Writing 101: Why I write?

I write to make sense of all my jumbled thoughts. I write to make sense of myself. To become a better version of myself. Whenever I am feeling embittered and jaded about life, I know I need to go back to my table and just write. I also write to leave a little of myself behind. Yes, in that respect writing is a very narcissistic desire for me.

But is it not the same reason why the rest of you great people architect skyscrapers, build bridges, write songs, concoct your own perfect curries or raise beautiful children? I have done none of that and therefore I write. I am both narcissistic and insanely hopeful that when I am long gone, someone on the World Wide Web would still care to read my words and feel connected to me. That’s why I write!

A Sumptuous Breakfast

Sunset in GoaI fry the setting sun in a saucepan,
Constantly waddling the edges,
So it won’t burn,
Then let it slip gracefully onto my plate,
And fork the gooey center,
Until it bursts;
The Brilliant sun melting into the blue Horizon,
Forever gone.

Until Tomorrow.

Picture Imperfect

Sailor kissing the Nurse

(Picture courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/V-J_Day_in_Times_Square)

If you look closer, you can see the shadows
In these pictures, reveal the tell-tale clues,
Of the darkness slowly lurking, into their then sunny lives,
Years before they finally waived goodbye,
At London’s Charing Cross Station.

This picture shot on a sunnier day
On the Hungerford bridge,
Of the happy couple framed in marble,
Lips forever sealed with a kiss.

And soon after, this long angle view
Outside the New England Chapel,
Rendering the newly wedded
A misleading sense of power and size.

Unlike the lies feigned
In the world of Romantic poetry,
Unhappiness, not love makes the world go round,
For human brain is not wired to stay happy for long,
And short term memory is infamously short.

Here is the blow-up taken atop the Tuscan Bell tower,
An interesting view of the ancient city
And their lives below,
The lofty dreams, plans and promises
Soon to become diminutive,
Under the deafening wheels of time.

If you look closer, you can see the shadows
In these pictures, reveal the tell-tale clues,
Of the darkness slowly lurking, into their then sunny lives,
Years before they finally waived goodbye,
At London’s Charing Cross Station.

A copyrighted property of UBeCute

Short lives of Wives

Henry VIII wives

The illusionist packs two tricks,
Carefully placing the ‘i’ before ‘e’, except after ‘c’,
Countless rhymes estranged from its poem,
Encoding a simple meaning into warped confusion.

Crafting a wide angle shot of a marble temple,
Where the fates of the six wives of Henry VIII,
Turned into ornate statues,
Stand on guard outside the grand palace.

The insolence of the high power blades of time,
that make and break human spirit at a cellular level,
Pay a callous homage to these brilliant shadows,
Nicknamed by history; divorced, beheaded, died, divorced,
beheaded, survived.

Waiting for the Verdict

“Waiting for the Verdict” was painted by Abraham Solomon in 1857 and instantly gained popularity in the Victorian era. A close look at the painting should explain why. The painting is a poignant portrayal of human pain and anguish where a common man awaits the verdict of his trial with his family. The future of his family depends upon his acquittal. The painting is so beautiful and genuine in its portrayal of this close knit family that eagerly awaits the “not guilty” sentence for the anguished man. When I first saw this painting, unfortunately I had little idea how famous it was. But the painting was so well received in its own day that the painter was forced to paint replicas of it.

I made a very faint attempt at capturing the scene heavy with human anguish with a poem of my own. I hope you like it and that Abraham Solomon will forgive me for my gauche attempt. Getty & More 028

i. The Man
Outside the courtroom hangs a life,
Tied loosely to a mortal tongue,
The Judge’s “Guilty” verdict cuts the tether by knife,
“Not Guilty” sets him free with children and wife.

ii. Wife
Brows furrowed, gaze askance,
Five mouths to feed, a husband to lose
Face; the ashy color of worry, immobile in a deep trance,
So many lives hang by this man, whose life hangs to a mortal tongue

iii. Mother
A heart painted with contrasting colors,
Besotted love for the grand children, pain for the son,
Smile askew on her sunken pallor,
Heart tied to the son, whose life hangs to a mortal tongue

iv. Sister
A worried sister waits for the Messenger,
Who will bring the final Verdict,
Out to the family in the antechamber,
Sister prays silently for a brother, whose life hangs to a mortal tongue

v. Antechamber
The chamber colored in shades of brown,
Dark with human distress and self-berating,
The Chamber’s ceiling window painted like a church’s pulpit,
Under which sits the wretched man frozen in oil paint, forever waiting…


A wintry day in school,
Learning by wrote, conformance is rule,
Everyone seems to catch on in class,
But I, who yet again forgets homework, detention alas!

At lunch I play alone,
A snow cannonball aimed for my head,
Missed by a few inches,
This whole school thing is way overblown,

Mom is in hospital,
A problem gynecological,
Should be back in a week?
She is so far, we can’t see her, nor speak.

Dad makes egg omelet yet again,
Outside snow falls thick,
Dear God, bring mommy back, Amen,
My sister breaks her tooth.

Next morning I feign sickness,
Dad is too clever to fool,
He packs us lunch and sends us off to school,
Wrapped up in woolens, snow shoes, and beanie hats.

Andrea is my only friend,
I walk with my head down; won’t confide nor vent,
It’s been longer than a week, why won’t she come back?
I take my itchy beanie hat, and stomp all over it.

Back at home Dad looks happy and bemused,
My teacher called to complain,
But he has better News,
Mom is coming back home tomorrow!

Why is it…?

Embed from Getty Images

Why have we studied the cosmic skies for Ages?
Yet we know so little?
Why do we try to clone man and play God?
Yet we have no cure for common cold?
Why is that we worry about Extra Terrestrials?
Yet we don’t know our next door neighbor?
Why is that the universe is constantly expanding?
Yet our hearts fail to follow?
Why is it that science claims to have all answers?
Yet it has none for how man was made?
Why is it that we study the seasons, the weather and tides?
Yet we cannot control our own mind?
Why is it that each year we think we grow wiser?
Yet life raises more questions than it answers?
Why is that we question, wonder and expostulate?
When all we have is bunch of curious questions without answers.