Condition Serious Hai

This one, nothing really really serious, is for all of you who wrote in over the last few years to tell me that you missed me. In this post, I try and be my old, lighthearted, loving, kind self. 

Explanation of the entry:

Recently, a friend sent me a book that s/he had written. It was a book of verse. Fairly straightforward, loosely asym-metric, everyday stuff. Very similar to what I write. What was interesting was the format of the book. Each poem came with an introduction, putting the poem in context. In some cases, the introduction explained why the poem was written. In others, they explained why the explanation was written, which then dutifully followed. Half way between Angelou and Spark Notes in terms of self image. After a few days, s/he asked me what I thought of his/her book. I was tempted to say what I say every time the mother (not "necessarily" the mama this post is about) cooks up one of her obtuse dishes, “Interesting and courageous.”

I did not though. The only reason for my compassion was that unlike many of us who sell shampoos, the future of the nation and cars (or hope to win contests) in order to support our creative selves, s/he teaches. To me, that is noble, no matter why (or what, heh heh heh) you are teaching. So I said something like, "I appreciate your commitment to what you are trying to do." I thought I was being pretty kind. Those of you who know me know that I was. Those of you who have read the book in question must be jumping up and down by now.

But then I thought, maybe that is why people don’t like what I write. Especially my poetry. Because I don’t throw in an introduction and an explanation. You feel cheated. Hence this preface. But then, thankfully, this love poem (please note, not about politics) is a contest entry. For a Cadbury 5 Star contest. With really one condition. A serious one. I will confine this overture too to the same condition, a small request not to be serious. At least not about the subject of this post. Because seriousness, as they say, it’s contagious. May the contagion always be with you.

The entry:

Welcome Kit

We met in spring. She was special. I was a colt.
Dormant she whispered.  Darkness. So in vain.
She smiled. She knew me then the way only lovers can.
It would be years before I wanted to know her.

She was old. I was older too. I tried. So cool.
I listened to her speak in tongues I strangely knew.
She spoke of the nature of love. Of nature. Of love.
Serving masters. She spoke of betrayals. And of greed.

Then she smiled. Shook her head and waved me on.
Love is fine. Exploited. Spat on. But fine.
What about you? The ones who like to watch. The ones standing by.
How well will you be sleeping tonight?

February 22, 2014

Of course, I do not "intend" to cause emotional harm with this post. Not to the friend who sent me the book. Not to my biological mother. Not to the mama this post is about. Not even to myself.  In case you haven't figured it out as yet, none of the above is for real. Yet, if this post wakes you up to do that which is right, to make changes that are overdue - my job is done. However, please note, while registering your discomfort, that the only person responsible is me. Please leave the PR agency and all other mamas out of it. Let you and I slug it out in the ultimate court of justice in the blogosphere - the comments thread.


  1. Anonymous7:10 PM

    Remind me to send you my book- if ever I write one. Unlikely, but who knows. There is one story I feel compelled to tell. So maybe I will write, or not.

    Wicked, this one. Specially the 's/he' and 'his/her'. Unadulterated wickedness. But I suppose, someone has to be. What to do. Still, wicked. Tsk.


    1. I will be looking out for your book, Dagny. Stories told build community. Nothing quite as instructional as pain. This post captures me in a way I do not much care for. Of late, I am becoming less caring of how I am seen. I think it is good for me. Not sure about others though.

  2. the words of the great Bard...

    Stop horsing around
    And stop being silly.
    He/she be damned
    Are you talking of a colt
    Or a bloody filly?

  3. The s/he is a collective really, VJ, and includes a few acclaimed names too, a list too long to fit into a monostitch (sic).


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