~ aciretosE.

As the New Year approaches,
I am optimistic.
I tell myself 
That (the things) I have hidden far too much
For far too long
Deep within metaphors and wordplay
In both poetry and prose

(it is time for me to change.  the first of january shall mark a new beginning.  i shall mark it on my calendar.  i shall mark it on all my calendars.  12am, january 1.  12:01am, january 1.  12:02am, january 1.  i shall mark it on all my calendars.  december 25th and december 31st)

(Are) just excuses
Small ones, bundled together
With strings of half-truths 
The water of guilt and fraudulence
Keeps them alive

(only for me to discard them later, usually.  the problem is - i now have no bin i can throw them in.  instead of letting them rot, why not use them?  my supply is endless, as is the number of arrows in my quiver - apologies; it is not mine, i have merely borrowed it; should i pass it on to someone more deserving?  no; that is entirely within my jurisdiction.  use excuses if not i, who will?  

.too backwards think to us for sense makes it - days these backwards is everything since

.excusation the, correctly more, or; justification the comes then, action the comes first)

As am I;
I will be optimistic -
(As was my optimistic optometrist, but never mind that)
Let me wrap these bouquets 
In newspapers
Upon which have been written all my inactions,
Reactions, redactions, conniving fractions
That work so hard to misrepresent,
That work even harder to force the reader to
Misinterpret
And news is not normally about interpretation.

(is mind my tangled quite a but mess nobody knows; hope people i do now; be quite it'll liberating

the of walls rattle words my brain; earlier of it out weren't getting they; are but they now!)

I must confess
I have not been entirely honest
No matter how hard I try 
To get rid of my mask,
It had always remained -
Maybe that will change.
Perhaps this will be my Christmas gift.
That would be nice.
If this will be my Christmas gift
Who is my Secret Santa?

Maybe it's me.


~ Vruta.

*

"Merry Christmas, and remember nothing is impossible - especially not good things."

~ hopeless.

Everyone around me 

Has some hand in their own glory
Some build bridges
Some watch them wash away
Most are burnt down
By those who think they have no use for them
I collect
Their eroded bricks
And pelted stones
Use them to build my house by the sea
But the waves lashing out on the shore
Lost me my house
My pride and honour
All the sandcastles we made
When I was a child,
Still filled with wonder;
I would look at the stars and
Question the cold, unforgiving wind -
"Why do you make my eyes water?"
Except, back then,
The white diamonds amidst
The searing, complete blackness
Would fill me with hope;
Everybody around me
Knows what they want to do
And I sit here
On my lonely chair on the sand,
Watching my bridges crumble
Alone, wondering -
When will my time come?

Then a hand taps my shoulder,
"Who is it?" I ask,
I do not look up; there is no need to,
I recognize the touch
Warm, careful.

"I know what you're thinking."
"Really? What?"
"That you won't be able to make anything of your life."
"Right you are."
"It doesn't have to be this way."
"I don't know how to fix anything,
I have lost myself,
I do not know where to go,
Who to meet,
How to talk,
Silence is my only solace - "
"We both know that's not true."
"It is, now, for me."

Then suddenly a hand takes mine,
Flips a switch on the other side of the universe
And shows me the future
I live in an apartment
I have friends over, today
And we laugh and relive the old days
When we were freer
There are trees lining the road
And the sun lights up the dust and smoke between them.
I realize
All is not lost.

~ Vruta, October 2017.

~ i live inside my head too much.

i live inside my head too much--
it's almost like a game;
my friend said if i want to live
that i must learn to tame

i live inside my head too much--
today i did go shopping
think i had too much to drink;
saw a rabbit humming Chopin

i live inside my head too much--
the rabbit took out his gun
he had a sly grin upon his face
and madness second to none;

slung the gun o'er his shoulder
and, somewhat shakily, took aim
pointed it at me, i said, 'oh, here come
my fifteen seconds of fame,'

here it is i shall die, i thought,
it'll be in tomorrow's paper,
a splat of red, and i'll be dead,
and the rabbit--he's mad--shall caper.

a flash! and a bang! gunpowder
decorating the dusty air,
flecks of gray amidst flecks of golden
the rabbit's crime now lay bare

no help arrived (t'was a deserted town,
now, save for the rabbit and me)
the mad eyes squinted into my own,
while i prayed to the powers that be

alas! my time had come too soon,
said the poet inside me, quivering,
one last penny i could have made
could have sold this one for a shilling--

i don't live inside my head, anymore.

~ vruta gupte.

Inspiration.

Days pass by
My pen has dried up
My papers are crumpled
My mind is caged
Words no longer flow freely
My thoughts battle with themselves
In the dark abyss of self doubt
The perfume no longer smells of fresh roses
And new beginnings
My step is no longer sprightly
My glasses are cracked and bent and broken
In dreams I find no salvation
In sleep no rejuvenation
In wakefulness no direction
A candle burning from both ends
Can light up only for a few moments
Until it dies, its glory short lived and transitory
The candle burns my papers
My house, my world, and my mind
A shadow of the person I could have been
In the end, a great light will be cast upon me
My worth shall be judged
I hope then that the ashes of my papers
The ink of my pen
Will have endured the incessant callings
Of mortality and temporariness
So that I shall be redeemed
So that I can spend the rest of my days
As a slave to ink and the stories it holds.

~ Vruta Gupte.

I can't write a poem.

I can’t write a poem tonight,

I went outside and took some pictures,

And my right shoulder is aching.

I can’t write a poem tonight,

My brain is too full: I’d rather

Write something really really (really) long,

So that people know what I’m thinking about—

Not that that’s interesting; who I’m thinking about

Would be more enticing to read

And to know, quite frankly.

I can’t write a poem tonight

Because pouring myself out would be so much easier

Than freezing myself into short lines

(They read like stubble, not a long, flowing beard.)

You should know that you’re the one

Who made me want to capture in prose again

You’re almost like a plucked marigold flower—

It hurts a lot, but you still love helping people;

And sometimes it hurts me that you’re hurting.

I can’t write a poem tonight,

I’m thinking about you:

Not that I mind.

~Vruta Gupte.

As You Like It.

How paradoxical it is that we are ambitious but also find anonymity appealing, my friend said to me as she gazed nonchalantly at the black ceiling, again, and again.  She had stared at the ceiling yesterday, too.  And the day before that.  And the day before the day before...

He tapped his forehead with his pen; seldom had he found it so difficult to put his thoughts into words.  Although he had observed that putting thoughts into words had become a little more cumbersome for him, of late, mostly because he was doing other things.

Thinking about other things.  And people.
Person, actually.

Was he fooling himself?  He would probably never know.

It was two in the morning, yet here he was (idly twiddling his thumbs to match the beat of the song that played in his head, as ever), imagining another life, in which anything was or could have been possible.

Possibilities--the word was as scary as it was exciting.  But isn't that what life was all about?  Scariness and excitement?  Of course, he could be wrong, but that wasn't the point.  The point was that he could be.

The past year had gone by pretty uneventfully (pretty--what an oxymoronic word to use), oh, except for one thing.  He would rather not be reminded of it.  The past month, however, had been, quite contrarily to the general trend (graph) of his life (versus time), extremely eventful.  The past month had been an enigma he was still trying to make sense of.  

She was someone he was still trying to make sense of.  How could someone who looked so small and wonder-less (but somebody would surely find her wonderful, no doubt) write something that stirred within him such unimaginable feelings of kinship, and regret, and admiration, and emptiness?  So much to feel, and so little time!  She was a rollercoaster, and he was a slow-moving horse-coach that, instead of horses, was being pulled by donkeys, of all beings.  Not a perfect match (not even to be friends, much--or so he thought.  Of course, there were other, more important things, that he held dearer to his heart, that beckoned him to talk to her every day).  

But friendship and love is seldom about matching.  Friendship is about staying even when you don't match.  Friendship is about tearing your paper heart in half, and giving one half to your friend if his heart is broken.  Friendship is about crusading silently, caped; masquerading as the Dark Knight for this one person in your life, because...because they are special.  Special, and no more, no less.  Friendship is about being the unlikely superhero for an irreplaceable person.  True friendship, and true love: both of these do not pull you down.  You grow with them.  

You might stay away from the other person for a couple of days, weeks, months, or maybe even many years, but when you see them again--it feels like you've come home.  Because you are home.  Those moments, those times you shared together--they are unforgettable, as if you only lived them yesterday.  And this is what friends are for, isn't it?

She smiled, and ran her hand through his hair.  He had fallen asleep on his diary, and his pen lay besides the window, almost invisibly, as if it held the night to be of no consequence whatsoever...again.

~

Little by little, inch by inch
We built a yard with a garden in the middle of it
It ain't much but it's a start
You got me swaying right along to the song in your heart
And a face to call home
A face to call home
You got a face to call home.

Twelve.

I found this today. 

Midnight is fascinating.

Two-Word Poem #2

My second two-word poem. I'm a fan of these; so much can be said in just two words.
It's what you don't say that matters in this kind of poetry more than what you do say. The rest is up to the imagination of the reader.

“She laughed."

Two-Word Poem #1

Two-word poems are actually quite elegant.
Here's my first one.

“If Only."

If you liked it, please leave a comment below or go to the “My Own Writing" for more of my poems. Thank you!

Modern Breakup Story.

The Perks Of A Not-So-Smart Phone

Still waiting.
Ping, ping.
Unlocked screen.
I saw another name.
I locked it again.
I sent a message five minutes ago.
You'd replied to the message I sent before that.
But you'd read this one.
And you hadn't replied yet.
You kept me waiting.
I shouldn't have enabled the ‘send read report' option.
But now it's grayed out and I can't do anything but wait.
Such a calamity.
Still waiting.

~ Vruta Gupte.

Being Lost.

I've given myself a challenge.

It's called 'The Write a Free-verse Poem in Three Minutes Challenge'.

So here goes.  (I'm writing this poem like I wrote 'Stars in the Sky': spontaneously.)

Being Lost.

The little girl
Wearing a red dress
With yellow polka-dots
And blue ribbons
Went for a walk 
On the dirt road
Leading into the forest
Where she saw a lake
That she couldn't cross
So she sat there on the shore
She sat there for a thousand years
The immortal girl cries immortal tears
Her tears flow into the lake
The lake gets bigger and bigger
And scarier and darker
Until it goes full circle around the girl
Immortal girl with immortal curls
Swirling violently
To sink a ship
To sink a ship of immortality
She shudders and takes a deep breath
And falls asleep on the small island
The small island that is now her land
Two hundred years later
The lake has dried up
But the immortal girl
With her immortal tears
With her immortal curls
And her immortal fears
Is nowhere to be found.

~Vruta Gupte.

The Beast In The Tree

THE BEAST IN THE TREE

I once went for a walk

Along the cobblestone path

That generations past had not dared to traverse

For fear of being eaten by a beast

Who, it was said, screamed at night

The most pitiful sounds

That would make even lions cower in its presence.

The beast, they said, it lived in the hollow of the Great Big Birch Tree

It had built a door at the opening, and at night

It would push the door—and the door would make

A terrifyingly shrill squeaking sound.

But I, I was brave

And so I went along the cobblestone path

I walked, and I walked

I stopped, and then I walked some more—

And what did I see?

I saw a very lonely tree;

And then the wind rustled through its leaves

I thought the tree was screaming and then

I looked up, petrified.  I saw nothing.

I waited

And waited

Till it became dark and the sun would shine no more;

I heard the squeak—of the beast’s door, I presumed—

And shuddered in terror.

When I finally felt brave enough

To look up, I did.

And I saw an owl

Making all the squeaking noises

….And I fled.

~Vruta Gupte.

(I tweaked a poem I wrote last year to match the 'dark yet hopeful' tone of the idea I had for the poem.  I think I wrote it as a metaphor for when a person is about to realize their dream, having conquered all other obstacles, but then turns back at the last moment for fear of discovering something they had always known about in the back of their mind: their greatness.  

It's a little negative, but I think there's no point editing it now--it's beautiful as it is, and says what I need it to say.)

Want to check out more of my writing?  Click here!

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

What Is Success?

Albert Einstein once said,"Try not to become a man of success.  Rather become a man of value."

I read this yesterday on GoodReads, and I was, frankly, quite mystified and fascinated.

The title of this post is itself a question I am posing to you, the reader--because I have no clue whatsoever about the answer.  This question raises a whole lot of other questions:

Is it that being successful and standing for what you believe in are mutually exclusive?

Is success no longer based on values?  Have all humans resorted to unjust, unfair means to come out on top of the ladder?  (We all know they--we--haven't.  It's quite obvious.)

Does becoming successful automatically mean that we no longer believe in our core selves, and what they might stand for?

How can we achieve success in our daily lives, and what does it mean to do that?

Are successful people really as ruthless as we make them out to be?  (Do we?  That's another question.)


What is success?

Is it making a whole lot of money, then retiring a tycoon, and then having the whole world remember you....and then becoming only a little less than obsolete after a few centuries?  

Is it leaving a legacy behind?  A stack of novels you wrote that reaches up to the ceiling and out the roof?
The wisdom you have accumulated throughout your years on this earth, penned down in a small diary, or recorded in a CD that you might pass on to your children?

Is it motivating other people to become successful, and "discover their greatness"?  (Oh, and we use the word a lot of the time, but what is "greatness", really?)

Is it being happy with your life, no matter what's in it?  ("Well, even if I did mess up this project of colouring in Tweety the Bird in my Big Colouring Book, that doesn't mean I can't be happy!")

Is success being able to take a walk at night and look at the stars and see the beauty around you?

Is success being able to stand up for what you believe in, and then explain it if someone doesn't understand what you stand for?

Is success being able to give and take respect wherever you go?  (I didn't want to put it like that, but I guess you know what I mean.)



Or does success mean something different for each one of us?

If it does....


....Then why are we still stuck trying to find a universal definition for it?

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

Silence

SILENCE

Sometimes I feel

Inadequate to face life

I feel everyone

Is smarter, happier, better

Than me, and I wonder if it is true.

I try

To console myself

With the thought

That each one of us bears

A different soul inside of ourselves

And so none of us can ever be the same.

None will see the world as I do—

A happy place that can mend its many flaws and survive, earn respect, even.

None will be like me—

Calm, mellow, silent, yet infectiously happy

Or at least that is how I perceive myself to be.

I sit here

Imperfect as I am

Braving the world, ever-changing, full of its cruelties

And I realize

That to survive in this noisy, chaotic, unplanned universe

You must first find within yourself

Your silence.

-Vruta Gupte.

(I wrote this a few days ago.  It's sad, but it describes almost perfectly how I felt at the time.)



Want to check out more of my writing?  Click here!

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

Thoughts About Silence

I was thinking....about silence....and came up with this.  I wouldn't say it's a poem--just a series of thoughts that occurred to me when I sat down in front of a blank screen...to write.



Why are we complaining about not feeling quiet when we can easily find the silence inside ourselves?

Why are we blaming everybody else when we know nobody will be able to help us find our true silence (because each individual's silence is of a different kind)?

Why does creation--a largely dynamic, fluctuating action--rely so much on being alone and silencing the buzz inside your mind?

What thought process of ours limits us to the noise of the outside world and keeps us from finding our true selves?

Noise is necessary if you want to know silence--just like you have to know what darkness is if you want to see the light--but most of us seem to think otherwise.

Why is there a common misconception that silence means stagnation and not progress or contentment?  

Are we afraid of silence?

These might appear somewhat deep, but, really, they're just thoughts....that might make a difference.

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

What Happened At Midnight

This is a poem I wrote last December...at midnight.  (Yes, how surprising.)

WHAT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT?

It was midnight

And I could not sleep.

So I sat up in my bed

And rubbed my eyes.

I could see elves outside my window,

Flying on Santa’s reindeers,

With gifts wrapped in white-and-blue paper

And shimmering bows,

Houses of candies

And a palace of chocolate and bubblegum

That had no windows.

The air was filled with

The sugary smell of

Waffles in syrup

And caramel pieces

In whipped cream.

And then my sleeping mind

Woke up

And I realized

It had all been just a dream.

But who ever said

That dreams cannot be real?

 - Vruta Gupte

See y'all on the next post!

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

How To Write A Homework Excuses Poem

The post I wrote before this was about how to write a gross food poem, but then I realized most of us don't need gross food poems as much as we need homework poems!

We're always looking for a few excuses taking a snooze on a hammock so that we can pour chloroform into their noses and hoist them onto our shoulders and show them off to everybody.  Popular ones include 'My Dog Ate My Homework', 'My Pen Ran Out of Ink And All The Malls Were Closed', 'I Flushed It Down The Toilet By Accident On Purpose'....if I've missed anyone out, I'm extremely sorry, but life's like that.  Boom.  

I figure I'm writing a blog post after too many days.

Anyway...

Step One: Get A Beat.

You gotta get a beat!
A beat that's really neat!
You gotta dance from your head to the toes on your feet!
You gotta get a beat!
Oh no, you cannot cheat!
If you write a poem with a beat, it'll be a feat!
Get a beat!

Step Two: Think Of All The Excuses.

Think of all the excuses
You used to make in school
When your teacher asked for homework--
You would feel like a fool.

You would trip over your laces
And make random funny faces
You would sharpen all your pencils
And you'd break all of your stencils

You would pray she'd forget
Or you'd think of a threat--
"If you don't gimme an A on this,
I'll kidnap your pet."

Oh, the excuses (excuses!)
All those wishes (the wishes!)
I remember all the excuses
That I used to make in school.

(This is more of a rap poem, I guess.)

Step Three: Exaggerate.

I was so tired
I slept like a log
I couldn't see my homework
Through the thick fog.
I had to go backpacking
From Delhi to Nevada
And I couldn't go to sleep
Without eating my piccata.

That sorta thing.

Step Four: Rhyme the thing.

You gotta rhyme the thing!
You gotta make it sing!
You gotta give it some quirk!
You gotta....do..your....homework.


So there, I showed you how to write
A homework poem
And most of my excuses, I'll say
That I stole 'em
Because today...
My homework was to write a homework poem!

When you write a good poem, remember not to boast
'Cause if you do, someone could turn you into toast
(Or worse, chicken roast)
Now see you on the next post!



Want to read some of my other poems?  Click here!

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

How To Write A Gross Food Poem In Less Than Twenty Minutes

A lot of my friends have asked me: "How do you do it?  How do you write funny poems that make us spew jelly all over our computer screens when we're reading any of your funny poems?"  Well, maybe not that second question, but, yeah, I guess the first question means the same thing. 

So in this post I am going to show you how to write a gross food poem in less than twenty minutes!  Because this is what life is supposed to be like--fast!  Mind-blowing!  Exhausting!  Draining!  Buzzing!  Annoying!  

And that's why you need to know how to write a gross food poem in less than twenty minutes!

Nah, I'm kidding.


Anyway...back to business!  

What You Need To Do To Write A Gross Food Poem

Step One: Listicle-ify it! (Four minutes)

Make a list of the grossest and most stomach-churning food items you can possibly think of.  Google "disturbing food dishes" or "fried tarantula dishes" or...well, you get the picture.  

Or you can make your own, like I did.  It's fun!  Don't do this while you're eating, of course, because the consequences....will be severe.

One thing I've noticed about my own gross food poems is, somehow, all of them contain some form of dead tarantula.  Blech!  What about you?

Step Two: Drum it!   (Four minutes)

Get a beat!  D'you want to make it a limerick poem?  A cinquain? A series of haikus?  (That's pretty interesting, actually.  I doubt anyone has ever tried to write a gross-food-haiku-poem.)

Tarantula fried
In whipped cream and marshmallows--
Ew, that's just so gross.


For example, if you're writing a limerick poem, your beat will go like this--

Da DUM da da DUM da da DUM
Da DUM da da DUM da da DUM
Da DUM da da DUM
Da DUM da da DUM
Da DUM da da DUM da da DUM

(Writing a Limerick's absurd,
Line one and line five rhyme in word,
And just as you've reckoned
They rhyme with the second;
The fourth line must rhyme with the third.) 
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limerick_(poetry)
  
Step Three: Rhyme it!  (Ten minutes)

Now that you've got your gross and possibly exotic dishes--and a rhyme scheme and a beat for your poem--you start rhyming!  (Yippee!)

You can get online rhyming dictionaries like RhymeZone and Rhymes.Net, but try not to use these too often either.  Rhyming dictionaries are also available on Amazon.

Step Four: Save it!  (One minute--if your computer's extra-slow, that is.)

What good is it if you forget to save your poem?!  There's no telling what today's technology might do if you force your computer to sleep.  It might become your nemesis.  (Adopts Voldemort-like whisper)  Bewaaare of the Eenformation Age...

'Nuff said.

Here's one of my own gross food poems--hope you like it!  (The poem, I mean, not the...food items.  That would be gross.  No pressure, though; each to his own.)



WELCOME TO GROSS FOODS  (Yes, what an imaginative title that was.)

For breakfast we have apple cider,

And all things that make tummies wider!

Of our esteemed French toast

I’m permitted to boast—

It feels like you’ve eaten a spider.

For lunch you’ll get baked angelfishes,

We deal with the ghastliest wishes—

We’ll give you rats’ stew

And grilled rabbit’s poo—

And a medley of such loathsome dishes.

We’ll give you a bat with its toenails

And chocolate ice cream with some blue whales—

Your stomach will burst

You’ve no time for thirst

We hope you liked all of our cocktails.

Come again soon to have a great dinner—

Sushi rolls will make you look thinner

We hope you drop by

(We’ll make sure you cry)

You’ll make our hotel such a winner!           

- Vruta Gupte.

Thank you for reading this, and see you next time!  

D'you want to look at some flowers till then? *smiles sheepishly*

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

Homework Excuses: Part Two

This is Part Two of the Homework Excuses series.  To view Part One, click here!

I DIDN'T DO MY HOMEWORK

I didn't do my homework--
I just thought you should know.
I cannot tell my teacher
I've forgotten it, y'know.

I had a soup of numbers
And squiggles inside my head
So I couldn't do my homework
I went to the park instead.

My history book got lost
My homework got delayed.
So I travelled to the past
And wrote about the next decade.

My books flew away--
They sprouted wings, you see.
And then they all straightened up
And spit some ink on me.

Yikes!  Oh, no, the teacher's coming!
What am I going to do?
Should I just go and tell her
The excuses I've told you?

~Vruta Gupte.

Note:  This may be used to improve your teacher's mood in the unlikely event of you not doing your homework.  Yes?

Thank you for reading, and see you on the next post!

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!

Homework Excuses: Part One

Note to Reader:  These excuses may be used in school....for a small fee: no names, please!

HOMEWORK SOUP

I didn’t have anything to do this evening,

Besides my homework vile.

So I rounded up all my books and

Made them stand in single file.

I made them march past the pen stand blue

And dip themselves in ink.

Then I poured them into a cauldron

And stirred till their pages were pink.

I heated them up until they were burnt brown,

Then I dried them in the sun.

So the next time my teacher asks for them,

I’ll say, “Oh, my homework’s well done.”

- Vruta Gupte.

(No books were harmed during the production and imagination of this poem.  Thank you.)

P.S. I've added Disqus comments on here.  Please click on the time-stamp near the end of the post to comment.  (If you don't have a Disqus account, you can still comment as a guest with a custom name.) Thank you!