Poetry Prompt 3- Phi Phenomenon

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Credits to http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/. I chose the last line of The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman.





Perhaps it was an after-image

I decided;

Or a ghost: something that had stirred my mind for a moment,

So powerfully that I believed it to be real,

But now it was gone,

And faded into the past like a memory forgotten,

Or a shadow into the dusk.


Perhaps it was the lingering lights;

Phi phenomenon on the marquees

Of my mind,

Damp with the thoughts of yesterday

And raw with the zeal for tomorrow.


Perhaps it was all the delusion that

Time is constant,

That stories live on paper,

And that real life ends at the

Golden gates of fantasy.


Writer’s Block

Writer’s block is an odd, annoying term. In fact, the word writer confounds me, sometimes. Is there a distinction between aspiring writers and writers? Is writing relative? Do you need to achieve a certain sense of superiority, a level of eloquence, a stamp of certification? Or is writing natural, like breathing?

I don’t understand why words have personalities of their own. Why some words hit home, and others just fill space. Didn’t we create them all? Don’t we love uniformity, perfection, and symmetry? Why do words speak louder than people? Don’t we control them?

Writer’s block is an odd, annoying term. I’ve never stopped breathing.




Prompt 2- Steps of Thought


Steps of Thought

In spiralling lives

Running parallel

And staircases soaked in sunlight.


In distorted realities

Of fantasy

Through pages of escapism.


In stacks of ballpoint ink

Anti heroes

And rooms flooded with sad smiles.


In winding memories


And forever stuck in reverse.


Prompt 1- Skyscrapers in Suffusion

Note- I’m starting a poetry prompt challenge. Every day (or maybe not) I’ll post a prompt and a subsequent poem. Credits to http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/ for the prompts! 


Skyscrapers in Suffusion

Tinges of yellow on monochrome

 The wide streets of inhibition

Open invitations to stygian nights

That last lifetimes.


Tinges of green on concrete

Elevators bustling with strangers

Open invitations to friendships

That last lifetimes.


Tinges of orange on charcoal

Teacups steaming in tandem

Open invitations to perceptions

That last lifetimes.


Tinges of scarlet on grime

Hearts beating in matte finish

Open invitations to relationships

That last lifetimes.


Tinges of blue on silver

Faces brighter than city lights

Open invitations to ventures

That last lifetimes.




the lowercase series- words

i could hear the shatters

of broken words and glass.

of caramel-coated



i could hear them soften their


when they approached my room.


i could hear the silence

disguised in sweet words of forgiveness

and maroon bouquets of



but i heard them best

when they entered my room

my eyes, heavy and damp

in a husky murmur

‘boys don’t cry.’


the lowercase series- childhood

when i was six years old

i spent my sundays out on the terrace

my face drenched in sunlight.


when i was six years old

i spent my sundays on rollerblades

brewing hurricanes within.


when i was six years old

i spent my sundays with puzzles

trying to fit right in.


now i’m sixteen

i spend my sundays on tv screens

drenched in technicolour.


i spend my sundays with headphones


in lyrical fantasy.


i spend my sundays in puzzles

sandpapering my edges

trying to fit

right in.




the lowercase series- loss

(note- refer to goo.gl/mqYkRq for details)



i went to the hills last summer

just the tarnished trees and my metanoia

i saw a waterfall, standing still.

i saw realities

battle it out

clashing and clanging in desperation.


i went to the hills last summer

just the calloused leaves and my metanoia

the air loomed, unflinching.

i saw slivers of white


creating and destroying in collision.


i went to the hills last summer

just the empty valleys and my metanoia

the horizon continued, unending.

i saw them


waving across to me in unison.



the lowercase series- belief

note- i’m doing a series titled ‘lowercase’. apart from the obvious stylisation, i believe that lowercase letters symbolise words we aren’t ready to speak out loud. maybe they’re taboo, or unacceptable. or maybe we just don’t talk about certain things at all. 


i’m still figuring out belief and i think that that’s okay.

i’m still wondering what it means to blame a higher power for the mistakes i make and the

wrong turns i take and

i believe that faith is present under my fingertips but it

isn’t quite in my heart.


i believe that everything i see

from the trees without leaves to the

lake glimmering with the remnants of laughter

beholds evidence of energy

of faith.

(under fingertips)


i believe that it takes willpower to put god before the people you love

and i’m still wondering about a cheeky

little thing called serendipity.


but most of all

i believe that the energy you talk of

or the force you believe in

or the god you would put your life on hold for

might just be




Pep Talk


Just felt like everyone should read this, writer or not.

“By now you’re probably ready to give up. You’re past that first fine furious rapture when every character and idea is new and entertaining. You’re not yet at the momentous downhill slide to the end, when words and images tumble out of your head sometimes faster than you can get them down on paper. You’re in the middle, a little past the half-way point. The glamour has faded, the magic has gone, your back hurts from all the typing, your family, friends and random email acquaintances have gone from being encouraging or at least accepting to now complaining that they never see you any more—and that even when they do you’re preoccupied and no fun. You don’t know why you started your novel, you no longer remeneilmber why you imagined that anyone would want to read it, and you’re pretty sure that even if you finish it it won’t have been worth the time or energy and every time you stop long enough to compare it to the thing that you had in your head when you began—a glittering, brilliant, wonderful novel, in which every word spits fire and burns, a book as good or better than the best book you ever read—it falls so painfully short that you’re pretty sure that it would be a mercy simply to delete the whole thing.

Welcome to the club.

That’s how novels get written.

You write. That’s the hard bit that nobody sees. You write on the good days and you write on the lousy days. Like a shark, you have to keep moving forward or you die. Writing may or may not be your salvation; it might or might not be your destiny. But that does not matter. What matters right now are the words, one after another. Find the next word. Write it down. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

A dry-stone wall is a lovely thing when you see it bordering a field in the middle of nowhere but becomes more impressive when you realise that it was built without mortar, that the builder needed to choose each interlocking stone and fit it in. Writing is like building a wall. It’s a continual search for the word that will fit in the text, in your mind, on the page. Plot and character and metaphor and style, all these become secondary to the words. The wall-builder erects her wall one rock at a time until she reaches the far end of the field. If she doesn’t build it it won’t be there. So she looks down at her pile of rocks, picks the one that looks like it will best suit her purpose, and puts it in.

The search for the word gets no easier but nobody else is going to write your novel for you.

The last novel I wrote (it was ANANSI BOYS, in case you were wondering) when I got three-quarters of the way through I called my agent. I told her how stupid I felt writing something no-one would ever want to read, how thin the characters were, how pointless the plot. I strongly suggested that I was ready to abandon this book and write something else instead, or perhaps I could abandon the book and take up a new life as a landscape gardener, bank-robber, short-order cook or marine biologist. And instead of sympathising or agreeing with me, or blasting me forward with a wave of enthusiasm—or even arguing with me—she simply said, suspiciously cheerfully, “Oh, you’re at that part of the book, are you?”

I was shocked. “You mean I’ve done this before?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “You do this every time you write a novel. But so do all my other clients.”

I didn’t even get to feel unique in my despair.

So I put down the phone and drove down to the coffee house in which I was writing the book, filled my pen and carried on writing.

One word after another.

That’s the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes into Chapter Nine, it’s the only way to do it.

So keep on keeping on. Write another word and then another.

Pretty soon you’ll be on the downward slide, and it’s not impossible that soon you’ll be at the end. Good luck…”

Neil Gaiman