoo
 Mere dil ne aawaaz di

Paakhi

All I ask
Is You

Paakhi.

Everything is a desert sky
                   And white, expansive, obsolete
Eyes are pools, molten sentiments
Muted, inexpressible

Paakhi.

Snow abound, our frail paradise
                        Here, in Dalhousie.
After Manikpur, the air in my lungs
Was forced between the teeth
Cutting my heart
                Shame seeking forgiveness

Paakhi.

I see
Deadness, in your
Slow gestures, your will to stop
                                      But breathe

Paakhi.

I betrayed you
and now that I stand before you
                                       by you 
remember the brush strokes
                    Our coloured canvas

Paakhi.

The last leaf hanging by the branch
                                       Will be me
                                       Will be mine

There were
 no more lie than there was the truth
A roving heart was anchored
I drowned

Paakhi.


* Inspired by the ending scenes of the movie LOOTERA.

If no one hears you


Whisper your secrets in the dead of the night,
Let the wind carry away, everything you hold;
Scream colours in a world of black and white.

When the painted life presents a sore sight,
Pressed on like a paper fold,
Whisper your secrets in the dead of the night.

And if no one sees your timorous fight,
your growing emboldened spirit of gold;
Scream colours in a world of black and white.

Your living will always be a glorious flight,
a tale of error and trial untold;
Whisper your secrets in the dead of the night.

Your languid bones will bear the plight,
to keep in heart the spring tenfold;
Scream colours in a world of black and white.

Time will bring you dark and Time will bring you light,
for one day when you're old,
whisper your secrets in the dead of the night.
Scream colours in a world of black and white.











Friday, 2 March 2018

Anatomy of an Anxious Body

This evening, a diffident shoulder, skinny side finds company
For small, dimmed eyes but a wronged heart, resists company.

Anxious hands are troubled feet, two by two, four limbs,
That smell the rejection loitering and keep, fading self-mists, company.

Their lonely bodies are suffocating spectacles, flightless birds
Are frightened by confident shrugs, unable, their surrender sits company.

There are days when molehills take the shape of mountains, mighty mirages and hills
And then the coward grows meek to show character, to behave as befits company.

There is an other in me, a coward I believe, which has instilled fear  
Of inadequacy and inefficient fingers that sometimes my misery eats company.

The opposite of Happiness

This,
is what sadness looks like,
like a twenty year old,
dark circled eyes and blotchy skin,
so thin,
You can trace the sadness,
running,
up the fore limb,
down the spine,
whispering,
“ I don't know how to be happy. “

Hunger Vs Lust

What lies between the legs
is plastic
it sells
the pangs of hunger
take a left from the centre
periphery residence
the red light districts
lonely sojourners
a midnight menagerie
serving strange men
their wants, more skin
ardent desires
in secret pockets
are consumed,
with paper
in this bed
made for two
every touch, a tattoo
marking
the marginalized flesh
the red bindi
on her forehead
is traffic
a stigma, a call
many a men, same menace
many hungry mouths, suppressed
when daily bread
is earned
in darkened rooms
making merry, making ruse
body on body
nights after nights
unheard plights
of bare living
in places
undignified, unwanted
by keepers of morality
the state, a hierarchy
hinged paupers
trapped or thrown
in this market of unprotected love
disgust is shown
for the witches
making good men roam
their streets to buy fun
but they say
work is religion
and in these, unholy sites
prayer is submission
because
hunger is the lust








Window Seat

Dusk
a murder of crows, engaged
miracle bound by
a rat lying inside out
as the skyline
turned to grey
moon bickered
with the city lights
a faint glow
shrouded, in mourning

The night falls
beep, beep the siren calls
concrete jungle made of concrete walls

potholes and peepholes
strangled bodies and forbidden doors

impatient limbs cross, kettle roads
broken sewer lines, sickness grows

ragpicked daydreams by night, turn sour
surviving in the filth and breeding in the dark
temporary homes underneath the progressive highways
sitting by the window, watching, a city of strangers
as it passes by

I look at these strange faces
With strange desires
I watch my reflection in the window
I become one of the strangers
What do I desire?


Thursday, 1 March 2018

White Middle Part

Like a fool,
I mistook the flower,
for the one
my grandmother used to wear in her hair.
Its scent, is a tumble,  
a Longing,
for years and now,
white
the tips of her hair grow.
White
but unlike the moon ;
White
but unlike the pastel color,
I used to draw my grandfather's sketch with.

I hold the flower in my hand,
as if
I'm holding,
a glass jar of childhood memory ;
The flower seems,
a little tattered,
a little jolted,
as if
from a reverie ;
As if
the vein of life is cut in two,
the white middle part in her combed hair remains,
the red,
is no more.

Thursday, 25 January 2018

Half of You


Bones, mere bones.
Hollow insides,
cowering toes,
retreating hands,
mad, mad woes.
Tonight,
I make up only half of you.

Plastic bodies,
burn with a stench,
melt into the dark night,
a wistful sham,
smoke and smoke.
Half of you,
halves my body in bloom,
I wither like the unloved flowers do.

Electric and static, 
the love grows,

for Infidels who own guns, 
and their silver bullets puncture livers,
the bile of melancholia, 
spills on. 
Lover, oh lover! 
Must you always win? 

I find your teeth marks
on another's skin. 
That night, 
I slept with eyes open. 
Thinking, 
how I abhor your smiling face,
the stinking nerves of a shallow male ;
I go sick and blue, 
remembering the half truths, 
the half heart, 
the half I had of you. 

So, 
I buried half a body,
I marred it with a knife first,  
I loved like cancer cells must. 

And tonight,
all your foul parts,
the foul mouth, the foul arms,
the hands, the legs
the warm neck ;
The jugular vein of a vain man,
I shall cut.
I will not make you up.