Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
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Ajay's Writing
The Little OneThe cozy morning light swerved off the cradle;
Her warmth coasted through my palms
I cuddled and nuzzled her;
Her giggle rippled through me
Those tiny eyes sparkled;
Surpassing her pear-shaped pendant with panache
Her tiny face bore a million expressions;
Evoking love’s embrace
There she lay, shifting through peace and reality
A mere speck on the wider canvas
A miniature life form, raw yet pure
Beautiful at dawn, a sanctum.
-Sept 29th, 2011.
The Case Of A Few Missing 'Granules Of SaltA few granules of salt rested on my finger-tip,
I had mounted them with some fine craftsmanship.
Precision- placed them, yes, right in the ridge,
Between the blade and the cliff.
Purists would have called this a ‘precarious footing’.
Lady Logic flogged the schemes that sprung up the attic.
What would you do with those granules of salt?
Let them ferry atop a brewing cinnamon leaf, or,
Let them marry pepper and bless the omelette.
An array of thoughts chopped my meditation pond.
I let them free fall onto a glass of water,
The granules hovered at the bottom,
Like a flock of birds circling around a beam of light.
They were gone eventually. I did not understand.
The water just drank up all those helpless little granules.
-Oct 13th, 2011
The soggy skeletons in my closetI yearn to hide her
image but the fabric
weavers in the attic
cackle like stoned hyenas.
The soggy skeletons in my
closet long for a wardrobe
update to cover the cavities
in their bony bottoms.
Oh how I wish to kiss
her chiseled cheek bones
which were mine until they
withered away to fossil.
-Aug 17th, 2012
Mastering the act of chewing dawnEasy to chew what dawn brings to the table,
more so from a craning porch. So I tune into the radio
and settle into my couch, drumming my right temple.
White noise from a suspended radio station greets me,
which isn't my favorite sound track anymore.
Hence, I spoil myself with this cushy quilt of a thought,
something I understand as white poise.
Poise as in, the spiky curvy icicles. White as in,
the plotting fog. White poise as in, the flaky snow.
The bickering kettle delivers a piping cup of clean sparkle,
and I use it to stoke the soft ore of my Earl Grey.
I am all set now, and with only a slight rush, the cloak lifts.
Blends of see-through colors smear the blue slate above,
looking as cute as a little girl's crayon sketch.
The wickless candle man plays his part, kissing the sinews
of the icicles, thus releasing them from the wooden planks.
They are reborn into tiny streams, irrigating the blushing
meadows, also plumbing the underground burrows.
Never mind the fog, it has retired for the day,
snaking into the craters of the thinning orb.
The cadence humbles the snow, and their tears
escape through wispy mists which curl about.
The dawn does not impose, it sculpts.
Here I sit, chewing dawn, refilling my cup,
waiting to digest dusk, drumming my left temple.
-Sep 26th, 2012.
Ball of WoolA ball of wool dangles up there,
like an ivory-coated ware.
Oceans roar when the wool is round,
The lore is ripe, the birth of hound.
-Oct 9th, 2011.
Hi, Ajay! All good here, thank you for asking. How are things with you?Mate, this is great - I'm really looking forward to sitting down and reading this collection of your writing. I'm a big fan, as I'm sure you know.
Out of curiosity, why do you say that you can't write these days? Is it a lack of time or are you referring to something else?
Hope all is well, mate. I'll post some feedback once I've had time to enjoy :)
There’s stunning writing in all of these, but “The soggy skeletons in my closet” is just arresting! “Ball of Wool” may lose its place as my favorite.
Hi, Ryan! Things are great, thanks! I just bought Frank Kafka's collection of short stories and returned home. All set for Christmas :) Thank you, I would love to have your feedback! I'm not sure why I'm unable to write these days. I'm pretty dazed due to heavy workloads and stuff, I guess. Thanks for asking! Please convey my regards to Jude and Luca :)
Thank you, M! I'm really glad you liked all of these!
Wow. I read the first one and loved the imagery even while the point of the poem was sad and filled with tragedy. It made me think of out of all things concentration camps. I just imagined the "red-bricked walls" that "smelt of rain" and the person grabbing them like to them it was a last ditch grab for hope. I want to experience the rest of these poems individually and over time!
That first one was deep in feeling. It was great!
Hey Ajay, I haven't read all the the poems yet since I don't have time this very minute. I read the fist two though and they were......gripping.What really strikes me are you titles. They are really good and they catch the eye. I cannot wait to read them because the titles call to me. What do you think about when you come up with the titles? Or do you come up with the title fist then make up a poem to go with it?
Hello, CJ! I'm really glad to read your commentary. When I wrote 'The night lamp was my blanket', I wanted to capture the rawness of fear and how it could grip a child. And how something as basic as a bedside lamp could offer comfort. The connection you've made with concentration camps is an interesting one. It brings to mind, the possibility that fear could manifest itself in unique ways and might be subjective. Glad to know that you liked it! Sure, you can read the rest whenever you are free, would love to have your feedback. Thanks for your time!
Hello, Christa! Thank you, really glad to know that you liked the first two poems. Thanks again, I never thought my titles were catchy!
You are spot on with your observation. For me, whenever an idea for a poem brews up there, it is usually just a stand alone image/spark. So I choose that image as the fulcrum and I think of ways to build around that. The supporting elements like imagery/descriptions and the emotions that I associate with the central theme arrive eventually. The first drafts are horrible, long and boring. Then I go about the process of removing cliches.
And very often, I use my favorite line from the poem as the title. That's the case with 'The night lamp was my blanket' and 'The soggy skeletons in my closet'. These days, all my poems start with the title in mind since I write them in response to the Poetry Stuffage prompts. It would be great if you could share as to how you go about the process of writing a poem/choosing the title! Thanks.
G'day, Ajay. I'll start off by agreeing wholeheartedly with Christa's comment-you do a fantastic job with your titles. They are original and really make me want to dive in and find out what your poem has to say. I remember the impact that your title 'Mastering the act of chewing dawn' had on me when I first read it months ago. For me, a title is as important as the poem itself. You do this exceptionally well.I've read all of these poems and, honestly, loved each of them in their own way. Your voice is very original and I like the way you express your ideas. A lot of the time, I find that your main point is understated and hinted at, rather than using a direct approach. I think you do this very artfully and it lends great power to your writing. As in everything I've ever read of yours, your strongest asset is your ability to paint realistic experience with your imagery. I know I've said that to you before, but you blow me away every time.
That is some overall feedback. I'll write for each one individually but didn't want to put it all in one big post!
I'm sorry to hear that you are struggling a bit with your writing at the moment. I'll keep my fingers crossed that it is only one of those hard patches we all go through from time to time. For me, at least, although I have no doubt many others feel the same, a world without your poetry would be a darker place...
The night lamp was my blanket - your title makes me feel small and alone, sitting in a big dark space with a lamp's small glow the only thing keeping terror at bay...I love your first two lines. The feel of the bricks, the scent of rain - for me it sets a strong scene for those years when I was old enough to understand what was going on around me but young enough to be totally powerless to change anything in a world run by adults.
My parents split when I was 9 and your poem captured parts of my feelings from that time with great clarity. The knowledge that momentous things are happening beyond your ability to control and the comfort of a sibling's hand in yours. Mostly, the feeling of curling up at night with a nightlight to give comfort and hope of a better day tomorrow...
Love it, Ajay!
G'day, Ryan! Thanks a lot! As always, your messages cheer up me big time and they've always helped my confidence levels. I'm really glad to know that you loved all these poems and the titles! Of late, I've been trying to keep the main points as subtle as possible and I think I still have a long way to go on that aspect of writing. But glad to know that you feel so!Some of these were written last year and I hadn't revisited them for a long time. It feels good to know that these poems resonated with you. I strive to keep it authentic and your comment about these being original brings a huge smile to my face. :)
I am sorry to hear that, Ryan. 'The night lamp was my blanket' is a true account as well, those scenes were/are etched in my memory though it happened when I was 14 or something. I'm glad you liked it and I really appreciate the time you've invested in reading and giving me such a detailed and positive feedback. This is easily the best Christmas gift I've ever received! Thank you. Merry Christmas(belated)!
You're welcome, Ajay.'The Little One' - I enjoyed the first two stanzas of this one. Some of the thoughts remind me of things I feel when I'm watching my 2 boys going to bed and waking up in the morning.
For me, this poem really comes alive in the final stanza. The poem moves from pleasant observation into something much stronger.
With the lines: 'A mere speck on the wider canvas
A miniature life form, raw yet pure
Beautiful at dawn, a sanctum', my mind starts to conjure a clean and untainted little mind with all the possibilities of life ahead. I really like this ending, it left me pondering all the things that happen that end up painting and shaping an initially blank canvass as life goes by...
Wow, thank you Ryan! I'm glad I didn't delete this poem, I'd considered doing that in the past. Your interpretations are all that a writer can wish for! Just a question, will this one work better if I drop off the entire second stanza and tweak it a bit more?Thank you.
I don't know how qualified I am to offer that kind of advice, Ajay. I'm only going on my own preferences and I'm sure if you asked 10 different people, they'd all tell you something different. Ultimately I think you should trust in your own feelings on it.Because you asked, I would change the second stanza a bit. For me, the second stanza was nice writing but didn't progress the poem very much. It was continuing the nice sentiments in the first stanza but the last stanza was what really made the poem stand out to me. If you decide you do want to play around with it, I would either remove the second stanza and link the first to the last or modify the second stanza so lines one and two tie up the first and lines three and four build and strengthen the last stanza...
That said, I do like it as it is. Trust yourself :)
Thank you, Ryan! Of course, you are qualified to offer that kind of advice! Upon re-reading the poem, I felt the same way too. There are some unnecessary bits that could be dropped off. I like your suggestion, I'l work on a revision and post it later on. Thanks!
I'd rather be a molluskI.
Unbuckling the ruck sack,
I strip off the harness
which binds me to the city.
The ocean in front,
a sweeping symphony in motion.
Shimmying about,
like a pack of white snakes,
is the fire of the moon. Softly
seducing the spuming carpets.
A random view from the marine drive,
yet it offered me wads of comfort.
Snap, sharp air brakes pierce
through the night air. My bus is here.
II.
Waltzing across crossed zebras and
eager green lights, we snake past toppled
cement drums. A team of construction
workers dance to the tunes of whiskey,
their fingers dig into paper cones brimming
with roasted groundnut. A u-turn and we're
off the main and into the slum. Hundreds of
coconut leaf huts sleep under the warmth of
kerosene lamps.The other side isn't greener.
Structures pieced with bricks and metal,
each window a photograph of bottled fireflies.
I am tired of these stenciled jungles and
I yearn for that waft of fresh air. I dream
of a spotless white pillow to rest my head on.
In fact, I'd rather be a mollusk and be written
about. Besides, I wouldn't break.
A slightly revised one. Monsoon
Trickles of winnowed rain
spill on to the portico,
guided by a clutch of
green fingers. Slender
coconut razors. Leaves.
She's wrapped,
in a beige cashmere.
Our eyes flirt with
the steamy white mist
from a warm porcelain.
A silver thunderbolt,
streaks the black blankets.
Toes wriggle, digging into
the heart of our Persian rug.
We sink into ghazals,
as her face nestles
against my shoulder.
She's asleep,
I stay still, soaking-in
the rhythm of the monsoon,
the pulse of her breath.
Storm inside storm
outside. Funny, how
rain could stoke a fire.
-Ajay
7th Nov,12.
Rock BabyStrewn:
Heaps of
shackled lyrics.
A swivel
of the senses &
away she grooves,
those lean shoulders
swishing fish-like, humming
strumming the strings of her core.
Scores of
humbled cynics.
The Interviewer:
What's music to you?
Clefs,
chords
for lunch.
Coffee,
hearts
for hunch.
Sure thing, the
guitar does pull
the right strings.
-Ajay
12th Nov,12
Mustard Seeds, Cloves and AlmondsMustard seeds, cloves and almonds.
The seals were intact.
Tore open the seals last night,
inhaled in the musk. Reminded me of
our mid-summer naps and long walks
in Hyde park. The way you twisted
my muffler when I stole a glance
at that French girl. You wore
a beaded white frock. I am sorry
for spilling coffee on it. I was tired
from the previous night's musings.
After oiling up the tripod, I registered
some mugshots of the moon. Cradled
your face atop a scissor-cut crescent.
It made the cover page. Of the collage
I made for you. A visual chest of drawers.
You shrunk into my leather jacket.
Strummed me down with your whispers.
Time had rolled on. I brushed aside the
blinds of my windows, to see if it’s you.
I saw frugal sprinklings of light,
which flickered from a fractured lamp post.
Not you. Time to seal the kitchen cabinets.
-Ajay
Oct 8th, 12
From the vaults of foot soldiers . . .Lush green leaves, our magic carpets,
and we sail the juicy mud lakes. We like
what the slush mirrors, unshackled images
of our faces. The other us, veering around
in tiny whirlpools. Refrigerated droplets
would pelt us from dangling branches, but
the granule shore is just around the corner.
When the ride's over, we march back,
to the bustling chambers of our factory.
During day, we roll up the sugar balls and
stack them up, in shelves carved of beetle shell.
Nights are special, we hit the nectar bar which
are drive-ins. We are handsome fellows you know,
calibrated clock works with fine tuned antennas.
We wait there, for love to bite us.
Fireflies light up our dance floors,
where we do a six-legged MJ moonwalk.
Yes, we are antsy people,
foot soldiers. In essence.
But we know how to have a ball.
-Ajay
Slow FuseDeath was a hand made envelope;
it housed a pulp inside, which fluttered.
A butterfly on fire sprung up, with a placard.
A message in bloated red-ink:
'The postman's bike has a backseat, take it'.
We entered a tunnel. No sign of light nor end.
Grey screens everywhere. Crumbled strands of
yore rolled on from an off-beat source, a projector.
A slow fuse neo-noir. A precarious opening. The tiny
me somersaulting in my mother's sanctum. Later on, I trade
a blow. Arrows from a plastic bow. Blown birthday balloons
enact a Normandy-landing atop the birthday cake. I hide
behind the fine linen of my father's suit. He blocks away
my furious mother. A bump in the road. The screen
whisks me away to my first date. The girl's a peach. I pocket
my hands to hide those sweltering palms. She recites her
poetry. Something about 'pink apples and silver streams'.
Another bump in the road yet another crumbled strand.
The end credits roll up. The audience move on. A tear.
-Ajay
Haha, slow down! It's going to take me a year to catch up and give you feedback :) I'm happy to see some of my old favorites have appeared.
Hope you're well, mate.
Hahah, sorry Ryan! I'm pretty jobless right now and that probably explains all this. :) Of course, you can read it whenever you're free! I'm doing fine, thanks for asking. Hope all is well in Oz land! :)
Ajay, I'll dip and revisit these and comment as time allows. My first blush response is that these belong in a book. Your voice is clear and the imagery you paint evocative of things hinted at and not said.And I'm with Ryan and Christa: you have a great feel for picking titles.
I will comment more specifically to individual poems over time. Please be patient!
And, as to the writing, these lulls seem to be a part of the process. If writing is in your blood and bones, then the lull will most likely be relatively short lived. Don't despair! Just use the WSS to inspire you. I have never written as consistently as I have within this group.
Continue well!
I'd rather be a mollusk - this is one of my all-time Ajay favorites. If someone asked me to recommend a poem that captures the essence of your writing, it would be this one or Monsoon.Your first three lines are absolutely perfect. They captured my attention the first time I read them and still resonate with me on every read. I love the way you have portrayed the feeling of stripping off the man-made clutter and stepping away. Very powerful writing.
Your imagery is particularly strong in this poem. For me, it was how my minds eye pictured a concrete jungle when you posted it in that competition. I think this is a good example of how you observe things around you with a writer's eye for detail. I like this poem so much, Ajay. The pace, the smooth flow and the vibrancy bring Mumbai to life for me.
And, man...those first three lines :)
Wow, Ajay, these are all great. I absolutely love your writing.
Monsoon - this is a good edit, Ajay. I re-read the original posted in Stormy Weather, and I think you've tightened it up nicely.This poem really highlights how effectively you manage to paint with your word choice. There's no clutter here, just strong imagery and a fresh, unique voice. Your description is very realistic-nothing rings falsely as I read through it.
I particularly like the second-last stanza and the scene it conjures in my mind.
Thank you, Guy! Your feedback always brightens my day! I hardly know what to say here. Until I started this thread, I honestly felt that my titles didn't work. It feels good to know that they do!Sure, Guy. You can read these poems whenever you are free, I completely understand. I couldn't agree more with your observation. I guess these periods of lull could be crucial in prepping me for the future. I'm continuing to jot down ideas and been trying to work out some metaphors and similes.
I take much inspiration from everyone's work here at the W.S.S. Come to think of it, I think the W.S.S is my muse :) Thanks again, Guy!
Thank you, Kat! I'm really glad you liked all of them! :)
Thank you, Ryan! I'm happy to know that 'I'd rather be a mollusk' is one of your favorites of my poems. The credit goes to your poem, 'Fields of Gold' and Hannah's poem, 'The Cabin'. Both these poems inspired me to write for this prompt. When I'd suggested 'Concrete Jungle' as a topic, I had a vague idea of what to write about but didn't get the motivation to write until I read yours and Hannah's poem. Thanks for that! And thanks to the city of Mumbai as well, it never fails to surprise/shock me. I was a bit apprehensive about the bulkiness when I'd finished it. I felt/still feel it could be cut down further. I've dropped a few lines from the original and still thinking of ways of trim it down.
I really appreciate your commentary on 'Monsoon', Ryan! This was again an experimental one, something I also tried with 'Rock Baby'. I wanted to move away from my wordy poems and wanted to take a shot at a more 'minimalistic' approach. I'm really glad you found it realistic and fresh. Thanks again, I really appreciate your feedback! :)
My pleasure, Ajay. I get so much enjoyment from reading your poetry, I figure the least I can do is to give you some feedback to repay the debt. I always enjoy the feedback from the weekly competition. I don't really mind where I place, it is the feedback and the suggestions that I like reading. Maybe you can pay me back one day if I ever get the nerve to post some of my other poetry.I'm humbled to think that 'Fields of Gold' inspired you in even the smallest way - that is a very big compliment. Hannah's poem, 'The Cabin', blew my socks off that week.
Speaking of which, 'Rock Baby' is a fantastic poem. You're right about the minimalistic style-I love the sleek, fast-paced feel of the writing. I don't know how much more of a compliment I can pay you than to tell you that this poem was the inspiration for my story 'It's a Jungle Out There'.
I particularly enjoyed 'The Interviewer:/What's music to you?' It made me pause and consider the question and what was going on around it within your poem-VERY clever.
'Rock Baby' is the type of poem I really enjoy reading and re-reading and re-re... you get the picture :)
Thank you, Ryan! I loved 'It's a Jungle Out There' and its my favorite of your stories. I would love to see it developed into something bigger. I wish I'd written it. I don't think I can ever get a better compliment than that, Ryan! I'm thrilled to hear that 'Rock Baby' was of some help. Of course, I think you should create a thread here for your writing, I would love to offer feedback. You are spot on, its quite heartening to receive feedback and suggestions from such a talented group of people. Looking forward to reading your other poems too. Cheers.
Just for fun..The Case of My Pregnant Socks
On a cold summer night,
I wandered to the basement to find my socks.
Found 'em knocked up and breathing.
The muckraker in me paced around at a certain nautical number to find clues.
Instead, questions clothed in worry cotton arrived in volleys.
Will I survive when winter's fingers fiddle with my ankle bones?
May be I should wish for taller blankets or shorter legs.
What happens when those sweat ducts decide to unload a bundle?
May be I should burn more calories to counter balance their rhythms.
The paunch seemed to be moving.
The pen torch dangled between index and thumb to shed focus.
Ah rats, two of them brats. They were nibbling with the thread work.
May be it looked like lingerie to them.
'Shoo, they are married to my shoe!', I wanted to yell but chose not to.
They jogged out through the hole paved by god knows what,
Burping in sync with the soundtracks of the night.
-Ajay
I’ve never read anything like it, Ajay! The writing is great (as usual), and the phrase the soundtracks of the night really resonates with me.
Thank you, M! I mustered a lot of courage to post this. Appreciate your feedback.
Ajay, this knocked my socks off, threadbare rats and all! The play with language both in meaning and sound is something I absolutely love to read and this is full of it. A delightful read. If I'd randomly found this in a book by you, or in an anthology, I would be buying the book. Loved it.I would love to see what kind of reaction this would get from the general poetry group. And the yacht club, too.
Thank you for posting.
Ajay, you rock!"'Shoo, they are married to my shoe!', I wanted to yell but chose not to"
Your turn of phrase is phenomenal.
Brilliant, mate!
Thank you, Guy and Ryan! As always, reading your comments cheer me up big time :):) Guy, yet again the inspiration for this poem came from your comment, from last week-'But Bottleneck sang to me. Wow! Absolutely knocked my socks off'.I just wanted to play around with 'knocked up' and 'socks', ended up with this poem. Thank you!
I'm not sure how the general poetry group will react. It will probably end up being ignored or attacked. Surprisingly, two readers seemed to have liked it!
But I burst out laughing when I read the general poetry group. Lol.
Ryan, thanks mate! I love the new pic! Looking forward to your poem/short story this week.
Ajay, I just took a look at the critiques in Poetry. Nice comments! :-)
I've read most of these, Ajay, and will read them again soon. Wow! You make words crackle!
The red-bricked walls smelt of rain,
fingers ran across the cracks, breaking mud.
We held hands, my brothers and I,
searching for that yellow light of comfort.
My kid brother tugged at my hair,
I slipped him a sweet rock. We saw her.
Clad in a peacock sari, our mother waved a smile,
a whiff, she had brought us chickpea sandwiches.
They called for us.
A brown leaf fell over.
The lady in black spoke,
'The children shall stay with the father,
As requested by the mother'.
The hush spread the message.
She fed us with promises, and,
He promised love.
Later that night, we tucked in together;
the night lamp was my blanket.
-Oct 16th 2011