#megmi

7 posts
  • poeticgirl 7w

    ~Red

    The hues of the setting sun that sink in the polaroid of gloomy skies gulping halted traffic lights and smokes of a burning cigar of a familiar stranger

    ~Blue

    The stains of harsh tides that takes away the promises written on feeble sandy realms and the forget-me-not ebbs that leaves you sea shells to adorn your clay castles of memories

    ~Yellow

    The marigold that blooms in a forbidden garden faraway from this half-dead city lights, a lady that sells hope in earthen vases that your mother fills with Vangogh's sunflowers

    ~White

    The ivory crown of the starry sky his silk-haired mother dotes on hoping he'll return from the land of dead bringing her a pearl pendant

    ~ Black

    The colour of heartbreaks or the meek poetries she adorns between her hair strands and longs for spring to bloom in her cold heart.


    ~M e g h a // Taints


    #mondo#wod #meg_wn #megmi

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  • poeticgirl 10w

    GROWTH


    In God's grey reign
    Where perfection
    Is a lie,
    I stand 17 summers later
    Nurturing a sunflower in my palms
    And grey promises on my forehead
    Growing up
    Feels like painting a sunset
    On wooden fences,
    You never get the colours right
    Or planting a skyline
    On both sides
    Of an uneven smile
    Growing up is a story
    Whose end is a two-way street,
    But your feet are heavy
    From carrying the weight,
    Of faint memories
    While your name
    Is baptised by the clouds
    Growth knocks on your foggy windows
    An apocalypse disguised as home
    Growing up is a poetry
    Metamorphosing to a song
    A Vangogh's sky in the making,
    A dried paintbrush,
    A dull panorama
    And it's okay,
    If your painting,
    Is not an art
    Remember,
    In God's grey reign
    All artists
    Have a story
    But growth,
    Is an abstract poem

    ~M e g h a / Growing up is like painting a sky picture




    #growth #wod #meg_wn #megmi

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  • poeticgirl 17w

    You remind of murky a p r i c o t s t a i n s of the sun on the freshly washed laundry blue skies, creased unevenly at abruptly edges. You make me go back to my summer holidays at my native place and savour mangoes from our garden, and gape at the sundappled shades of gulmohar that stands tall amidst the red carpet of banyan fruits.

    You remind me of a bunch of s m i l i n g d a n d e l i o n s among pale vineyards, my ma's favourite chikankari shawl she wore on special occasions, the clink of her gold bangles complimenting the symphony of wind chimes. You remind me corn fields and windmills from lost suburbs, a field of glorious stretches of ripen paddy that dies with the end of horizon.

    You remind me of o l d h a n d w r i t t e n l e t t e r s , stacked in the attic with a heap of aging memories and to be hope amidst despair. You remind me to look past city lights, to look beyond the skyscrapers and tangles of wires where canaries still chirp hopenotes and shed seasonal mirth.

    You remind me of V a n g o g h 's S u n f l o w e r s who bloomed despite the wars brewing inside his head, who breathed despite the chaos ringing inside his bones. You remind me to pick up trampled wildflowers and drink lemonades when life gives me lemons. You're a hope-wave to my blues. You make me my jagged phrases bloom like those pretty sunflowers between the cracks of my scarred skin.

    You make me kind to me and paint my walls, again. But this time, with a handful of ho(m/p)e.

    ~M e g h a | Ode to yellow


    #color #wod #meg_wn #megmi

    @writersnetwork Okay fine, I love you too xp
    @miraquill Totally unexpected. THANK YOU.

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  • poeticgirl 41w

    A POEM THAT SCREAMS KOLKATA

    If you asked me to write about my city,
    In all praises I could tell you,
    About the capital of British India,
    And the transition from Calcutta to Kolkata,
    I want to tell you about the stories,
    Behind names to the park Street,
    Dharmatala, by Harris and Doms
    And why the lovelock street is called so.
    I want to tell you why I still prefer the train,
    To my cozy car
    For the spiced conversations about,
    Sexuality,
    Patriarchy,
    Equality,
    Democracy,
    Brews best under smelly armpits, pan stained lips
    I tell you why the local radio is better than YouTube,
    Because, it's KOLKATA my dear,
    Every sense is alive,
    My friends talk about Nobel Laureates,
    Tagore, Amartya Sen,
    I tell them there's more.
    And then I tell them how the first guy I fell for,
    Travelled from tallygunge To kalighat in metro,
    And how he bunked college to see me,
    Near the lake.
    But few things don't last.
    So I'll take my forever
    To Ravindra Sarovar
    And kiss him with open eyes
    Under blue skies.
    Kolkata? Will you be mine?
    I've seen petty fights at coffee house,
    Where people choke more on rejections than coffee,
    Or how behind every tiny book shop at college street,
    There's love and heritage.
    And I could tell you,
    The first time I bought an earring from Es-planed,
    At a crisp rupees 35
    Oh the seller asked 40.
    And I never wore it,
    But it smells like nostalgia,
    As fresh as first kiss.
    Ma Durga probably loves this place,
    And so does the city.
    My friends say I love you sounds sweeter,
    When said in Bengali
    And I dare not disagree.
    Because there's more to this city
    Than Google maps could find
    And yellow taxis are always better then OLA.
    So when my best friend from a different city says,
    K O L K A T A - The city of joy
    I can tell you he's only half as right.

    ©poeticgirl

    #travelogue #wod #meg_wn #megmi

    @writersnetwork you made my day by the repost and by the lovely feedback ♡

    @mirakee flattered ��

    Thank you everyone for the kind read and lovely feedback. I'm grateful

    BECAUSE I LOVE MY CITY

    Bg: It's Ravindra Sarovar ♡

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  • poeticgirl 46w

    WOMANHOOD

    Women, my amma says
    Are supposed to remember
    The algorithm for deliciousness
    The art of broths
    My amma at 17,
    Traded books for a spatula
    And yet, I don't know if it's her regret talking

    Amma mastered making perfect circles
    Of wheat doughs
    When I , can't even get my incircles right.
    'A woman's age', my amma says
    'Is counted by burns on her wrists,
    And scars on her back'
    And not freckles? I ask
    'Oh that's a big no.'

    Ma, I saw her making payasam
    For the courtier
    My elder sister was seeing
    'A woman', she said
    'Should know the art of pleasing,
    pseudo masculinity'
    And her self-respect ?
    'Doesn't exist',she whispers

    Di, I saw her dressed
    Draped in 24 yards of womanhood
    Because a girl should be holy under the fabric
    And blinding veils
    And rice and dal
    Fish and stews
    And books and notes?
    'Doesn't matter'

    Pa, sits beside
    'What's womanhood beyond
    Curry and stews'
    'It's a girl, who loves skies
    Or someone
    Who doesn't gets her incircles right
    Someone who stands up'
    So the dal and rice?
    'The dal and rice,
    Are a part of life'
    'But womanhood is all YOU'


    ©poeticgirl

  • poeticgirl 52w

    Trust me when I say


    Trust me when I say
    I'm no pain etched poetry
    In dried up veins
    But

    A p o e t i c b e r s e r k

    Looking for Polaroids in skies
    And whites in greys
    There's anxiety on my nail paint
    Where my elation went astray
    I stop smiling midway
    when frowns stop by
    Of stories behind my tan lines
    And a massacre behind my eyes.

    Trust me when I say
    I'm no romantic autumn
    Lovers talk about
    But

    A s o u r h e a r t b r e a k

    Stuffed in pockets
    Because my soul still denies
    And my hands are cold
    From a half written forever
    And half-lived moments
    Behind every memory

    Trust me when I say
    Illusions are contradictions
    I'm all but

    A d y i n g p h a n t o m

    On my way
    Who is often left alone
    Under the morning mist
    To looks for secrets
    I lost on my way
    To strangers with smiles
    That would win hearts
    And I'm the one
    Suffering from a broken heart

    Trust me when I say
    You don't want to fall in love
    With me at least
    Because I'm

    A s o r e m u s e

    That no one writes about
    And that you're young
    Like the summer sky
    And I'm drenched in grey
    And you have more hearts to break
    More wishes to make
    And that I'll write you
    An eulogy that stays
    Because at the end
    I'm all but

    A l i a r

    Who's always left

    A l o n e

    Unless the sky leaves
    Unless my pen stops.

    ©poeticgirl






    @sereiin @a_wildflower major missing

    @mirakee thank you once again♡

    @writersnetwork Thank you ♡

    #meg_wn #megmi

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  • poeticgirl 57w

    The ripples in a maple leaf tell me a story I left in the woods. I write an elegy to my younger self in an incoherent frenzy as the tangerines of my sundress fade into the dusk.The edges of my consciousness are so swollen that happiness refuses to build its home, it falls off every time a gush of cold pledges pass by. I fidget with destiny on the lines of my left hand, I question myself. No, even cliffhangers don't make me stay. I wish they did.

    The puddles of hollow fragility accumulate under the foggy glass. Can I ever spruce up the skies with my beaming smiles?Probably not. I probably don't care either. I'm never careful, I hurt my toes while walking over pebbled shores, I let blunt memories cut my tender present. I walk away, I have been ever since. On some days I am an amalgamation of nostalgia smeared in lucid longing on the sepia pages. I wonder about the warmth of wishes dandelions carry. Cerise skies make me fall out of tears, always.

    I stop singing songs at that particular stanza when they start lamenting young love, I feel attacked. I question the crease in my smile. I chose the heartbreak drenched in my favourite song instead of the love next door. When I look at myself today, I find myself more harsher than I used to be. I miss the eye wrinkling smiles and euphoria in my eyes. These days I focus more on the stories tanned leaflets hide than the softness brushing my drained skin. I want to strike a parallelism with nature. I want to feel less guilty about the hearts I broke, I want to fathom the void between palm leaves, I want to find hope in a graveyard, if only.

    A memoir under my forehead scar reminds me of rainbows, beguiling indeed. I look at the cacography on my wrist, I smile, "When looked closely, forever is a smile away, maybe"


    ©poeticgirl

    P.S - The world calls for more wallflowers

    @writersnetwork Thank you ♡

    @mirakee Can't believe. My first pod? Thank you!

    @hindrance Thank you for always being there ♡

    _hessa_ imytm

    @say_me_krish while editing that line, I deleted the whole post. Your fault ;_; (no. I'm just clumsy :p )

    #meg_wn #megmi #mfav

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