Strands: Eleven11 Poetry Challenge

The comb would
slide through my black hair.
I’d use a rubber band
to tie it, or a clip to
hold it at the side.

I’m not fond of the mirror,
but my eyes would peek through my glasses
to notice a few strands
now discolored.

A few other strands would fall
over my jacket and stay there for long.
Some other would fall over my slippers
that I have worn all day long.

Some other have decided to
leave themselves over the pillow I rest my
anxious head upon,
others over the study table,
with the silver computer
besides the half open half read novel;
some over the patterned rug, maroon in color.

I can find a strand
over the piano
I haven’t played in a while,
inside the case of the phone
wondering whose number to dial.

A few strand fall off
the jacket into the closet
that has not been opened,
for days right now do not require
special clothes for occasions.

A few other remain
in the teeth of the hair brush
after the ones fallen in the sink
that I decide to throw away
in the bin.

Strands of my hair,
my existence.


I’ve been on the attempt to write one poem a day following the Eleven11 Poetry Challenge by the Word Warriors Nepal. Poems 1-5 were more visual as I made videos out of them, but suddenly I began missing just seeing a poem emerge over my screen. So here is the 6th poem, on the screen to be read in your own pace and voice with a background music only you can hear.

The prompt for day 6 was to write an ode to 20 things I’ve used in the past twenty days. There were many, but here are 20 of them in italics with my attempt to converge them into a poem about strands of hair.

This Is What Murakami Meant | A Short Story

Her eyes swell up. I don’t want her to cry, but I cannot utter a word. She has too brilliant a mind to lose it over her heart.

We would have been perfect for each other, I know she believes it. We both love the same things. But for us to happen, we’d need another universe. We are here instead, and this isn’t going to happen.

I tell her, hers is the most brilliant mind I have ever come across. And I wished I could give her back the marvels she has given me. But I fall short. I’m only human, she might have been divine.

Admiration is what bonded us together. I have told her one too many times how much I adore her mind. When did she begin to blur the lines between the mind and the heart, I cannot tell.

‘I know it’s not your fault, not my fault, or anyone else. It’s just how it is. It’s just living,’ she says. A fine line of tear has already left her tiny eyes.

Living, the word echoes endlessly in my mind for a minute.

‘This is what Haruki Murakami meant,’ she says. ‘When he wrote, that a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.’

The words are too hard for either of us. But it has been said. Was she really beyond repair?

‘Maybe not beyond repair,’ she says realizing the harshess of the words. ‘But if you think of it, we don’t go repairing our heart. We just peel off the broken parts till new ones grow in. So it is beyond repair in one sense,’ she adds.

I told you, she has too brilliant a mind to lose it over her heart.

I knew Murakami was one of her favorite authors. I never read one myself. I don’t know if she was blaming me, or herself, or anyone for existing. Living was in itself a coiled reality. That we could live in so many different levels in the minds and hearts of others is both terrifying and amazing.

Either of us hadn’t done anything. She was hurting. And I felt guilty. But there was nothing either of us could do.

Wouldnt it have been so much easier if we could love the ones who loved us? Maybe Murakami knows the answer to this. Maybe he doesn’t. What did he really mean with that line afterall?

Curved, Convoluted, Confused

It’s okay to be curved, convoluted, and confused,
to have the wires of your life
twisted and turned
as if ready to dance upon each other.

Because look at the vessels
the body encloses,
look at them and you shall see
how they twist and turn.

Laid straight they could
travel twice around the globe,
but would they house a life?
it cannot be told,
but probably not.

Look how curved, convoluted
and confusing they look,
perhaps because of which
they make life possible,
pumping blood all over.

When the roads do not
go as straight as we would like them to
confounding our state of being,
they could too carry life within them.

So it’s okay to tilt a bit
for otherwise the world wouldn’t fit,
inside of you.