So maybe she’s mastered the poker face
put the moon in a wineglass
and escaped into the ink stained night
reflecting no light, no starry blink
no expression, no worries
taking in the eclipses and storms
that rent the firmament, into her galaxy
and never crying tears of stardust.
So maybe no one can see the dying bird inside her
bleeding crimson in the heart
wings flap-flap-flapping in a wild frenzy
breath – a lone whisper in the dark
(or perhaps a wail)
like anxious glasses shattering endlessly
and panic in her fingers as they close in on her throat
bubbling wide eyed palpitations at midnight.
So maybe she’s fighting the dark night even as she gleams in the light,
maybe they believe, that she really is fine…
And maybe,
that’s what she wants.
Β© Isha Garg
GOD, I LOVE THIS. (Sorry, but yes all caps were needed). This was a gorgeous piece of writing, You are one of the reasons I continue fighting my blurred vision and continue blogging.
The words you chose and the wonderful flow all added to the power in this piece.
And your finale…….it couldn’t be more perfect, Isha, Bravo.
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You made my day, Drew. I am truly touched by what you said π As for continuing blogging, I don’t think WordPress would be the same without your impeccable, lovely blog – one of my reasons to continue blogging!
I thank you, kind one!
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Much too kind Isha. Thank you.
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π
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This is so beautiful ……. especially the last lines πππ
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Thanks a lot, Sakshi π
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My pleasure
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So wonderfully melancholic – a thing of beauty!
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I’m both glad and grateful, dear Malcolm!
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As always my pleasure!
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Love your writing…always beautiful , always meaningful! π
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Thank you from the bottom of my (ocean coloured?) heart, dearest Patty! ππ
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The wings flap flapping in a wild frenzy entirely and breathlessly convey the sense of suffocation
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….making the reader so nervous she fidgets and accidentally taps the reply button…..
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….. and when the shaking stops I can finally add ….(catching breath) …. that I deem your writing something so very special dear dear Isha! β€οΈππ₯π₯π₯
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And I deem you the same β€
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Hahaha!
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Always right, my dear lady. You truly see right through the poem β€
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I read this post as divided into two parts, the first about the galactic unrest trapped inside her reminds me how our perceptions and proportions change when we delve deeper, closer to ourselves and yet how they appear like a static universe to others.
The use of the dying bird metaphor for the self(soul?) in the second part therefore both contradicts(when compared to galaxies and stardust) and at the same time enhances the proportion of the struggle within by giving it a meaning that comes close to being the death of the potential, of the flight.
Maybe deep down she is not convince that the bird within is dying, hope pervades all of our melancholic pretensions.
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Oh this is such a good treatise I read it twice! I don’t think I put that much thought into it while writing, especially the first bit, which unfolded naturally, embracing the image of the galaxy and perpetuating it.
The poem was more about the second part – the fluttering wings of the dying bird – a state of anxiety in the face of perceived calm.
This poem is one of those untasted, ungarnished dishes, served the instant they’re prepared.
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I see, so I read more than what was written, or probably not. It definitely reads more than it being about anxiety and perceived calmness or maybe it is me π Poetry, like painting loses the originality as it is garnished, making it more palatable and therefore more ordinary.
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You have always been a meticulous reader!
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Beautiful imagery, Isha! β€οΈ
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Thank you so much, Winnie β€π
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If it hasn’t been said yet… maybe. π Nicely done, Isha!
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Thank you so much, Susi! π
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You’re very welcome! π
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