Tuesday, 21 October 2014

As sweet as Mithu

Emerald feathers would caress me
For a promising good morning
While a booful beak would squirm
With the art of perfection
The way he adored seasonings
That matched his skin and soul
And his little mild leaps
Could leave a beast in awe
The few vowels he uttered
In reality were a ballad, however
The lone perceiver couldn't predict 
That it was time for an elegy
He once confided, he longed to flap
Not to escape, but hold on
Show the world he had winds
When he only wished for air
His fellow flocks would poke fun
And others eyed his beauty
But now he's soaring high
High above the heavens...

~Poem 1

A tribute to a wonderful birdie
(Picture credits: National Geographic)

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Writing Blues

I had started to bear all the symptoms; from repelling the butter-like flow of pens to finding the sight of a journal disturbing. Every time I gathered enough of strength to hold a pen, my fingers would glaciate, and believe me it was worse than a frostbite. These were only the subtle signs, the worse were on their way, or rather had just finished unpacking. At times I would manage to scribble a word, a monosyllable to be more precise.
Even this didn't satisfy the supernatural force, which tried to chew up my passion. It spoke to me once,"your writings are pathetic." It showed me a world map that demarcated millions and millions of better aspiring writers. That was enough to kill my spirit. I also received a complimentary gift, a reality check. I felt as if the only things I knew were how to play scrabble and jumbled words. I would take a brief glance at other's works and feel demotivated.
I blamed people who eyed my talent and various other nonsensical omens as the source of my ink's contamination. The very contamination that had spread right through my veins to the nib of my fingers. Though afterwards I realised my recovery lied in my soul only. I traced back to the day I was overjoyed by the fact that my Lego's and Cobi's could join but forlorn as I was still running short of bricks. The spring break was on, and so was my white frock with red polka dots. Guess I was fashionable even then! I was busy building the foundation of my dream house. All my attempts to fix it went in vain. I wanted it to be a mansion, but at the same time I didn't want to waste my favourite red tiles just for the base. I kept struggling and seeing this my Dad got up from his work and told me the most important thing was the base. And if it wasn't strong enough my house wouldn't stand for long.
Little me was too stubborn to listen then. Though later it hit me like a wrecking ball. I knew what I was lacking, self confidence; the very root of all aspirations and the only supplements for my deficiency.
I recalled how my dainty fingers had once touched a dusty Heidi. She taught me how to live a carefree life and believe in myself. While Matilda, well, she showed me how to be unique like everyone else.
My thought process seemed to grow and I began to feel myself develop as a writer. Critiques helped me a lot instead of leaving me dejected. Soon I mastered the art of getting inspiration from contemporaries and not envying them. My writing blues ceased and thankfully by His grace I've now caught the writer's hand.

Writer's hand
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We Heart It)