Poems, Prompts and Pity

The first thing I ever wrote was a poem titled ‘Death’. I was a teenager so, of course, I was in the throes of self pity. I covered my full scape notebook with black chart paper, painted the title of ‘Poems of Life’ in red and melted droplets of wax around it. Yes, I was quite the visionary. :P

I choose to believe I have improved since then. I write stories better, but I always turn to poetry when I am low. And hopefully they are much more nuanced than ‘I find myself alone in a crowd, I find myself silenced by the loud’ .

The poems below are a result of The Poetry Marathon - an online annual event where writers across the world write 24 poems in 24 hours based on the prompts given. I always find a few worth clinging onto after the event is over, and while these two don’t hold shattered pieces of my soul, I did have a lot of fun writing them. I hope you enjoy them too.

UNREQUITED LOVE

Unlucky in love I’ve always been,

Invisible to all the women I’ve held dear,

But I’m a romantic – what can I do?

I believe love is forever.

I may have even met her already,

I wonder if Susan is ‘The One’,

Or will Cupid fail me again,

The way he did with Sharon.

And Tara, Sammy, Paulin, Nicole.

Each time my heart had fluttered,

Each time I had sleepless nights,

Each time ‘NO’ they had uttered.

But Susan will surely look past my quirks,

She does smile at me after all,

I know she’ll see my devotion, my loyalty,

She’ll appreciate me being an oddball.

Today is the day I’ll finally do it,

Today I will ask her for a date,

I’m positive she’ll agree to my request,

It is quite clear we are soulmates.

I grab a dozen lilies – her favourite,

And make my way towards her front door,

God, I hope she says yes,

There are only so many bodies my basement can store.

REVENGE

Father gnashed his teeth and banged his fists,

Bellowed till the walls shivered,

His thick body ran only on rage,

He swore he was going to strangle her.

Thrice she had broken in,

Leaving muddy footprints in his cottage,

A brat, an insolent scoundrel,

Her grubby hands ready to forage.

She spat in our food,

Stole Mother’s jewellery,

He said nothing and she mistook

his kindness for her ingenuity.

No stranger to hunting,

He tracked her down,

She screamed, cried, pleaded

He bashed her crown.

She had eaten all our porridge

so it seemed only fair,

To chop her up in pieces,

While Mother whipped up her tartar.

Her eyes went in the soup,

Her torso he roasted for dinner,

Her limbs he saved for Sunday barbeque,

Her golden locks lay strewn in a corner.

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