The English teacher sent me a mail. She explained that she was setting an exercise on creative writing for her students and since I dabble with creative writing I could become her student and be a part of the exercise. I responded with an enthusiastic "yes". I got a mail with the instructions for the exercise. The mail asked me to take a photograph and write a poem that consisted seven of nine words that she had sent. She had sent me two sets of words and asked me to choose one set.
The task seemed interesting and I jumped into it. I went out to the balcony and clicked a picture of an old cot, which I believe is my grandmother's death bed.
I picked both the sets of words and came up with the following poems.
Lingering on
Beginning a life at the end of a life
While continuing to live without life
Wet and dry beatings taken in light and dark
Crumbles this lifeless life like fragile pieces of paper
Lone listener to the final words uttered verysoftly
By an old grandmother as she stared at the humbling darkness
A hundred seasons of rain have passed
And yet she stares steadfastly at the horizon
While expressing refusal to leave this world
Before hearing you confess your
disappointments and wrongdoings.
Iron Gates
Beyond the iron gates lie a world
Where the greens make way for the greys
My idle head resides in domains more ideal than real
Where childhood’s flowers swayed
To the tune of laughter straight from one’s heart
Where living to a hundred and fifty
Makes none utter “look at this miracle”
Where particles hold hands in harmony
Rather than maintain six feet from each other
Where iron gates cannot stop me
In my attempt to fly away from the constraints of reality
I sent her the poems and waited anxiously for her feedback. The poems did not turn out to be greatest pieces of creative writing that she had seen. Yet she only had issues with a few sentences in the poems. Apparently, the lines seemed too convoluted. I read my poems and sure enough the lines seemed convoluted. I sat in front of my laptop and chewed the top of my imaginary pencil. In a few minutes, I changed the poems to the following form.
Lingering on
As in life, in death too she offered help
To all who felt the need for rest
Waiting like a piece of paper
To record scenes of happiness
Interspersed with tears of sadness
Lone listener to the final words uttered very softly
By an old grandmother as she stared at the humbling darkness
A hundred seasons of rain have passed
And yet she stares steadfastly at the horizon
While expressing refusal to leave this world
Before hearing you confess your
disappointments and wrongdoings.
Iron Gates
Beyond the iron gates lie a world
Where the greens make way for the greys
My idle head resides in domains more ideal than real
Where childhood’s flowers swayed
To the tune of laughter straight from one’s heart
Where living to a hundred and fifty
Makes none utter “look at this miracle”
Where there is a moment of happiness
That exists without a shadow of guilt
Where iron gates cannot stop me
In my attempt to fly away from the constraints of reality
I sent back the modified poems and waited eagerly for her feedback.
Six months later, I don't have any hope of her responding. I looked up at the moon and said "She's probably finds it difficult to accept that an engineer can be this creative. What to do, what to do. Such is me!"
