Letters to those who hurt me

I write a letter.

Several letters, one for each

Set of eyes that made mine overflow with tears.

One for the teacher

Who castigated me for years.

One for each bully

Who picked on me when I was weaker.

One for the friend

Who let me down in my time of need.

One for the aunty

Who broke down my self esteem.

One for the nameless relative

Who questioned my life choices.

One for the colleague

Who backstabbed me without cause.

One for the lover

Who made me cry every night

I pour my heart into these papers

Hoping it would make me feel lighter.

Telling these people off,

For all the times they hurt me carelessly.

Words spoken, cruelly and hastily.

And I write one final one

For the girl who writes these letters.

One to thank her,

For because of her pain, I became better.

I thank her for being patient

For pulling herself together

For braving through stormy weather.

I am the product of her endeavour

Of her courage, and her fear.

Where would she be

Without these experiences?

They moulded her,

And she moulded me.

I tear up the other letters

And keep just the one

I rise, like a Phoenix

As I watch the other letters burn.

(C) Sneha Pathak

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A list of bliss

Soft cool breeze in autumn,

Leaves decorating the pathway in Auburn.

Sky painted in shades of orange and pink

White sheets of paper, ornated with dark blue ink.

Jazz instrumental playing in the background

Finding enthralling poetry in a library profound.

Kettles brewing some fresh tea for the evening

The sound of waves and the peace they bring.

Sunflowers, Roses, lilies of several colors and size

Finding small shells hidden in the beach like a prize.

The feeling of being wrapped in warm blankets on a winters night

A warmer hug from someone after a fight.

Having a good book and some hot chocolate in your hands

Reading tales of love and utopian lands.

This is a list of things that may fill your heart with joy and bliss

Add to this list, if there’s something amiss.

(C) Sneha Pathak

The girl in the blue polka dot dress

I remember the afternoon I met Her

We were both the only two people in the mueseum, alone, yet together.

In that solitude we felt an unspoken tug to talk to each other,

Our silences spoke volumes as polite smiles pushed the conversation further.

We walked together in unspoken agreement, yet in sync

The paintings fed our minds and our eyes continued to drink.

We spent hours talking, debating and discussing stories of times yore

As we shared hisotrical facts and nothing more.

We shared a coffee, and spoke of Van Gogh,

The way her eyes lit up, made me forget where I was, and where I was supposed to go.

We shared stories of art, philosophy and culture

Her face I have forgotten, for her mind is what had me captured.

When I bid her goodbye at the museum door,

We had spoken for five hours yet, I wanted more.

I watched her get swallowed by the crowd,

But I knew she wasn’t like them, her voice may be soft, but her words were loud.

The girl in the blue polka dot dress,

She did not tell me her name, neither did I press.

We may never meet each other again,

But I shall remember this afternoon, where I entered the museum merely to avoid the rain.

The beautiful encounter with the girl mysterious

Left my mind feeling fulfilled but my heart was left curious.

(C) Sneha P

Like a rainy breeze

He was like the breeze on a rainy afternoon.

The soft drizzle had died down,

The sun slightly showed its golden crown.

She sat at the window overlooking the city

She despises the rains, but today it looked pretty.

For she felt the freshness of the wind against her face.

As she sipped some tea, staring at the city in a daze.

It was quiet and serene, a little nook.

As she cuddled up with a poetry book.

Today, she knows why she adores him the most

It’s because of his mere presence, that the purpose to the day isnt lost.

An old soul

Loneliness be their dole,

For they have an old soul.

Always the odd one out in a gathering,

The shy one, seen in the corner doodling.

Bags under eyes,

For they’ve cried all night.

They blame it on the writer’s block

To hid their insomnia behind locks.

The darkness of their pasts and their mind,

They use their poetry to leave this behind.

Yet to bleed on paper and to bleed true

They need to dig into their wounds anew.

They hurt themselves by tapping their hidden emotions,

But what can they do, for poetry is devotion.

To heal themselves by the magic of verses,

They must bear through an over emotional heart and its curses.

To take a word and create some magic,

They need to use their story tragic.

For they expose themselves and bare their hearts.

They need to let their demons consume them over and over,

Using their stories of an abusive childhood or a jilted lover.

They walk alone even in crowds,

Their hearts feel at peace in silences loud.

Yet, their poetry you can never forget,

For they gave it their soul, these poets.

© Sneha P [ Rights Reserved]

Analysis of Mariana – Lord Alfred Tennyson

Hello readers,

Before I begin the analysis, here is a link to the poem for those of you who haven’t read it yet – Click here

Mariana is a poem describing the despair and isolation of a woman in an isolated home.

The poem describes the passing of time, the surroundings, the objects in the vicinity of the woman all reflecting the gloominess of her life.

The following lines are repeated after every stanza, in some way or the other –

 “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”

This describes the extent of the despair felt by the woman. She feels cut off from the world, lonely, deserted by her lover.

She spends her days in tears and her nights wide awake, wishing for death, for she cannot bear the absence of love.

Here are a few lines from me on the topic of waiting for your love.

In the morning sun, 
As I watch the children run
Happy and carefree, 
My hear whispers, 
Oh I how I envy thee!
For I miss the times I was free.
Free from the shackles of love 
The clouds of gloom above. 
A simpler time, 
When I was content with my rhyme.
Your absence now pricks my heart
I curse myself, for letting this story start.
I swallow my pride to hear your voice,
Even hearing your indifference would suffice. 
But why did you come through this door dear?
When all your promises were a lie. 

The dark side of love, one of utter despair where no voice is enough to fill the silence. Where no person is enough to fill the gap left by them. Where nothing holds your interest when life itself seems like a burden is projected in this poem.

Which is why perhaps, the woman, in the end, accepts the bitter reality that her love will not come.

Do share your views after reading the poem!
(Disclaimer: Following a few lines by an amateur poet in poetry by Tennyson is foolhardy. However, I am doing this to continue writing poems while reading this book Taking inspiration perhaps. )

A tale of two crimes

I once heard of a tale,

A man who killed his neighbor,

And stole all the fruits of his labor.

It made me weep with sorrow,

What will happen of this cruel society tomorrow?

 

I once sat upon my window sill,

I saw an act of nature, if you will.

A pigeon toiled day and night to make its nest in my window,

And once when his eggs lay in the nest, came a crow.

Nonchalantly it took the eggs with it

and began to take apart the twigs for his own nest, ah the wit!

I thought no further of this act,

Until one day I began to wonder,

How the man and the crow, their acts were not very different.

Perhaps one had a conscience, the other was indifferent.

 

– Sneha Pathak