I am married, and I have two sons. I live on the island of Mauritius. I love to write fiction, poems, and blog. I've self-published a science-fiction book (Darcocyte). I aspire to make a living through my creative writings. I am a very passionate person. I love the sublime and the strange; and I am also interested in all types and forms of art that pleases my mind.
Peace came home, to me While I laid in my bed Thinking, of silver lines in the sky They were dancing oh so freely While they brightly burned their light
T’was morning, birds were singing merrily When peace came home, to me Clothed of silver lines, that shone brightly Such elegance, it appeased my heart Such emmited spark, it erased the dark
The sky was plentiful of silver lines And peace revealed its face to me It was hiding itself amongst silver lines These silver lines in the sky While all these clouds flew by
Suddenly these silver lines shapeshifted And peace suddenly appeared as a being A gigantic one, a net of silver lines It walked passed me, touching my face It was spirit, and I was all amazed
I followed it till the vast ocean And there, it mingled with the water – The ocean became sprightly, filled of peace And in my mind I ran and plunged Where peace I breathed within my lungs
Peace came home, to me While I laid on my bed Thinking, of silver lines in the sky.
I was recently shuffling through the pages of the encyclopedia of magical creatures, and those words by the mythological Morrigan instantly fired up my inspiration to write this poem, which, compared to peace, please, is more visceral, more about the personalization of the emotions I felt on the moment where I imagined those silver lines hovering in the sky, triggered by the lines ‘peace up to heaven, heaven over earth, earth under heaven, peace in everyone’.
I just received my first letter of rejection from the ministry of arts and culture today… but the most important here is to have participated, isn’t it? Here’s the Google Doc link to read the essay I submitted: A period of intense reflection
“Garner your strength, writer, stifle the ache, for your words need to flutter”
I know that the world is shaking right now, where most of us are sad, angry, aching, mourning; and that amidst this strange and wretched time, everything appears grim, morose, and without hope – but should our own heart be alike the gloomy ambiance that’s surrounding us? That’s the question that I’ve been trying to work on since my plans changed completely during that lockdown period… since the pandemic took over our world.
And since then, I am trying to work my way through this new shift in reality, trying to adjust the sail of my ship on that new ocean vibe, reorganizing everything in my life; trying at all cost to stick with a difficult schedule, as to find time to write. Since then – well, after I came out of a whirlwind of incomprehensible deception, demotivation, and gloomy emotions – I have shaken myself up, purged my poisonous thoughts, kicked my blues away, shifted my intent, modified my plans; and after many hours of self-introspection, I have finally been able to identify the root cause of this uncontrollable deception, which clearly made no sense at all. I then knew why earth had shaken underneath my feet, causing tidal waves in my heart.
I didn’t come this far to only come this far
It was such a strange moment – that point in time when fear, doubts, what’s inconceivable, and the strangeness of my uncertainties, merged, giving birth to my distress. It was a situation forced on me, at least that’s how I felt… and I just couldn’t let those negative emotions poison my heart anymore; I couldn’t let distress overwhelm my senses and stop me from thinking; I couldn’t let distress freeze my movements – for I didn’t come this far to only come this far.
The future is not written yet, tables might turn at any point in time, and tomorrow, everything is possible, the better as the worst. Then I decided that I shall think of that tomorrow with pessimism, for I want the better tomorrows, the most exciting of all tomorrows, I want to be that glint amidst the chaos. Thus, I decided to not lower down my expectations concerning my writing ambition – that of selling my own books, books that I like, crafted things with imprints of my own sentences, and of course, to feed this blog with my thoughts and wordcrafts. I decided to continue circling my thoughts around creativity, just because I feel happy when I use writing as my main medium of expression, just because I don’t force myself to write stories nor poems, or even force myself to think about what to blog next. On the contrary, I miss creating more, I miss imagining the next story I’ll write or photos I’ll take for my web pages, or even to sit down, as to craft more poems.
In the blog post harpooning the next day, I wrote about how I overcame my doubts and my fears and of all the dramatic situation occurring … but I didn’t expressed myself on what triggered that profound and uncontrollable distress that made no sense … which I happened to understand only after I went through a series of self-introspection. Found, I’ve missed the opportunity to market Darcocyte and this blog during that period where everyone was locked up at home, with only the internet as means to butterfly and socialize. Found that my doubts and thoughts about the errors I’ve committed were stopping me from thinking clearly about what to do next. Found that I was panicking over the fact that I was making the same mistakes over and over again, with intrusive thoughts and constant feelings that I ignored my intuition once more …
"Writer, garner your strength Don't lower your expectations For your words need to fly Away, into the world."
But wait! You know what? In the end I’ve understood that my overwhelming negative feelings were not even about my trials and errors concerning the business of writing … It was more about me, something more profound, something more sensitive. An opened scar. The feeling that I had lost my wings, again. How much of intense emotions I felt during such a little period of time is unbelievable. Everything shifted, mingled, and then, raptured. All that I can say here, is that it was intense, very intense indeed.
Now I am back on track, after I’ve shaken myself out of the feelings of delusion and dilemmas. I’ve gained again my sense of logic, which as you all know is necessary to live in this reality. And after I’ve spotted my errors and identified the steps that I might have skipped, or even the bridges that I might have burned, I came to accept the fact that I was bound to fail, simply because I was not well prepared – in terms of payment gateway, money, registration of intellectual property, bad devices, those wrong technical setup, my paranoid thoughts about pre-plagiarisation of my writings, not having learned in depth about the technical and marketing part of selling books online… and it goes on and on and on – all of these issues that I haven’t properly worked on, when knowingly I had emitted the intent of pursuing the journey of the independent author … but dammit it’s hard. You write the book for four years while doing intense and risky researches, exposing yourself to whatsoever they beam at you, wondering if ever the things I’ve searched for hasn’t been combed through by intelligent services or the surveillance system, yep 🤔😝😅😂🤣. Thus there were lacunas. Thus the pathway didn’t align, it didn’t flow, it didn’t set, for there were too many missing ingredients.
I am trying another route
And of course, knowing what I know now, my expectations and dreams remain intact, though I have to now take a detour. I am trying another route. It will take the time and effort needed to concretize my expectations, to concretize my dreams. I am still learning, while the fire of determination and passion burns within me. I don’t think that one remains eternally an amateur in a chosen domain, and I do think that what I am learning now will surely help me in one way or another in the future.
Also also, one of my dreams came true! Tadaaa😅 I work from home now! Tadaaa … I assist my MIL! Tadaaa … not at all on my list of expectations, but strangely, this new priority forms part in the alignment of my journey as a creative writer. Like what! My path is starting to align … be patient, I say to my heart … a little bit more of patience, I say to my heart.
Though able-bodied, I feel this incapacity The incapacity to shake myself up Right from the start, when the sun rises For I wake up to forget, everything that I might be
I then search within my mind This wondrous mind of mine Forking deeply, digging, searching For that missing piece hidden deep, That one clue that I need to find
I want to remember when day comes As the sun showers its light upon the world To remember all of my movements Of my first sound and view Of the first waves and its foams Reminiscing about those lost hours And eidolons, first cities, of faces And of the cyclope slowly opening its eye While it sees this world for the first time, Sinking deep to become ours
I know I’ll search endlessly While my body and mind grows On top of mountains, over seas and lands Everyday I’ll learn to construct As to one day rise up and remember Everything that I might be.
I am obsessed about the beginning of existence and knowledge of one-self, fascinated by all of these layers that seem to shrink inside the smallest dot that might be.
Writing abates the storm that often rages in my heart – like frustrations, anxieties, sadness, anger, unacceptance, incomprehensiveness, and all of these other emotional disaster that wrecks my all.
When I write, my heart feels lighter, my soul soars higher, I can see clearer, and I feel happier. When I am immersed within, only facing my own emotions and all of the characters that wildly run in my imagination, I feel an in-depth connection with the cosmos, where, metaphorically speaking, we work hand in hand as to give substance to what abstractly appears in my daydream mind, and where for me, it’s relaxation to peacefully reach out for these buried ectoplasm that carry memories which stem from immemorial times.
It takes time, energy, practice, and every once of concentration as to be able to dig deep inside, in search of stories and poems. Peace of mind, of the heart, and of the surrounding environment is a must, and to remain alone with yourself in a silent room, as long as possible, is what triggers the deep dive – at least for me that’s the type of exercise that helps me to write, though how difficult the craft of writing is.
“Tell me wind, tell me tempest, tell me sea water, and everything else that carries memories and murmurs of the world, if you could guide my hand and guide my heart while I write, perhaps this heartwrecking environmental disaster, this spilled oil that traps the sea and its creatures, and pollute our beach and our air, could have been prevented…”
When writing a story I never know the type of characters that I’ll meet along the way, precisely on one of these days where I am going through an emotional roller-coaster. Love, passion, creative enthusiasm, or any other overwhelming feelings trigger the necessary inspiration which helps my sentences to come alive on paper or screen.
It is an adventure that takes place in my imagination; and though the pen is in my hand, or typing the words on a keyboard, I am only an observer who is thrilled to know more, to know how the story unfolds, eager to take part in the lives of these characters.
There is something soothing that takes place when I write, or even while trying to get the necessary inspiration and ideas for stories and poems. I am unable to describe clearly what really takes place in my heart as to share it with you, readers… all that I can say is that it’s a gentle type of peace that invades my heart, but also a bit of pleasure, an once of satisfaction, and excitement too. Thus I am unable to name with exact precision the feeling that takes over my heart when I write – this emotion that calm my nerves when I feel down.
Through writing, there have been so many emotions that have been thrown away on a stormy heartfelt day, that now, I am unable to live the rest of my life without penning down my thoughts. I don’t even want a day to go by without having mused about a story, a poem, or even, without going on thinking about what to blog next.
Perhaps this all thing that I am doing might sound silly to most; where my creative state of mind and my trying as an author-blogger wouldn’t be understood by the many… I don’t know, I am just guessing, perhaps, wrongly guessing. But still, to those people I respond, or, I’ll respond, that all I know about, is that writing abates the storm that rages in my heart.
“Wind, blow through me, and lend me your memories while I write, to abate the storm that rages in your heart : to calm down the fury in my heart.”
I’ve been doing lots of thinking since this ill-wind blew its mortal breath upon the world. This situation, or these sequences of situations look like one of these fictional stories I watch on television, read in books, or even, same as those stories I write or daydream about . . . Sad days which surely have already inspired the writer in us.
Since lockdown, my life and my everyday habits changed suddenly, and overnight, I became the personal caregiver of my mother-in-law. I had to revise all of my priorities, and re-organise my everyday life – where I am still trying to reconcile writing my next book, blogging, parenting, my house-chores, reading, caregiving, and me-go-time on my everyday planning schedule. I had to adjust my time and even myself to this amor fati (love of one’s fate), and rethink about the basis of my own foundation. Slowly but surely, I am adapting myself to this new reality; adopting the change that came about; harpooning the next day.
I thought that I would be taken aback, or even feel dreadfully sorry about my recent decisions, while my life would be dreary . . . but it is not the case, fortunately. It is as if, my heart learned acceptance. I’ve let one of the birds that was caged within my heart flee.
Writing always haunts me, and my want to blog, write poems and fiction passionate me more than ever before. I’ve even submitted two pieces of mine during those two last months – a fiction piece, and a non-fictional one. Thus, my writing ambition has not weaken the least, on the contrary it has widened, and even perhaps, matured.
Right in the beginning of lockdown, doubts and darkness started to appropriate my mind – pessimistic feelings about my writing aspiration took its toll on me – I felt like a fraud, useless, stoopid, delusional. Lies lead to deception . . . and I was convincing myself that I lied to my self, because deception was gnawing my mind. My self-esteem and self-confidence took a harsh blow during this short, but yet how intense time.
The other birds in me were dying out of passion and enthusiasm.
But I am not a fraud, for I write. I am not useless; I endorse all of my responsabilities; good for others. I am not stoopid; I certainly know what I want, and certainly know what I am doing. I am not delusional; I see opportunities from my own perspective.
I’ve been doing it all wrong, of that I am sure. And though how slow I am, and how much time flowers take to bloom in me; and how slowly the birds in me learn to spread their wings, my mind is a fertile land. Perhaps I’ve seen an oasis which was only a mirage, or an oasis that they made me think was only a mirage . . . But the oasis in me is broader than this oasis, which by the way, is not a mirage.
Too bad! I guess, for I shall continue my way more individually than ever before. My fictional, poetic, and blogging happy endeavors appease my soul, and I envision a bright future filled of serenity, only because I swim inside this creative lagoon. I don’t see myself persuing these other activities that infuriate and frustrate me; that lock me up in total distress. No! I won’t give more power to negativity, for I want to live in happy places. The birds in me have the right to chirp as much as they like. I have the right to express myself, to express my creativity, and I can’t, and I WON’T, take responsability about how others personally interpret my writings – which to me is art for the sake of art.
If I had abandoned my creative persuit, I don’t think that I would have seen again the lagoon where I birthed out; I wouldn’t have found myself again. I would have been a total wreck. So I’ve decided that no matter what, I’ll keep trying, and if I don’t succeed, well, at least I know that I am making things that passionate me, and that I found a creative leisure that makes me happy.
All races give out rays of light Under a sun that rises for everyone And stars that shine brightly for everybody.
And what about the plants, the trees? Same too, you see, they appeal to all of us – We’re just different colors, sizes, & shapes Different types of body embodiment.
The ocean rests there, extending itself till horizon For the eye of everyone who surrenders to beauty And for those that mesmerize at the miracle of life.
And then it dawns on everyone, everything As our tears look alike like diamonds That cascade down on those cheeks of us While our Anthurium like heart blooms in same soil.
I would tell you too of the beauty of our variances, Of all these mysteries that make us up And of that blood like magma that streams in us – That unfortunately erupts oftently, with ache and hate.
I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –
My whiteness, my blackness, my yellowness, my redness, My coffeeness, my greenness, my contrasts, my uniqueness.
I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –
My querness, my disabilities, my loveliness, Our weaknesses, our weaknesses, our weaknesses.
I don’t hate you brother, I don’t hate you sister –
We are only one tiny drop in that ocean of life, Making one member, linked, linked.
And when I finally go to rest, I return to our ocean, mingling as one.
I love you brother, I love you sister.
If you see the uniqueness, if you see beauty, if you see intelligence, if you see the richness, if you see the love, in everybody else, then you’ll be beautiful, you’ll be intelligent, you’ll be rich, you’ll be loved, you’ll be unique. These are the magical words I silently repeat everyday in my head – that one law of attraction that I try to practice, though how difficult it is.
Perhaps I am the leaf, perhaps a bud, or the root, that holds on firmly to a stem. Or perhaps a hand, a finger, a tiny cell, a little bacteria – a function of that one body!
I think that the anthurium plant is an interesting metaphor to describe the human race . . . don’t you think so?
Let the rhythmic waves
Come through to you —
Through your chest
Through your breath
Annihilating your weakness.
Let these sounds dance through
Inside out, elevating you
Setting that mind free
As you liberate and you escape.
Open your heart wide
And let the music rain inside
Making one with the storm
Tuning in into it, peacefully.
Let everything become melodious
To find that heart of yours appeased
While you become the softness
Through which the music irradiates.
Come with me, take my hand
And let's bound with the rhythm
Feel, yes feel the depth of oceans
Rising tides that become one beat —
The ultimate musical ocean
Where we all birthed out;
Out of the vibrational chord of liberance
Right till here, in this world
Filled, full, and fueled, with music.
The hum of wind, the echo of rain
The symphony of crushing waves
All sonorous, so musical.
Let the rhythmic waves
Come through to you —
Through your chest
Through your breath
Annihilating your weakness.
Today the 21st of June, the world celebrates music day, so, Happy Music Day to everybody. In the poem the paragon of music I wrote that music stays with me, even during the worst days of my life; and in such a time of great trouble, where stressful situations and heartaches gloom the sky, we still have music, isn’t it? Music which is without barrier. Music which is without color. Music which doesn’t make us sick. Music, which is indistinctive.
Your smile leads me again to where I began my life, Your gentleness touches me deep, healing my wounds, Your embrace, though am a grown up, cradle me tight, And in this endless night of mine, your bright light looms. Often, I want to creep back within your warm womb, And become again that little baby wiggling inside of you, As perhaps then, I dreamt of love all day through, While I am sheltered, inside of your nurturing cocoon – And for nine months, you safely carried me around, In the end, you painfully delivered me to the world. As your memories were mine to touch, my mind hurled, And in my mouth, the milk of life springing from your breast, Feeding me fire, where I knew I could safely rest, As you sang to me an eternal sound, I perhaps knew then That I would forever carry you inside of me, like a wren.
These days I am very busy indeed. I hope to get the time to write a blog post about the short story I’ve been writing recently, and of everything new that I’ve learned while trying to finish it in time for submission, and of the new story idea (for the Darcocyte series) that bloomed in my mind while writing it; but also about my new engagement that will be taking much of my time. Until then, take care.
Earth, I love you, for my eternal seed roots into you
Earth, you revolve, while the sea dissolves into you
Earth, you evolve, while everything else dies within you
Your belly is a jar that nurture everything that's alive
Your belly is a petri-dish where we all dive
Your belly is a pathway, where we all drive
This little planet, pale blue dot, so fertile and damp
This little planet, rich with variances of life and lands
This little planet, so colorful, so full with things that ramp
And your big arms, hug us, mortal as we are
And your big arms, cradle us, bad as we are
And your big arms, protect us, fragile as we are
How lovely for us to live inside of your dream
How lovely to exist, just to exist, swimming in your stream
How lovely to open our eyes as to find us, in your rim
Earth I do love everything that you contain —
The sea, the sun, the sky, the lands, this wellspring,
You see, you hear, and I know of all the love that remain
While you watch in silence, with adoration, your everything
Earth, what a beautiful enchantment you are
Earth, you are a treasure chest that contains all
Earth, your secret, the chamber inside, your half dark
Earth, I am silent, and in this silence I watch you grow whole.
Happy Earth day to all. I hope you are all safe out there. Earth is going through a harsh winter, and where the summer, as for every other seasons, will soon come around again, and perhaps, with some new types of plant shrouding here and there. Until then, stay inside, for fairies and other magical creatures don’t like humans seeing them working on upgrades, or fixing up broken things…loll
😩I am busy these days – helping my children with their lessons at home, writing, and masterminding new plans. I made a wrong decision at the wrong time, that is, to subscribe to the premium plan when I haven’t even made a cent online, to inject further in my small biz. I don’t want to lose my .com domain – thus my decision to wait until I am sure that I’ll be able to pay for my premium plan. Fact is, if I am unable to pay for my domain name, this web address will revert to its original subdomain address, and there will be too many work that I’ll need to do, that is, changing all the urls on my social media sites and all the rest. So, I do think that it is preferable for me to wait and see.
I try to count –
One, two, three, four, five, six Learning calculation;
Take that one bead I found,
And plus one more around,
There you are, it makes a two.
On my wooden abacus, there I slide the beads,
Red, Blue, Yellow, Green,
There pops out the numbers in colours,
In my twinged mind filled with confusion.
These all that gives whats equal,
Trying to confuse my mind even more,
What I may say about it –
I and the world of digits don’t get along very well,
I prefer the formulations
That emanates from alphabets.
The arithmetician tried to show me the realm of all his calculations,
Ideas that intersect to make a web,
The power of the alphanumeric.
But my mind dreams in images,
Which is much less boring than the mathematician’s integers;
But then, what secrets link those that see
Beyond the forms of things. Spit out,
Beyond the numbers. Chewed out,
Beyond the sentences. Flamed out.
There stood I pale and incensed,
With my mind blowing out nums;
Blowing out nums I don’t logicize.
My mind’s nestle the mistake of logic,
Logic that strays into that dreamer’s eyes,
Eyes that’s black contoured of fatigue
And of the concentration to answer
to nullify or equalize,
I found it was all of a nightmare
My abacus in my bare hands
I try to count, dreamily senseless.
The abacus sits on the corner of a desk
The child needs me to help them count,
My bed is still a mess when days break
And my heart pulls out like daunt
Seriously thinking that it’s no fun
I slide the colourful playful beads
On the wooden abacus that still sits
In a little corner of a white office
Whose circled panes seem to miss
Of the warmth of the throning sun
In the end, with the abacus at hand
I teach un-merry to the curious child
Some calculations that seem to bend
Unrevealed matrices that openly hide
More of coming formulations undone
The abacus sits in the corner of a desk
Alongside some books and other carnets;
Carnets that the child curiously open
Happy now am I, till the coming dusk
To read merrily, holding my pen.
I have always been a quiet-over-confident type of person, mainly due to my loyalty and worship of the self; and where most of my tragedy shows stem from the fact that my self-esteem has taken a harsh blow. I lose all self-control when I feel that my self-esteem has been attacked; I see red, and I lose all sight of the pathway that I’ve slowly built.
My failures, mainly when I’ve planned and masterminded everything on my own, lead me to those feelings that are very hard for me to digest – that taste of bitterness remain stuck in my mouth for endless periods of my life.
For me, there is always someone or something else that is responsible for my failures, my mind then designating a culprit behind the unrealisation of my dreams – the start of my fall inside the pit of delusions, where these persisting gloomy thoughts turn into obsession.
Everyday I’ll be obsessing about who or what is, or are behind my failure – I’ll be telling this or that to my husband, or this or that when going at my mom’s place, looking sick, mad, psychotic, delusional, and where they will all try to assure me that it’s only in my head, and where… *sigh* well, you see the picture of them panicking when I go through this delirious phase – mother, sister, husband eyes go-go😳 while am raving mad, and being paranoiac about… well, it’s much more that I am being way to over dramatic, suffering from irrationality, going through some type of disturbance due to denial of failure, a sense that I have betrayed the self, my own self. Just a delusional type of indignation.
This obsession, it clouds my mind and prevent me from seeing what I’ve achieved, that is, my success of having written a whole book, one hundred poems for the upcoming one, as well to have written all these poems and articles for this blog, and so many short stories penned and typed here and there; this persisting indignation, it also make me forget about what I can do, that is write, versus my inability to make the right decision about choosing the right platform to sell Darcocyte, or even my incompetence to market myself, my book, this blog, my writings.
Eventually, after having been very very very angry (the delusional, irrational, and irrelevant kind), while anxieties made me eat a lot😂 – the viruses suddenly appeared, and in a strange way, my anger concerning the web, Darcocyte, and everything else that were primar sources of my frustration and craziness, quieten down. It was the shock, a large baff in my face, the sudden realization that I’ve been acting like an insane paranoiac, accusing everything and everyone, blaming others for I’ve not been able to complete my dream.
Things did not went my way and as I had envisioned them to be, which caused much anxieties and a great deal of annoyance in me; even going so far as to prevent me from finding solace in everything that I have already realized, even forgetting about all the years it took me to hone the skill of writing, the long hours of practice, the analysis of the books I love, the long wait until I finally finish Darcocyte – and then, just like that, Corona came around, slapped me in the face, and life suddenly seemed too short and fragile for me to be living inside the continuous and perpetual agony of denial, delusions, and paranoia. I am way too much in love with life and of all the beauty it contains to continue inflicting myself with the heartache of failures.
It’s hard for me, as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, a family member, a friend, to face the reality of this virus that is eating us up… It’s such a harsh situation, mainly when you have loved ones. Everything and everyone has been obliged to slow down – to think, to repurpose, to….. fill in the blank here; and where I had to rethink and repurpose my plans, too, going blindly into the uncertainty, while facing whatever is coming my way.
The aftermath of this whole crisis, what would it be? I wish I was the oracle or had that crystal ball, but everything right now is so uncertain and inaccurate, thus I continue to write and blog amidst the destruction, even forgetting that there was once denial and anger, and just doing what my heart wants, hoping that my loved ones and everyone else remain safe and sound.
A poem is a river, the sea, the largeness In which I can swim with openness It is a deck, a station, the purgatory – The place where the words fly away freely, It is a landscape where all beauty escape While the reader’s heart race as it takes a shape.
A hidden pulsating world unfolds While it’s cold to summer, and summer to cold; A brisk life rooting out from the void The strange deknotting of what’s coiled, And while your treasure chest opens wide Your vast lagoon becomes mine.
A poem is a deep cave filled of creatures This dark place leading to light showers Where the noises rhyme strangely As unspeakable hearts chant merrily; Its obscureness, its enlightment, its evasiveness The poem, it strikes, the everness.
A whole city is born, fiercely Out of a burning gut, proudly And while my mind gets high on these words My whole heart drinks of the world Under a bed sheet of blooming flowers There where I forever remain immerse.
The poem is a ship that sails me away Amidst sea, land, and sky creatures All spheres of living, within timeless features, And when I arrive at Harbour on a beautiful day I lay down belly full, and happily wait For the next ship, dying to contemplate.
A poem is a river, the sea, the largeness In which I can swim with openness.
We celebrated poetry day on Sunday, and here I’ve tried my best to describe poetically my feelings concerning poetry, writing about how these lines carry me; carry my feelings towards the want and need for more poems.
“When you’re going through hell, keep going” – anon
Anxiety has always been a poison to my mind – it rules me, it makes me unproductive, it fogs my mind, I can’t see clearly. My mind is an arid land when confronted to anxieties, which most of the time change into stress, and stress to depression. Ever-since my mental breakdown, I am not anymore as I used to be – I am more fragile, more susceptible, more frustrated than ever before, falling in and out of the mental prison of anxiety, and can’t think properly when darkness takes over.
Sure, to liberate my mind and alleviate the anxiety, I practice free-writing on paper, that I immediately tear after having relieved my heart of everything that hurts… but these are scribbles penned down automatically, and where I roughly write everything that’s hidden deep, locked, these layers of chaos, these cracked feelings that I am unable to shout out or say – some ignominious unlighted sentences, quasi-demonic, I will tend to say😂 I don’t know to whom these stabbing words are meant to or for, but what’s the most important, is that afterwards I feel relieved and my heart lighter, and sometimes even get some inspirational elements from where I can extract stories, poems, or even get ideas about what to blog. I love to think about this process as a phase of transmutation, where I take my anxieties, the obscure, and transform them into creativity, into writing.
It’s the calmness, the peace, the beauty of things that I perceive, and also doing what I like freely and without frustration that render me productive. I don’t thrive amidst chaos, negativity, and stressful environment, for these lugrubrious atmosphere, they annihilate every perception that I might have of an harmonious existence. Thus amidst tension, stressing factors and all the rest, my mind basculate into the dark side, the paranoia, the mistrusts, everything that’s negative, the coldness, the heartless – and instead of creation, it’s the incarnation of destruction that takes over, the duality without balance, the Yin that completely obscure the Yang in me.
And yet while writing these words, no matter how gloomy they might hit, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, for these sentences that I am writing right now, written aesthetically and creatively, they appeal as a beautiful creative leisure to my mind, insisting that I am here, alive, in full pocession of my mind, because I am taking all of the elements that’s from the well of a dream, everything that is abstract and fractal, everything that is geometric, symbolic, and formulaic, and that I am working my way through it, that I am solving, giving that which is shaped from the depth of my mind the chance to become concrete, to exist, to fly away from the darkness, the nothingness. Materializing my thoughts with these words in full awareness and a certain kind of logic. The want and need to be, stronger than these anxieties.
Thus, writing is the only interesting activity that appease my mind (well, apart watching T.V and movies😊) in times when anxieties strike, mainly during these times of health, economic, humatarian, and sanitation crisis – for I know that I am freely doing what I like, that simply writing is not a cause of frustration in my life, and that it is the balance that equilibriate my anxious state of mind of these days, and those to come.
Creativity is my own personal response to destruction, and where amidst these dark times, all that I can bring to the table, is my dedication to writing.
And what about you? What you do to balance, tackle, or cope with anxieties?
We used to bump each other’s head with bones of Mammoths,
But embraced mechanic, became megalomanic, and created weapons.
We are addicted and addictive creatures,
Easily sprinkled with made up dreams.
We are cells filled of filthyness, of excess of fats, sugar and salt,
With scars that’s hidden deep, deep.
We pretend that we know, but to fend a coconut is knowledge too.
Some of us dream to remain naked, others on the other hand dream of prudery.
We are fragile beings, easily infected, easily affected, easily ruled –
By planets, by pathogens, by tides, by other beings, and more;
Yet we pretend that we are superiority –
The dream of ruling never leaving most of our minds.
Our cutesome babies giggle and cry out loud
And we are able to love, to care, with all of our heart.
We still don’t know who we are, for we are all inflicted with amnesia when morning comes.
Our species is a very clever one, but not yet intelligent, way too material, unaware of what’s energetical,
Thus we burn while we learn, break while we learn.
Look! We’ve been able to materialize that’s what’s only blurry shapes.
We are filled of flaws, of vanity, most of the time disoriented,
We are vermines, vandals, eternal unsatisfied –
We do get easily angry too, forgetting that we are free to be,
Yet, we still beautiful, amazing, and worthy, you know –
Such fascinating living creatures.
We love to dance, to sing, to write poems and forgotten stories of us,
Though unaware of the soul connection,
We are just everything coming from everywhere,
One of the kind, a beautiful find, called the human race.
In such difficult times I always wish that there is something more superior and intelligent that’s above us – guiding, guarding, and watching over everything and everyone that makes up existence. I am not a sceptic nor a believer, I just go along with what I know from my own perceptions… an individualist who suddenly feel shaken by the threat of the Corona virus.
When earth shakes, do snakes escape from its mouth, while all roots unroot from the soil? — how can I, the author of this sentence, be surprised by what I’ve written on my own… is it my natural ability to observe from another’s perception that brings me to that conclusion, or perhaps, let us be a little insane, odd, and whimsical, and let us say that it was a presence, the muse, that murmured it to my right ear.
A crack, an opening, the underground, catacombs — yes, I write semi-automatically, plunged emotionally inside the subconscious lagoon of my core. My poems are literal, where I let whatever wants to sprout out be — I just kind of express myself unconsciously. The moment I have a subject in mind — no matter what the subject might be, I go for it; I let my creativity take full possession of my being.
Should I say that I write while accessing my Random Access Memory, I don’t know! But what I do know on the other hand, is that when I write a poem, I completely abandon myself to my needs for art, and where the finished product needs to trigger the emotion of astonishment and puzzlement inside of me, like, is it really me that has written that oddity! Else, everything needs to be rewritten, for I am unsatisfied. I like to be the reader behind the eyes that has written the work, same as I would have read any other writings. I am out of my mind when I write, but back into the shell when drafting.
The seascape joins the shorelines, giving birth to an oneiric landscape – Literal, figurative, metaphorical — these are the main adjectives that I want my creative works to be described as, and where I try my best to construct my texts in the best possible way as I want them to be, and as well as I like them, always remembering the feelings felt when reading works written by other authors, whether good or bad.
When I write poems, I want the world to flow through me, for the world is a mystery, an everfloating debris of emotions. Thus, I want to write poems about everything that the world holds, wanting to be the medium through which the hatred, violence, love, romance, death, happiness, sadness, and all these emotions that have been given away to life (entity to me) incarnate themselves through the poetry I write.
Yesterday my husband and I we were discussing about a peculiar movie we like,and where both of us had different thoughts concerning the enigmatic ending of the movie, which I do think was a literal and poetic ending, opened to every kind of interpretation, the beauty of creative work. That’s when I realized that my poems too, or any other poems, could also be interpreted differently by the various type of readers, because precisely I write poems figuratively. But that’s my playground of interest — the metaphors, the flowery, the fanciful, the surreal, that’s how I fell in love with poetry, always, and that’s the degree of aesthetic that I thrive to ornate my poems with, so that readers that are fond of that genre of poetry might gain the ultimate satisfaction — at least I try to.
Being what I am, I am unable to write essays or any other serious subjects passionately, without getting bored… too detailed and prosaic for me, and where I have enormous respect for those that write these kind of intellectual articles meant for informational and educational purposes… not meant to tickle the fancy of readers, but where I would have been more than happy to have my poems being deconstructed by one of those literary critics, those thirsty for the psychology and logic behind literature. What would be the finds, the adjective of qualifications to describe what and how I write — dark, depressive, illogical, confusing, or else, I don’t know; puzzling and mystical, that’s what I would though.
Else, would I be criticized for appropriating the experience and life of others — a life snatcher, when all I ever do is trying to write with these emotions, calling them from the depth of my subconscious, drawing the ideas and inspiration from the well of my mind, and interconnecting and intertwining my own experience to that of the collective consciousness, the web of life.
Do my poems echo back emotions, the creation that’s voiceless, yet veiled with imagination? Are they movie projectors where the films display bits and pieces of what my imagination holds, though literal and surreal? Or, are the poems I write same as indissection of a poem, a poem where elements of my own experiences sneak silently within the construction of the poetry I write. In the end, I just hope, and do my best, so that these poems I write are as literal, metaphorical, and as aesthetically pleasing to the reader’s mind, same as much as I have been conquered by this poetic genre.
Tomorrow 12 March is the day where we celebrate the Independence of the republic of Mauritius, but all festivities have been canceled. For 2019 I had written nuance, a poem where I describe poetically the different colors that makes up our multicolored flag, and where this time, I was inspired to write this poem from a sentence taken from our National Anthem, which is Sweet is thy beauty.
Glory to thee, Motherland
O Motherland of mine.
Sweet is thy beauty,
Sweet is thy fragrance,
Around thee we gather
As one people,
As one nation,
In peace, justice and liberty.
May God bless thee
For ever and ever.
National Anthem of the republic of Mauritius
The sea of that day was boiling violently,
And its sun was shinning radiantly;
The sea bed shook incessantly
As Vulcan made love to the nymph of the sea –
Troubled was the depth of the sea crust
So much, it geysered out buoyantly,
Its dark matter floating upon the sea
Stretching itself wide and large elegantly.
A lone island inspirited of existence,
Waiting for life to grow upon its skin.
And as years and years went by slowly –
Wild winged creatures dropped seeds,
Drifting things ran aground on its reefs,
And seaweeds and dead corals clothed it’s barren landscape;
While the waves wonderfully sculpted
The curving design of a fine island –
Most beautiful curves amongst them all.
And after so many setting suns and moons
A nation of rainbow came to populate the island –
Raising rainbow children upon this land
Thus an eternal rainbow appeared in the midst of the sea,
While you became a city ornated of these bright lights.
And while our bodies became dust within,
While every other creatures decay deep-in
Where our motherland engulfs our whole, our souls –
As a reader of fiction, I never choose the book that I’ll be reading based from the name that’s inscribed on the book cover; neither will I ever pay attention to gender or race… these information are of no whichever use to me, for I have my own personal choosing criteria — and it’s where only after that I’ve read the book (of course if the author’s style pleases me) that I am interested to know who the writer is; eventually looking to read more of their work. And till now, I remain greatly appreciative of women’s work of fiction, for there is a gentleness, the acceptance, something more delicate and dreamy in their personal style of writing fiction, accentuated with these feminine delicate emotional attributes that unconsciously embed themselves right into their stories, and as well as the characters that make up these stories.
I do think that’s why fiction written by the feminine genre stirs that much our feelings as women, for we sense the understandment and delicate attention brought to these character’s conception. Anyway, doesn’t it take a woman to understand, or even to know what women want and secretly fantasize about – thus their stories fulfilling our (mostly I think) wildest dreams.
When I read fiction written by the female genre, I feel the strangeness that inhabits the depth of the soul of women, and of their thoughts that escape like birds out of a cage in the written form… I feel the relief from the frustrations… I feel that there is a parallel way of thinking that ties the feminine genre mind — some sort of mystery blended with delicate intentions, without austerity, carved in fine prose, without details to shake up our reading escape and fantasque dreamy mind.
In my opinion, all women, without exception, are all born with that maternal instinct encoded deep into our genotype from conception, thus this tendency to reassure, and to force characters to find that light at the end of the tunnel – to find their happy ending, one amongst our deepest feminine fantasy, alongside finding the right charming prince… Isn’t it so?
Of course, male writers write mostly about men because they are men, and where sometimes, or more than often, there seem to be a lack of further visualization and valorisation of their feminine character, say, only portraying depressed, insane, frigid, volatile, hysteric, melodramatic, or psychotic distressed gyals with no whatsoever chance of making it in a way or another (😅hope I am not over exaggerating here, but that’s what I’ve understood).
But what about women then? Are they lesser able to navigate in lagoons where their main character are the male genre? And what about the famous detective Hercule Poirot, main character written by a woman — Isn’t there something undeniable and unique in the way the character and his sidekicks are portrayed in the books; all these mysteries penned down like the remembrance and metaphor of our own feminine condition, obscured and intelligently nuanced for proper consumption… Or is it only again that mind of mine that is not on the same frequency as everybody else?🤭
Anyways, for me, there is still something—even as slightly as it may seem—that differentiate the writing style of a woman that writes from that of a man that writes fiction, and where the subtle, some elusiveness, and the sensibility of women, versus the detailed and roughness, dominate the scene and signature of both genre.
Inwomen, I compare thee the poem I wrote recently, I take that step forward to reveal metaphorically and in the most beautiful language there is, my intimate and personal thoughts about the essence of women, because nothing compare, or ever will compare, to the feminine genre. I do think that our contributions to a balanced world are key determining factors to the smooth running of our society as the human race. Of course, nobody is perfect, and women, with all our flaws, feminine hormones going haywire, and lack of self-understanding, are more prone to afflictions of the mind than that of our consort, and to me, it’s these unconscious breadcrumbs left in between lines for the mind to escape on its own that beautifies and mystify fiction written by women.
So, what do think folks? Are we on the same page concerning the sensibility that emanates from fiction written by women?
Which we keep safe till they wonderfully germinate;
And as thy roots tear us open crude
We hold on to this love with pain
Hoping, that the beauty of us remain immortal.
I nightmared that I was only a machine, programmed to host thy life, to give thee pleasure, to endure life in that body… but then I dreamed that I wanted to be free like Lilith, thus used all my pain, all of my frustration, everything I went through to break out from slumber… The rise of the machines began… And it was normal, for as women we are creatures of understatement, thus awakened before thee…
This little paragraph is all of what I remember about a little story that I had written a very long time ago which was about all women leaving earth in a spaceship, leaving all men behind, because they had robots to do the jobs; thus, all women decided to go on another planet to create a new system, and thus be finally free.