Railway bridges, subway walls, roadside stalls, fleeting glimpses, broken smiles, mended fences, lowered defenses…
When viewed from the right angle [or the wrong or the obtuse (pun intended)] anything and everything is poetry…including ellipses.
And we want to hear it all.
Here, at Samyukta Poetry, we bring you voices that present poetry at its purest and most urgent.
Come; unleash the lunatic, the lover, the poet in you…
I keep my spirit within my daily clothes,
a certain poetry of moments.
While the pandemic rages on and seems to churn out chaos at will, there are worlds behind closed doors, glass facades, spaces of the mind where sinkholes have opened up. And the everyday has emerged from the depths to which it was relegated- as a blip in time, as a shrug in that never-ending chase after meaning and the philosophy of purpose. While the everyday has been around us ever since we can remember, it sometimes takes real effort to step out and seek it in our words, our actions and above all in our thoughts.
Today, when histories recount a series of mistakes and the future is bleak, the everyday is what we have left. And while each person’s everyday is distinct, and an experience in itself, what the pandemic has done is to force a reimagination. To make one take a long and hard look at these days that were congealing into one and devise ways and means to find markers that would hold their place in memory. This is when we realise, how the rush of routines manages to obscure the injuries we carry, the mirrors we refuse to look into and the anxieties we defer facing.
The pandemic has brought these to the surface as there is nowhere to go, nothing else to do or no one to visit- nothing that would take the edge off. While things are improving and contacts are being re-established, the almost virulent participation in social rituals and those ‘obligatory’ attendances have become optional or avoidable and, in some cases, one no longer gets invited even. The everyday is what we have left. In it lies the joys of discoveries. I suppose the infinite experiments in bread making that the pandemic spurred are a case in evidence and so are the innumerable Dalgona coffees that did the rounds.
There was a time when I thought it takes a lot to rob a person of their optimism. That there were oceans separating anger from cynicism. This week, I discovered I was wrong. Anger is just across a narrow road from cynicism.
I have been wondering about the nature of memory. Why do we remember things? And most importantly…how do we remember them? In this process of remembering and re-remembering, is also embedded, the art of forgetting.
During the Partition exodus between India and Pakistan, a 12 year old boy began a perilous journey with his older sister and two younger brothers. They were Sikhs from Sargodha- the CI once saw a poster that read, “A woman who reads is a dangerous creature.” It made me smile. Truth is often as simple as that.