Poetry

Song: Poem

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Your laughter
A Beethoven’s symphony

Thunder of anger
A siren call

When your face falls
A dirge drones on

Quivers of your soul
An animal’s cry for help

Swaying footsteps
A bird’s morn song

Your melodic whistle
A soothing lullaby

Flowing stream of words
The tune to my heartbeat

Your silly mood swings
The switch between
melody and cacophony

Whatever the sound
When you are the source
It’s all music to my ears
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Poetry

Grey: Poem

Sidlak#3
Sidlak: A five line poem composed of 3-5-7-9 syllables and the last line (without restrictions on syllables) indicates a colour that sums up the authors’ feelings and the spirit of the poem.

 

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The moon’s welts

reflect a beaten

broken world of hapless sins

Yet there’s hope- hints of white glint amidst

the grey globe of today

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

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Myriad Musings

Who are you today?

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Who are you today?

I often wonder

Have you geared up to tackle blunt realities or are you still clouded by conspiracy theories?

Are you still a cosy armchair expert or are you jumping into the field and getting your hands dirty?

Is your full-time job what you’d like to do in leisure? Perhaps, you published the comics, that the seven-year-old you unleashed on walls and chart paper alike.

If genetics wins the Nature vs Nurture debate, then perhaps you’ve found your safe haven in education. I bet you’re raising hell by inspiring your students to rebel.

I hope you’ve embraced your awkward self and still happily flail on the dance floor, fumble song lyrics and stay wary of glass.

I pray you still get lost, every now and then, and go through a memorable adventure to find your way back. Who knows? Maybe those days are long gone and you’ve turned into a visuospatial whiz now.

Do you still talk in your sleep, rush to the sports section in the newspaper and like your coffee strong?

Is your sense of smell still your superpower? I can imagine your distasteful glance when you sniff out spoilt milk in the kitchen, all the way from the terrace.

Does your mind still get its flipflops done by solving puzzles on the commute to work? I picture you multitasking, with your enthusiastic ambidexterity.

I can’t see a bumbling play pal strapping on the boots of parenthood, but enough time has passed for you to build a sweet home and a sweeter family.

I wonder if you’re saving the world, one brick at a time like you always told me you would. You tend to spring into action when it comes to charity.

I know you mastered many a foreign tongue to visit alien lands across the globe. Are you happily experiencing a different city every day? Perhaps, that’s why you’ve never returned home.

Can you imagine, in the world where everyone seems to know everyone, we managed to lose touch and stay lost?

Well, I found the suspense we were looking for in the detective novels we sprinted across. I’ve replaced them with my wondering about you, which is a consistent source of thrill.

At the end of my guessing games, I always come to the same conclusion:

No matter who you are today, I wish you were around.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

Goals: To introduce a third person to the reader through an ambiguous, possibly unstable author.

Offer the reader enough space to determine what to believe and what not to, so as to build a caricature of the third party, who may entirely be a figment of the author’s imagination.

To instil a sense of nostalgia, melancholy and loss where ‘loss’ could mean a parting of ways or a more permanent separation, like death.

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Poetry

Picture perfect : Poem

My glowing skin
Hides many pain patches
Carefully concealed

I’ve diminished my bruises
with a deft makeup brush

My delicate stride
Protects boils under my feet

Ringing slaps
silent under my
Silver anklets

Ridges of injustice
Remain unmasked
Under my trendy skirts

Marks of madness
Missed by neon fashions

Shivers zipped safe under
Extra large sweaters

Evidence of blue blows
Lurk under my fingernails

My red handshakes
Hide bloody burns
within intersecting palm lines

Alien thumb prints
Adorned by
Awkwardly angled bangles

The pull of power
Pinned within
Pretty rubber bands

The creases of my cuts
Spring out in my curls
Subtle resilience against soft hits

Feverish injuries
Are folded under my tongue

Salty tears stopped under contact lenses
Pink bruises pinioned under
Porcelain hugs

Muted shrieks surrender
to the rhythms of a cruel clock

My full smiles
Compensate for
Crooked teeth

The band-aid strip
Suckles my swollen wound
Silencing protest
Offering false comfort
Will you please rip it off

So I can scream

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

My posting has been a little sporadic due to technological and medical issues and may continue to be until the end of June. Thank you for understanding. 

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Myriad Musings

Meeting monsters

 

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I seem to have an inexplicable desire for pain.

More than curiosity. More than fascination. A strange craving, almost.

The way you’d try your hand at a spicier cuisine or experiment with a new hobby, to test your limits.

Perhaps, it’s my ardent interest in Psychology (one of my majors).

Maybe it stems from my belief that I am truly alive when I experience the A-Z of emotions in palpable intensities.

Or is the source subconscious guilt which makes pain feel right, even relieving?

I play with pain, the way a child blows air into balloons until the loud pop!

I am my own rubber band. I fiddle, pull and observe to see how far I can stretch, until the snap.

The breaking point is yet to be found.

Maybe, the reward is in that after feeling gutted, tortured, confused, I can surface up and claim, “That wasn’t so bad.”

We treat certain parts of ourselves as inner graveyards, with unimaginable ghosts.

Meant for paying an occasional, wary visit.

It is freeing to know that the darkness in me is tame in comparison to the illusory demons I suspect I will discover.

Maybe it’s time to invite the monsters under the bed to lay next to us and start a conversation.

You never know. You might just sleep better at night.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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Poetry

Tangled: Poem

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I’m intrigued by webs

broken strings, a tangled mess

Rope me in to resolve

unveil or just understand

I’m cynical of dreams

about simple linear threads

Foggy figments of imagination

habitants of dull landscapes

Concentric circles

are tiresome but true

complex, self-aware, curious,

elaborate yet exciting

Cloak me in a cluttered quagmire

rather than

soak me in singular strands

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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Poetry

A doll’s world: Poem

I am a doll
I’m full of life

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I’m arranged on racks
during navratri*
A symbol of traditions
A narrator of culture

 

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I’m used as a puppet
The face of another’s tale
Man, animal or myth
A tool to counsel,
educate or entertain

 

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I’m used for voodoo
Pins poke into my body
meant to unmake witches
I bear the curser’s wrath,
the pain of the cursed

 

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I feel the safest
in a child’s hand
A metaphor for dreams
A voice to worldviews
Companion, confidante
Cared for, precious

But, most of all,
I love children for
recognising that
I’m a person,
not a prop.

*Navratri (Sankskrit) translates to nine nights and is an annual Indian festival.
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

 

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