Pages of Stories

Every person has a poet or an author hidden within.

Now it is not necessary that the hidden poet or author is of the kind that is palatable. It could turn out that the hidden poet is actually just a versifier. Or that the hidden author churns out drivel. But you would not know till you try, right?

So, it was in that spirit that I started writing some 12 years ago. I wrote feverishly in a biggish diary and hoped to publish my outpourings some time. Move over Salman Rushdie!

The effort stopped within a few months. But the diary remained. A few months ago I decided to transfer the inked work to a blog. Just for posterity.

If you are interested, you may visit Pages of Stories.

The Man In The Mirror

I think this was a scam. I saw an advertisement in the newspaper of a poem contest. I, all excited, picked up the best (as I thought it was then) and submitted my entry. Few days later I received a letter that required me to pay $35 to get my poem published ("Your poem has been shortlisted", they said) and receive a copy of the Anthology (It was called An Anthology of American Poems). I was in a low paying job but still managed to send $35 just to see my poem in print. I still have the Anthology with me. There are hundreds of verifiers whose poems are in there. The publisher must have made a tidy sum of money.

The poem is dated 30.Aug.1989 in my diary

***

Every morning when I shave,
I stare at a face,
Handsome, Intelligent and brave.

All these years
I thought I was ultimate.
Thus I allowed myself
To rot and stagnate.

Today for the first time
I doubted my image.
And I took my first step
to become the man in the mirror.

Story Easily Forgotten

The poems are particularly awful ... as I see them now. They are more like rhymed sentences. But since these are my own creation and I can no longer write (even) like this, I guess it is worth digitizing it.

I think this story is from the Arabian Nights (or I maybe wrong).

Dated 21.Aug.1989

***

Once there lived a little boy,
Who had a strange habit;
Never read fairy tales,
or 'the Tortoise and the rabbit'.

He used to lie and dream,
Of people full of cheer,
Slowly he grew up to
Love laughter, hate tear.

One night he slept late.
But oh! what accursed fate.
The room was shining bright.
How can one sleep in so much light?

On the chair sat a fairy,
writing in her diary,
A list , she said, of all on earth,
who loved God since their birth.

He smiled at the list and said, "Oh lady!
My name isn't there, this I've known.
For I never had any time for God,
But I love people as my own.

For when I see a kid,
hungry and sad,
I don't pray to God;
I become his dad.

I get him some food,
And make him smile.
So that he can enjoy life,
For a little while."

The fairy smiled and said,
"God lives in your breast.
And you top the list
Of those whom God loves best."