December 31, 2013

Goodbye, 2013

I will look at the scars
and run my fingers over them
they wouldn't hurt -
dried and just a flesh memory
of a gone-by ache.

I will meet on the streets
strangers with carts
selling my memories.
I would probably
buy a couple of glass jars
for a laugh

on a winter's night
while rubbing my toes
A song will wriggle in
through the crack at the door - 
I will smile without tears

I will thank you for what has been - 
an year of darkness and fears - 
without a shudder
and whisper into your ears,
"You made me grow"

Today, however, 
with all delight, 
all the happiness I can gather 
between two shivering palms, 
I bid you farewell!

Do not turn back,
Not now, not yet!
Keep walking,
and let peace come instead.

December 07, 2013

Everyday Writing: 24

The solace of words often goes unnoticed. Would those dark nights have passed had it not been words sung to tune becoming an earworm? Or would those bleary mornings have become bearable without words helping beat its retreat?
And how we belittle words- we always assume other 'bigger issues' plague us. 
The simplest of things are the most misunderstood. 
*one of those wistful days*

November 18, 2013

Everyday Writing: An ode to a cup of water

No one talks 
about a plain cup of water
ignored it stands
in the illustrious company
of bottles of imported liquor
fancy concoctions of coffee
many cuttings of chai 
and other beverages of lore
what becomes of this loner?
its humble nonchalance
easily letting it get ignored!
And so for the underdog
that simple lonesome cup of water,
here, I lay down by its
glistening clear self
this little piece of verse 

(The above is a work of dullness, hyperactive imagination, analysis and a fierce loyalty towards the underdog, the losers and the forgotten creed of the nice people!)


It was the smell of the Oriental Manuscript Library where my aunt used to work. As a child I have been there a few times, fascinated by tiny illegible scrawls on nearly crumbling Palmyra leaves. And the scent was of lemongrass. I have forgotten what scrolls I held in my tiny hands. But the smell never left me.

Many years later, when I was eating for a living and trying Thai cuisine for the first time, I encountered the fragrance again. In a small pot of tea, pale green in colour and poured into my dainty teacup, I had my tryst with lemongrass. And it made me happy, and I realized that memory is a lovely thing too, sometimes!


November 12, 2013


Fear leaves you naked
And suddenly you see
Those scars that
clothes kept from view
Shampoos and foaming bath gels
Tried to wash away
Concealers and blushes
Did a good job in hiding

Dents, bumps and excess hair
Stinks and smells and
Stench of madness
Suddenly you are not you
But some downsized
Stinking beast with vile thoughts
Unbound fears
Ungrounded manias

Hyperventilating into paper bags
Temporary reprieve
To a pre-natal problem
Birth not cleansing
This teeming insecurity
Instead flaring the fire
Of a nagging question
“Am I enough to be me?”

November 10, 2013


There is always a breaking point, a boiling point- a point of transformation after which something ceases to be what it was. Over time, it may have looked unchanging. But one must remember that it has been simmering, crumbling within. Never flirt with that point. What happens after is a metamorphosis you may not like!

October 30, 2013

Before Sunrise | Before Sunset | Before Midnight

I watch it over and again
They fell in love talking!
I want to gush
Spiral into a dream world
Like a stupid little girl
Stuck to her film-tinted romance
And a fairy tales ruined reality.

I watch it over and again 
They meet again and keep talking 
As if nine years had been but a breath
And time had stood vigil to love
Like a silly young thing
I want to believe in miracles!
A voice sniggers and I wake up!

I watch it over and again
Nine years and together
Shared memories and love
Questions yet
And I hear within-
It is all a mirage
But you can make your oasis
And choose to stay.

And I fall in love with love!

(Thank you Linklater! :) ) 

© Dryad's Peak
Maira Gall