The poetry is in the dumps. The poet too is on the slump. Remembering flow and metaphors, he laughs at all the times his words were good enough. The verses now, they don’t make sense. The verses now are full of pretence. Locked indoors, the poet struggles to string words, running out of themes, he … Continue reading Brain Damage (apologies to Pink Floyd)
Today I don’t feel the urge to write, my words have dried up, and I fear I will be exposed for my wordlessness. If the words do come, I don’t know if they will amount to much. Will they be loosely packed and porous and take up more space than they should? Will they be … Continue reading Writer’s Block
I write because my fingers bleed words. There may be times when they won’t, just as they have been before, and I know this hurts more than the bleeding. Either way, I must draw from this fount, whether it trickles or overflows. I write because I cannot gloat too long at a well-crafted line, at … Continue reading Why do I write?
I don’t mind being vulnerable today. It’s one of those days when I wonder about the point of my writing journey. Here’s what triggered it: In the past week, I received updates about the poems and short stories I had sent to magazines and contests. None of them made the cut. A few more rejects … Continue reading Baring it
So I wanted to write a happy poem. I'd make it all cheerful and smiley. But there was a catch, what would I write about? I thought of the things that make me happy. Relishing a mango, its luscious yellow flesh squishing between my fingers? Nah, that would be too shallow. How about reading Murakami? … Continue reading Struggling to write a happy poem
My fingers run in a frenzy over the keyboard, words frothing out like a can popped open.