Touching base

Touching base–

I realize that I have been missing in action here at the blog for some time now. I have been a bit preoccupied in the last few weeks, taking a couple of online courses, educating myself about writing.

There is one course that I am enjoying immensely, that talks about the craft of poetry. There is a fair amount of reading involved, as is studying the works of the masters and critically analyzing how they use poetic devices to craft iconic poems. There is also a creative writing aspect to this course which is a nice way to explore and experiment with different forms and techniques of writing poetry while getting constructive feedback for it.

The course is tough and I feel stretched to the edges but I am learning a lot and having a great time doing it. I have written a decent amount lately, probably more than I have in the months preceding.

However, that also means that along with family commitments and other obligations, this leaves little time for play, meaning playing with words for the blog. I expect this busyness to continue for the next few months and while I have enjoyed soaking up all the goodness from this exposure so far, I hope to very soon settle back into a routine of posting on the blog regularly.

So stay tuned folks!

Writing an ‘aftermath’ poem

After painting the chair

It stood there simply
with its arching back and sinewy arms,
resting its four legs on
wrinkled and splattered sheets of newspaper
bearing what were now blotched accounts
of the ordinary lives of regular folks.

A container of black paint lay askew–
faint rivulets of color stains on it
where the pigment had bubbled over
reaching for a levelled ground.
Caked bristles of a paintbrush
rested on the rim–stiffening and drying out.

A new paint smell lingered in the air
faintly registered by a nose
now acclimated to its sombre presence,
leaching slowly
into the beads of sweat
rolling off my brow.

A curious silence pervaded
where for an hour
papers had rustled beneath my shifting weight
as I reached into the hidden crevasses of the chair,
the steady brushstroke sound wiping out
the grating blemishes smoothened out by gritty sandpaper.

I stood admiring my diligence in
staying out of bounds of the
intricate latticework of strings
that formed the back and seat of the chair–
this vestibule that had once borne the weight
of a Grandfather I had never known.

My hands still felt the tremors
of hypnotic repetition–
dip, squeeze, stroke
dip, squeeze, stroke–
the trance of steady movement
of being lost in the service of painting.

It was but yesterday
or many years back into childhood
that I am reminded of this moment–
the day I met afresh and
not just in my thoughts
the chair that Grandfather once sat upon.


*This is a poem I wrote recently in response to a writing prompt in a class that I am currently taking.