Like a cosy fireplace on a cold, cold night Your warm words.
I haven’t read ‘The 5 Love Languages’ by Dr. Gary Chapman, but I know my love language is Words of Affirmation.
Words hold so much emotion. Solace, joy, hope, reassurance, warmth; also despair, loss, grief. Nothing can beat the sound and substance of words, their ability to move you, the rush of blood they bring. Whether spoken in a sincere voice or written with a fervent hand, they are gifts. Rudimentary but cherished, like a warm fireplace on a cold cold night.
I don’t know how to love you Other than laying odes at your feet My skin tingling at the thought of How you turned suns into moons Just by whispering my name.
The waves lost all direction Got consumed by the river I heard the Harvest Moon rise Saw you cascade in its light And found a way to shine.
You weaved flowers in my soul Held a mirror and gifted me beauty Now the raindrops dance on leaves Sparkle like diamonds and I know Love will always stay.
This poem is inspired by Neil Young’s iconic song, Harvest Moon. The power of classy music and undying love, both come together in this absolutely gorgeous song and I wanted my words to reflect that enduring feeling.
Read the poem to someone you love. And if things go well, you’ve got the song for a perfect Sunday night serenade.
PS: This post could have been saved for the next full moon, but if these uncertain times have taught us anything at all, it’s to avoid putting off things for tomorrow.
Sit still now Breathe in Feel my hand On your heart.
Four tiny lines today, soaked in love and tenderness – for ailing hearts to sit still, sip a drink and listen to a song.
How about ‘It Takes a Lot to Know a Man’ by Damien Rice? When I first heard this song, the tears kept coming long after the song ended. The lyrics are intense, but even more intense is the way the song moves. It’s a cascade, that starts slow, then quickens, until in the end, it just sweeps you away.
Sometimes silence feels like abandonment Where have all the words gone? We must learn from birds how to be consistent And infuse the colour of our love into a barren, lackluster sky. As the years gather behind us we must not be left measuring what wasn’t there versus what is and asking questions — the answers to which will only be found in the surreptitious flipping of a coin.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately, so much so that I feel tipped over by my own thoughts. Feeling abandoned by a lack of words is one thing, but that image of old hands flipping coins, chills me to the bone.
Amidst all the white noise of things irrelevant, when was the last time someone asked you, “What are you feeling right now?” And, tell me, when was the last time you coloured someone’s sky?
Between polishing windowpanes and carrying out the waste I offer my ears, my shoulder, every bit of space Does anything belong to me anymore? Desires of yesterday have settled in veins My body hurts, I cannot think straight Piles of laundry and obligations await But for now the tea simmers in soft morning light And I use the six hundred seconds To lean against the countertop — and write.
It’s déjà vu all over again. Like a game of Snakes & Ladders, we keep going back to where we started. With six Covid positive cases in my apartment building this week (which means more restrictions and no house help) , it is difficult to find the right headspace or even the time to write. And yet, I somehow do.
When we offer parts of ourselves – through our art, our passion, our efforts, our time – even when we are uncertain, when we have little to give, what we essentially put out is gratitude and love. This is what I want to share – that life is not about certitude, it is about fascination and child-like wonder.
Upon waking she always keeps her memory-laden eyes shut for a few minutes pressing dreams between lids —
like flowers. What is fallen must never rot she says but turned into art and hung up on walls. Slowly she points to her forehead that was once smooth and her body that is visibly accumulating layers and layers of unclaimed love — even as she softly speaks.
Disappointments, loss, longing, are woven into the fabric of life. Little imperfections that make it interesting and meaningful. Like spirit lines in Navajo rugs, irregularities in Phulkari embroideries or the Japanese wabi sabi.
So let us embrace life’s flaws and turn them into art. Weave poetry out of pain. Pick up forgotten dreams and gilt their edges with gold. Because what is fallen must never rot. Never.
There is a thought behind a thought A dream that carriers another dream Stories that hold in their womb smithereens of themselves.
What moves me the most though is how a heart innocently holds within its small, sequestered confines The luggage of another heart Too heavy to carry Too precious to put down.
Ancient Egyptians believed the heart to be the center of a person’s being and intelligence. Even during mummification, it was never removed, because “the dead will need it in the afterlife!”
It is a proven fact that muscles get stronger with exercise. Maybe this is why a heart that beats for others, gets stronger over time; why loving selflessly makes it increasingly and enduringly beautiful.
An expanse vast as the skies and not a thing to call our own. Yet, glimpses of love’s face tenderly held at twilight and the moonlit visage of a song. Like rich, earthy fragrances — the remembrances bottled up. On long, weathered nights when the errant moon slips through a tangled mess of stars Do you dab on a scent? Do you have a favourite one?
An aroma can take you back to childhood, a fragrance, to a feeling lost in time. But have you considered the idea of bottling up memories like scents and neatly arranging them on your dresser like souvenirs?
On Sunday evenings, when the birds are flitting across a purple-orange sky and nostalgia creeps in, you reach out for a bottle and dab on a remembrance on your warm neck. Wouldn’t it be nice to take a whiff of a favorite memory? Wouldn’t it be comforting to inhale a moment?
In the midst of a moment as I potter around the house You come to me in the lyrics of a song As dusk descends and the walls turn to gold I’m reminded of all things old Sometimes as a poem dressed like an ode Sometimes a movie Sometimes a quote You come and go You come and go.
I had once written about how listening to music while cooking or watching a funny show while ironing clothes can turn boring chores into a pleasant activity. Instead of ‘time-table’, I called these to-do lists ‘love tables’.
One morning, last December, ‘Coming back to me’ by Jefferson Airplane was playing while I was pottering around. I find the refrain particularly haunting and it kept playing in my head. Later that evening, this poem came to me. : )
Enjoy the song with some wine and let yourself slip moodily into a charming night.