NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 12th): Symphony of Longing

From NaPoWriMo 2025 (Day Twelve): And after all those shenanigans we, we bring you a very serious (or is it?) optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem inspired by Wallace Stevens’ poem, “Peter Quince at the Clavier.” It’s a complex poem that not only heavily features the idea of music, but is structured like a symphony. Its four sections, like symphonic movements, play with and expand on an overall theme, using the story of Susannah and the Elders as a backdrop.

Try writing a poem that makes reference to one or more myths, legends, or other well-known stories, that features wordplay (including rhyme), mixes formal and informal language, and contains multiple sections that play with a theme. Try also to incorporate at least one abstract concept – for example, desire or sorrow or pride or whimsy.

Backdrop

Ah, now that’s a challenge I can tune into. A poem with myth and music, grief and groove, structure and strangeness. I had fun with this. Lots of fun, as you can see. My first thought was to go with Orpheus (I wrote a bit, maybe I will publish it as a second response...?) but I decided to stick to my blog theme and persona:  

Myth of Oizys: Goddess of Misery – Greek personification of Misery. Rarely invoked directly in myth, which makes her perfect to be my haunting, half-seen muse. Here, she’s not just sorrow. She’s a kind of dissonant prayer, a force that demands to be felt but never fully explained.  

Gilgamesh & Enkidu – Of course pulled from The Epic of Gilgamesh, one of the oldest surviving literary works. Their story is one of loss and longing, of a hero who tries to outpace death and fails. Enkidu’s death is the axis around which Gilgamesh spins and the poem taps into that as a symbol of longing’s first true note. 

Theme: Longing – Longing as grief, as beauty, as ache, as beat like those old, cracked lines that still hum beneath our feet.  

Tone – If Stevens wrote jazz with the bones of the classics, this is a little midnight blues riff on his tune with some underworld smoke in the keys.

Symphony of Longing

I. PRELUDE IN DUSK MINOR 
(a setting, soft and sly)

The dusk came loping in like grief with lipstick,
Trailing Oizys behind her, barefoot and bitter.
She hummed in fifths,
a dissonant kind of honey—
low like cello strings grumbling through molasses.

In Uruk's ruined courts, Gilgamesh still weeps,
palming stone tablets like forgotten lovers.
He knows:
even kings with names etched into time
must kneel to the hunger of night.

“I built the walls,” he says,
“but they do not keep out dream.”
And what is dream,
if not a symphony we misremember upon waking?

II. SCHERZO FOR A DAUGHTER OF NIGHT

(a wild dance, crooked but clear)

Oizys dances —
a sharp-heeled pas de deux on the bones of stars.
She's laughing in half-rhymes:

blister, sister / rue, undo / fate, too late.

Her breath smells like attic dust and half-read letters.

You can’t court a goddess like her.
You endure her.
You let her hang her coat in your ribs
and call it “home.”

She speaks:

“Desire is a jackal dressed in velvet.
Feed it once, and it names you meal.”

Still, we follow her music —
spilled like wine
on the floor of some dim-lit bar
where myth and man
sip gin together, wincing with every swallow.

III. ADAGIO FOR THE UNSAID

(slower now, intimate)

There’s a silence between lovers
that tastes like copper and myth.

Here, Oizys kneels beside Enkidu’s grave.
She doesn’t cry —
her tears calcified centuries ago
into opals of ache.

She strokes the dust and speaks in whispers
so old they can only be heard
by those who’ve lost something unnamed.

“Grief,” she murmurs,
“is the twin of longing.
One looks back,
the other forward—
and both wear your face.”

She hums again —
this time, a lullaby:
three notes, descending.
Not unlike falling.

IV. FINALE: VARIATIONS ON A THEME OF ACHE

(resolve, or something like it)

And what remains, after music has gone?
After myth folds its wings
and the last chord chokes in silence?

We remain.
Tuning our bones
to the rhythm of longing.
Still naming the stars
after the ones who left.

Oizys smiles, faintly —
a flicker, like candlelight remembering its purpose.
She slips into our dreams,
not as villain,
but muse.

Gilgamesh, old now,
carves one last note into the stone:

“To long is to live twice.”

And so the symphony plays on—
not in halls,
but in hearts,
where the strings hum
and ache
is music
we dare to remember.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo 2025 (April 11th): “Two Radios Arguing in a Burning Room”

From NaPoWriMo 2025, Day Eleven: And last but not least, today’s (optional) prompt. Take a look at Kyle Dargan’s “Diaspora: A Narcolepsy Hymn.” This poem is a loose villanelle that uses song lyrics as its repeating lines (loose because it doesn’t rhyme). Your challenge is, like Dargan, to write a poem that incorporates song lyrics – ideally, incorporating them as opposing phrases or refrains. A few lyrics that might work, if you need inspiration:

“Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy?”
“I read the news today, oh boy…”
“The world is a vampire…”
“At first I was afraid, I was petrified”
“There is a house in New Orleans”
“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain”
“I went down down down and the flames went higher.”
“The future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades.”
“Nothing ain’t nothing, but it’s free.”

And if you’re interested in learning more about villanelles, you can find some good information at the Poetry Foundation website.

“Two Radios Arguing in a Burning Room”

“Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy?”
“The world is a vampire…”

The sun rose like it was owed to us —
coffee steamed, untouched by hands.
“Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy?”

Sirens called from six corners,
newsboys sang of war with glee.
“The world is a vampire…”

I read the obits just to feel something,
a stranger’s name lingering like dust.
“Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy?”

The radio plays two songs at once —
one hope, one howl — static stitches the space.
“The world is a vampire…”

I sobbed alone in the aisle of a midnight grocery,
buying nothing, avoiding everything.
“Is this the real life? / Is this just fantasy?”
“The world is a vampire…”

- Oizys.

[Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody (Official Video Remastered)]

[The Smashing Pumpkins - Bullet With Butterfly Wings]

A dream, a Hindi poem, some roadblocks, negative bank balance & a heart full of melancholic rebellion

April 9th - 10th, 2025.

This afternoon, as the soft rays of sunlight filtered through my makeshift curtains (made from my mother’s old clothes) I couldn’t help but write down the strange and vivid dream I had last night. It felt so real like I had walked through an ancient city full of lively history. I had run away from home, travelling aimlessly. With just one bag and my laptop. The streets were yellow, and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and spices. I wandered through narrow alleys, searching for a shop to buy some food, feeling completely lost. I found a shop and I saw a man buying some sweet food, I asked if he could relay my message to the shopkeeper to give me some vanilla ice cream and the shopkeeper was a bit disappointed. And then, suddenly, I bumped into someone familiar.

It was A—my school friend, the one I hadn’t seen in years. She looked just like I remembered: laughing, carefree, strikingly plum and beautiful, a bright spark of joy amid that ancient, bustling city. I ran to her, telling her how I ended up there with no plan, no itinerary. She offered to help me, consoling me in a way I didn’t expect. It felt so different from how we were when we were kids. Back then, she was always the centre of our friendship, and I was the one who loved being her rock. There was also someone else in the dream, someone who felt like a very close friend—but I can’t quite remember who they were. It’s like they slipped through my fingers, like sand running through my hands. Now, just a stick figure in my blurry dream. Still, I can feel the warmth of that dream, like a gentle whisper of night that stays with you even after you wake up.

Before I could process it all, I found myself in the newly renovated, cramped kitchen with my mother, making tea. We started talking about my recent work on child marriage and the challenges that come with it. As I shared my thoughts, she looked at me with that quiet understanding in her eyes—both wisdom and concern. Then she told me a story I hadn’t heard before, one that stuck with me. It was about a girl from a village I know, a teenager who had just been married off by her parents and was already pregnant. My mother described her voice as so young, barely having begun her life, yet already carrying this heavy burden. I could see the worry in my mother’s eyes, the weight of knowing how many young girls are still trapped in these cycles of early marriage.

That conversation stayed with me as I worked today. It gave me a weirdly renewed sense of urgency to keep going. But then, just as I was about to look up some cases for my research work, I found out that my access to the research databases I’ve been relying on was suddenly cut off. The user doesn't exist, it said. No warning, no explanation! It felt like such a big setback—a roadblock in the middle of everything I’ve been building—a bunch of coins wrapped in socks hitting you right across your face. It’s frustrating, and I don’t know exactly what to do next, but I’ll have to figure it out. I’ve sent some emails and am hoping for replies. Still, it’s disheartening. Amidst all of this, working in a social work sector and relying on funders' timeline of giving our organization, I have to decide when to pay my utility bills which is not exactly in my hands though.

So, I sat down to proofread and publish something with this entry I’d been meaning to finish—a poem that had been brewing in my mind for weeks. I finally wrote it all down last night, top to bottom. I’m not sure why, but writing it last night felt like a release, a way to process everything I’ve been feeling lately. Maybe it’s the dream, the conversation with my mother, or the frustration with the database issue. But when I read the words today, they felt like my emotional safety net today:

Main, Beti — Ek Virasat Ki Saza

(Ek Roohani Safar Ek Aurat Ki Awaaz Mein)

(Zakhm ko chamak nahi chahiye, sirf samajh chahiye)

Baap ke tamachon ne,

Rishtedaar ke tamashon ne,

Maa ki tamanna ne,

Meri tanhaayi ko maroda hai.

Raato ki khamoshi ne,

Andar ke toofanon ko chhoda hai,

Har hansne wali tasveer ke peeche

Ek roya hua chehra chhupa hua hai.

Doston ki chhupi hui hansi ne

Mere jazbaat ka mazaak uda diya,

Aur dil ke har tukde ne

Kisi yaad ka kafan odh liya.

Ab to khud se bhi dar lagta hai,

Aaina bhi aankhon mein jhaankta nahi,

Zindagi ne itna giraaya hai

Ke maut bhi mujhse sharmata nahi.

Baap ke gusse ka dar,

Maa ke aansuon ka dukh,

Chaar logon ki baaton ne

Ginwa diye hain aakhri din...

Sapne jo kabhi aankhon mein palte the,

Aaj woh sirf aankhon ke kone mein jalte hain.

Jin rishtey ko rab ka roop kaha tha,

Wahi ab seene mein shool sa chubhte hain.

Har narmi ek toheen ban gayi,

Har khushi ek saza lagti hai.

Zindagi ke is sheher mein,

Tanhai meri sabse wafadar saathi hai.

Na koi poochhne wala,

Na koi sunne wala hai yahan.

Bas ek khud se sawaal hai —

“Main ab bhi zinda hoon... kyun?”

Baap ka bhaari ghamand,

Maa ki halki si hansi,

Behen ki yaad —

Parchhaayi ko satati hai.

Khaali kamre ki deewar par

Uske gel pen se likhe naam ab bhi hain,

Aur uski chhoti-chhoti baatein

Raat ke sannate mein cheekh ban jaati hain.

Ek pal ko lagta hai sab kuch theek ho jaayega,

Magar doosre hi pal —

Zehar sa lagta hai har tasalli ka lafz:

“Sab theek ho jaayega…”

Dil to ab bhi dhadakta hai,

Magar kisi intezaar mein nahi,

Bas aadat hai...

Saans lene ki, jeene ki,

Kuch mehsoos kiye bina.

Intezaar hai us din ka,

Jab jalega baap ka ahankar,

Aur amar hogi maa ki azadi.

Us umeed ne rakha hai mujhe

Is kaali raat mein garam.

Jab behen ke sapno ko pankh milenge,

Aur nafrat ke dariya sookh jaayenge.

Jab sirf naam ka nahi,

Asliyat ka pyaar har chhat ke neeche rahega.

Main nahi chahti badla,

Bas khula aasmaan chahti hoon,

Jahan saans lene par

Kisi ke gusse ka bojh na ho.

Woh subah aayegi —

Jab maa muskaraayegi,

Aur main, ek baar phir,

Khud ko gale laga paungi...

Baap ka chillana,

Maa ka rona,

Waqt ka guzarna,

Rishtedaron ki tipanni,

Behan ke safarnaame,

Dosti ki yaadein,

Pyaar ka — na koi naam-o-nishaan.

Har kona, har chehra,

Ek chhoti si kahani ke tukde hain,

Jise main roz jodti hoon,

Aur raat tak phir se bikhar jaati hoon.

Na kabhi kisi ne poocha

Ke chhup rehna bhi cheekh sakta hai,

Na hi samjha

Ke muskurana, kabhi-kabhi, maut jaisa lagta hai.

Ab to khushi bhi ajeeb lagti hai,

Jaise kisi aur ki zindagi chura rahi hoon,

Aur dard...

Woh to meri apni milkiyat hai —

Jaise virasat mein mila ho koi zakhm ka makaan.

Bachpan ke sapne,

Jawani ki maaya,

Budaape ka dar,

Karm ka na koi phal,

Aur na hi badan ka khayal.

Zindagi ke har mod par

Bas ek sawaal rehta hai —

"Main yeh sab kyun jhel rahi hoon?"

Aur har baar jawab mein

Ek khaali khamoshi milti hai.

Peechhe mudh ke dekho to

Bas adhoore iraade,

Aage dekho to

Bas dhundhla sa andhera.

Jo tha, woh chala gaya,

Jo hai, woh jhooth lagta hai,

Aur jo aayega...

Usse milne ka hausla hi nahi bacha.

Par ab bhi...

Kahin dil ke kisi kone mein

Ek chingari si bachi hai —

Shayad kisi savere ki,

Shayad ek khud ke gale lag jaane ki...

Is zindagi ke chakravyuh mein,

Jitni koshish kar loon bhaagne ki,

Wahi khalwat mein,

Usi bistar par,

Ek hi kamre mein band,

Mere sapne sadhte hain,

Aur uski buu se rooh

Roz thoda aur murjha jaati hai.

Deewaron ne sun liya hai

Jo duniya sun nahi paayi,

Aur takiye ne pi liya hai

Woh har aansu

Jo aankhon se bhi chhupa tha.

Hawa tak sawal karti hai ab —

"Ab bhi zinda ho?"

Aur main bas ek muskaan pehne

Keh deti hoon, "haan... kuch had tak."

Na roshni se dosti hai,

Na andheron se dushmani,

Bas aadat si ho gayi hai

Har raat ke khaali paanon mein

Apne hone ko talashne ki.

Chahe jitni bhi koshish kar lu main lekin,

Baap ka gussa — apne khoon se,

Maa ka doodh — apni niyat se,

Kabhi alag nahi hota.

Chahe jitni takkar laga lu main lekin,

Baap ka magn,

Maa ki chuppi —

Ke mishrit pehchaan ke daldal mein

Joojhne ka taqkar koi nahi hara sakta.

Main nafaqat insaan hoon,

Main ek silsila hoon —

Us virasat ka, jo kabhi chaha hi nahi gaya.

Har baras,

Mujhe jise dho kar naya banna tha,

Wahi baras mujhe aur gehra doobta gaya.

Aaj bhi apne aap se ladti hoon —

Kya sach mein main “main” hoon?

Ya sirf unke jhoothe khwab

Aur adhoore iraadon ka

Ek zinda saboot?

Kyonki na baap ki dambhi,

Na maa ke insaaf,

Beti ko kabhi bacha paaya hai

Is samaj ke chaar logon ki katcheri se.

Jahan na aawaaz ka mol hai,

Na khamoshi ki izzat,

Jahan beti ka sapna

Sirf parchaiyon mein likha jaata hai,

Aur uske iraade

Sharm ke naam pe jala diye jaate hain.

Usne khud se poocha hai aksar —

“Kya galti thi meri?

Kya paida hone ka faisla mera tha?”

Magar jawab har baar

Ek aur dard ban kar laut aata hai.

Kapdon ki lambai,

Chaal ki sidhaai,

Zubaan ki theek line —

Yeh sab likh diye gaye hain

Uske hone ke niyam ke taur pe,

Jabki uski har saans

Kisi azaadi ke geet ki talaash mein hai.

Woh roti hai toh kehte hain —

“Naazuk hai”,

Woh ladti hai toh bolte hain —

“Badtameez hai”,

Aur agar chup reh jaaye

Toh samaj ke kaanon mein

Zyada sukoon bajta hai.

Beti hone ka bojh

Kandhon pe nahi,

Rooh mein utar jaata hai.

Aur har baar jab koi

Uske hone pe sawal uthata hai,

Woh sirf zinda nahi rehti —

Woh pal-pal mar jaati hai.

Aur jab yehi beti ban jaati hai

Ek aurat,

Wahi baap ban jaata hai

Ek mard,

Aur maa kho jaati hai

Julmi samaj ke itihaas mein.

Beti ki galti

Uske sanmaan ke saath baandh di jaati hai,

Woh sanmaan

Jo uss mard ka katputli hota hai —

Wahi mard

Jo kabhi beti ko gale lagane par

Hichkichata nahi tha,

Magar duniya ke dar se

Uski zindagi ko hi jhukane laga.

Aur jab beti apni zubaan kholti hai,

Toh use "tez" kaha jaata hai,

Jab woh khud ke liye khadi hoti hai,

Toh use "besharam" samjha jaata hai.

Uski har saans

Ek faisla ban jaati hai —

Jis par poori duniya

Judge ki kursi par baith jaati hai.

Aur tab samajhta hai koi bhi nahi,

Ke jis aurat ko woh chhoti soch mein tol rahe hain,

Woh pehle ek beti thi —

Jo sirf pyaar chaahti thi,

Na ki sirf bardasht karne ki taleem.

Aur tab,

Us aurat ka sab kuch —

Uski bolti zubaan,

Uski chalti soch,

Uski jeeti-jagti rooh

Ek saza ban jaati hai.

{Yeh meri kahani nahi,

Yeh har us beti ki kahani hai

Jisne apni pehchaan virasat mein pai thi,

Aur apna wajood...

Khud banana pada.

Main, beti banke paida hui thi,

Aurat bankar likhi gayi hoon.

Magar kahaani ab bhi adhoori hai...

Kyunki kal ek aur beti paida hogi.}

[It is in Hindi language, someday I will translate to English, someday I promise.]

It’s strange how writing can be such a release. I’ve been carrying so many feelings lately—so many that sometimes it feels like there’s no room left to breathe. But when I wrote that poem last night, it was like I let out everything I’ve been holding inside. The words came almost on their own like they were waiting to be said. I still don’t entirely understand it, but maybe I don’t need to. Maybe some things are meant to be felt and then shared, without always needing to be explained. Yesterday afternoon, while doing some research on child marriage, I sat down to read (again!) about the very inspiring Bhanwari Devi. Her story continues to haunt me and push me forward in my work. The strength she showed in her fight—despite the world turning its back on her—reminds me of the work I’m doing and the women I’m working for. Some of her words which I could also feel in the recent words of Gisèle Pelicot: 

‘it’s not for us to have shame – it’s for them’

The poem, "Main, Beti — Ek Virasat Ki Saza," is my way of giving voice to a story I know all too well. And I know, if you are a girl or a woman reading, you know it too well too. I know you can feel it in your bones, in your blood, as do I. It’s about a girl, a woman, whose fate has already been written for her long before she gets a chance to choose. It’s about the generational curse of silence, suffering, and enduring an inheritance that no one would wish for. Yet, at the same time, it's a journey of resilience, of reclaiming one’s voice and challenging that very fate.

As I reread the my poem, I was also haunted by the thoughts of the young girl my mother spoke of. I think of her as I write this, and I know that even though my voice is just one of many, it has to keep speaking. It has to keep pushing for change, no matter how many obstacles or roadblocks appear. Even if no one or even one person is reading this, I have to keep writing. So, tomorrow when someone is somewhere in this spiderweb seeking some reassurance, some affirmation, some understanding, my words will be providing them.

And so, I’ll keep writing, keep fighting, keep speaking. Even when I feel lost, like I did in that ancient city in my dream, I know that the work I’m doing matters. Even though bills are pending, even though money is yet to come through, even though my shopping list is rotting in the waiting cart, even though I am unable to move out, go away from this familial swamp, even though I have zero support system, almost no safety net right now. Because, despite all of that, in some strange way, I feel like I’m not alone in it. Maybe A was in my dream for a reason. Maybe she represents the support, the comfort, and the unexpected help that comes when you least expect it. And, if I can be that to someone, anyone, then my work has achieved Nirvana! And the other figure—the one I can’t quite remember—maybe that’s a part of me that hasn’t fully come to the surface yet. Who is still figuring it all out? Either way, I’ll keep walking forward, guided by the voices of the girls and women I’m working for, and the dream that still lingers in my heart.

It’s a strange thing, how life sometimes feels like a combination of the personal, the political, and the emotional all intertwining. In my dream, I wandered lost until I found someone who reminded me of who I used to be. In my waking life, I see the same theme: finding pieces of myself in the faces of others, like the girl my mother spoke of, like the women I work with, like A, and even the figure I can’t fully place from my dream. It’s as if all of it is one long, winding journey where I’m constantly discovering and rediscovering what I care about, who I am, and how far I’m willing to go to make sure their voices are heard. Today was a reminder that even when things feel chaotic or uncertain or chronically bad, there’s a thread that runs through it all—one that I must keep following. Even when I can’t see the whole path, I trust that, like in my dream, I’ll find my way forward.

- Oizys.