Thursday, August 28, 2008

I give up!

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight. The party ain't over yet!

GPF- Poyem # 4

I give up!

I am hurting.
From the top of my tired hair
to the tips of my exhausted toes
I am hurting.

Oh how I ache!
Standing up is an ordeal
Sitting down is a woe
Climbing the stairs is something
I wont wish on my foe.
Oh how I ache!

Every muscle aches and hurts
Even the one above the thigh and below the tush,
which groans piteously Every time
I try to stand, sit, rise, walk, climb, bend or push.

I am one big giant bruise,
victim of style abuse.
No more gym shoes
From now on only Jimmy Choos.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Orange sings the blues.

[I declare this is NOT a GPF]

Orange was sad,
for it never had no rhyme.
He wished he had a dime
for every time he wished a rhyme.

Fellowship of Red
Was really widespread
How many rhymes of blue,
he never had no clue.
Yellow was so mellow
And loved to eat jell-o.
Green was keen,
A lean mean machine.

Poor Orange only had
Borange and Dorange.
He went around muttering
Gorange, morange, Porange?

It was a fruitless quest,
And he had already guessed
That he had not been blessed
With a rhyme for Orange!

Till he met with Purple,
As lonely as can be
Orange asked him "don’t you ever
Get lonesome like me?"

Purple sighed and said,
"No Durple, Turple for me.
Is there a Zurple by any chance?"
He asked wistfully.

Over this rhyme-less state
They sat in deep contemplation
Till some one said, “Hey look!
What a fabulous Combination!”

Isn’t there really
A rhyme for Orange?

Thursday, August 21, 2008

My Favorite Suburb

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight.


Before Navi Mumbai on the Bombay Poona road
Sits a little suburb called Chembur.
It’s only claim to fame, apart from Chhota Rajan, was
It was also known as the Gas Chamber.

But the scenario has definitely changed of late,
And Chembur is one of the few suburbs with any greenery left
To enjoy. It has parks where every morn laughing denizens meet.
Their laughter in the morning is an excellent way to greet
a new day. The breeze wafts in the parks very gently,
The numerous clinics make sure that their smiles look dazzling dentally.

RK Studios, Geeta Bhavan, and the Central Avenue.
If you wish for a cuppa there is a CCD or Barista for you.
The temples, churches, mosques, in Chembur are galore
But the pubs staying open late seems surely the main allure.

Chembur is truly God’s own suburb as many will aver.
If you happen to visit it some day I will happily give you a tour.


And do I think this poem is bad ? Isn't it obvious ?

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

The Dawn..

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight.

GPF Poyem # 2

At the crack of dawn one bright morn
I found a bird at that early hour
with its little chest heaving and wing a torn
It looked like a trembling wilted flower

“ don’t worry little bird “tenderly I said.
“I mean you No harm” I softly assured
It smiled a little ( or so I imagined)
And wearily it’s trusting eyes were closed

Such is life, I muttered to myself,
It’s the case of survival of the fittest,
But I am not the one to take it sitting down
I will help this poor bird back to its nest.

I stooped and picked up the little body
I could feel it’s heart beat wildly
Was it an angel from my garden
In need of a little help from me?

It stayed with me from dawn to dusk
It trilled its angel songs again
I watched it fly away, with a smile,
Happy to see it free of pain

The gifts of God are showered upon us
The birds, and beasts they heart beguile
As every creation delights the soul
I mourned that only Man is vile.


This poem overflows with cliches. Starting from Crack of Dawn, wilted flower to the final Only Man is vile.
Cliches, forced rhyme, and an attempt to state a universal truth make it a bad poem.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Waiting for you ! GPF # 1

It has been declared by zigzackly that 19th Aug till 31st Aug shall be a Godawful Poetry Fortnight.


Here I await,
in an ecstatic state
perchance you may walk down this lane

Here I mope,
hoping against hope
That all my prayers won’t be in vain

Keeping a watch,
Eager and staunch
Until I see you, here shall I remain.

Your mock frowns
are casting me down
And Are slowly driving me insane.

A love like mine
So steadfast and divine
Is not daunted by your feigned disdain .

Ah! you come in view!
Oh! Who is that with you?
My God! That looks like my friend Dwayne!!

The scoundrel! The Cheat,
Is wearing MY jackeat!
And walking with My love and My great Dane!

The wind let a shriek!
The clouds poured bleak,
Trying to extinguish my blazing pain

Alas! I stand alone
in the eye of cyclone.
Drenched to the bones in the pelting rain.


This has all the ingredients of what I consider a bad poem.
A relentless rhyme. A whole lot of bad poets give undue importance to rhyming. They also like to coin new and strange words for the sake of a rhyme. ( this does not include Ogden Nash and his ilk. )
A lament, this wrings out some sort of universal truths from seemingly ordinary objects and events.( The winds shrieking, the clouds pouring etc )
Exclamation marks. (Ah! Oh ! Alas!!)