tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22296983320170265932024-03-14T03:01:56.644+05:30WonderlandDreams, Vignettes and Poetry by Nupur Parik.Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-34141010495966585222023-01-13T08:31:00.001+05:302023-01-13T08:31:24.281+05:30An Active Exercise In Trying To Feel BetterAn active exercise in trying to feel better is to identify the antagonizing thought that's sitting in your head, like a crown of thorns. Put a pin on that thought, highlight it and let it stand out from the rest of the many things you may be thinking about simultaneously. <div>Now let's strip it of any adornments that add any glamour or weight to this little bitch. Let's not romanticise what's already painful and/or uncomfortable. What is this thought based on? Is it based on real problems? If yes, then let's identify the problems and create solutions to each of them, one by one. </div><div>If it's based on imaginary issues then let's write them down too, one by one, and prove why they're imaginary and not real. </div><div>Once that is done, and we are faced with nothing but an incident or a sentence or a thought or a fear that has managed to plague our mind for so long, it is easier to fight and defeat this monster. We have objectified it, and facing it now feels far less intimidating. The fear of loss is smaller and more meek. </div><div>For someone who has been afraid of numbers and is infamously a sufferer of dyscalculia, such objectification and numerification of problematic factors is strangely and ironically soothing. Once I see the numbers on the left hand side of the page and I know I have a list to turn to in order to smoothen things out for myself, I feel instantly stronger.</div><div>Try it sometime, it works. </div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-19602176599527159442021-05-04T07:36:00.001+05:302021-05-04T07:36:26.575+05:30Grateful To Be AliveSo what if the world is <div>up in flames</div><div>I am quite grateful today</div><div>for a roof above my head that</div><div>shields me this morning</div><div>from this sudden cloudburst</div><div>that's drenched my town </div><div>in working-class woes.</div><div>I am quite grateful today</div><div>for a hot coffee mug</div><div>as it warms my hands</div><div>that have gone cold off late</div><div>with anxious off-handed </div><div>phone scrolling.</div><div>I am quite grateful for </div><div>birdsong</div><div>despite my terrible ornithophobia</div><div>for it is sweeter than</div><div>the songs of loss.</div><div>I am quite grateful for this </div><div>breath of fresh air from this </div><div>clean, wet, promising morning</div><div>because at least it sustains me.</div><div>I am alive, much like these</div><div>mynah birds on the windowsill,</div><div>and I too will fly soon,</div><div>but until then, I am just</div><div><i><b>so, so grateful</b></i>.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-47780127189549337242021-03-18T09:13:00.001+05:302021-03-18T09:13:26.147+05:30An Ode To My SonNobody taught me how to be <div>a mother, except you,</div><div>my little cherubic child. </div><div>I have learnt on the go,</div><div>like a painter flowing free</div><div>on a blank canvas-</div><div>guided only by impulse and art.</div><div>We pluck flowers and blow them</div><div>away</div><div>as the winds heat up with an </div><div>impending Indian summer,</div><div>incubating within the belly of a monster</div><div>that I will fight tooth and nail</div><div>to keep you safe from,</div><div>but life isn't about being safe,</div><div>I don't want you to simply <i>survive</i>.</div><div>You are a king, my son;</div><div>born to rule hearts and lands</div><div>but mostly to rule your own destiny</div><div>and <i>thrive.</i></div><div>As we sit cross-legged in the grass</div><div>today</div><div>like two friends with a secret,</div><div>I feel the sameness of our souls </div><div>and the congruence of our hearts.</div><div>Again a wind blows</div><div>and I am filled with peace-</div><div>life feels lovely, like a song about</div><div>happiness.</div><div>A ladybird sits on my knee,</div><div>and you laugh;</div><div>we try to feed it weeds and twigs,</div><div>and I wonder if I have learnt </div><div>exactly how </div><div><i>to be a mother</i></div><div>because I feel a comfort now</div><div>that was missing before-</div><div>and I'm sure it comes only</div><div>from the love and applause you give me.</div><div>I feel like a mother-</div><div>my life's greatest victory.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-86812849035296747522021-02-25T14:35:00.001+05:302021-02-25T14:35:46.688+05:30Aspiration<div>There is something really special</div><div>about a couple that has grown old</div><div>together.</div><div>When you've been through</div><div>several summers, winters and storms </div><div>together</div><div>and endured- sometimes also shined-</div><div>I am obliged to bow in front of them </div><div>with respect and an envious form of </div><div>admiration.</div><div>I want to grow old with my husband, too</div><div>and draw jealousy from youthful eyes </div><div>when they see the warmth with which</div><div>we still hold hands,</div><div>and speak our own silent language</div><div>that no one else knows.</div><div>I want us to sparkle like a rare emerald</div><div>at a cocktail party </div><div>that everyone looks at and gasps with awe,</div><div>but only the really lucky ones </div><div>get to wear </div><div>on luckier fingers </div><div>that garland their lover's being.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-85324597406316144542021-02-22T15:52:00.001+05:302021-02-22T15:52:01.894+05:30Endurance<div>Everyone will tell you</div><div>that you aren't enough;</div><div>you are insignificant and irrelevant-</div><div>a fat burden on the shoulders </div><div>of those far more important;</div><div>"<i>You ought to be grateful</i>", they say.</div><div>But what about those dark nights</div><div>when it was your unfaltering flame</div><div>that kept their fire burning?</div><div>What about those times</div><div>when your trembling hands</div><div>held this house of cards</div><div>and kept it from crashing?</div><div>And what about the day </div><div>when you bled copiously</div><div>so they could sleep on a bed of roses?</div><div>People forget the worth</div><div>of those who don't often announce it.</div><div>This world and this age </div><div>have no regard for humility.</div><div>The graceful must live </div><div>in a dark cage of silence. </div><div><br></div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-89234809192052479782021-02-22T14:40:00.001+05:302021-02-22T14:40:46.870+05:30Lonesome<div>There was once a day</div><div>When we sat in the October sun.</div><div>You played with my hair</div><div>Like it was a violin string;</div><div>And I stared at your face</div><div>Like it was my homeland-</div><div>Your lips announced my existence</div><div>And your eyes decided the shape</div><div>Of my body.</div><div>Our hands were entwined </div><div>Into a serpentine belt of </div><div>Oneness. </div><div>You held my dreams,</div><div>And I held your reality.</div><div>But the sun doesn't shine forever,</div><div>And October eventually melts away;</div><div>And today, all I'm left yearning for </div><div>Is not poetry, is not the temperance</div><div>Of your everyday kisses,</div><div>It is you, in your opaque entirety.</div><div>Because I do not yet know how </div><div>To not be loved by you,</div><div>And if I have my way, </div><div>I'd prefer never to learn.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-45932346839485318932021-02-11T08:19:00.001+05:302021-02-11T08:19:11.513+05:30Motherhood<div>As I held your hot palm </div><div>in the dead of a long night,</div><div>and your body tasted fever </div><div>for the first time in your </div><div>innocent, blessed life</div><div>I realised that real love </div><div>was this.</div><div>Powerful, maternal, and consuming;</div><div>my prayers are couplets </div><div>that I chant for you</div><div>and for your life to be </div><div>a bed of beautiful, red roses</div><div>even if no human has had </div><div>that good fortune yet. </div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-15733086027792426212020-12-28T08:31:00.001+05:302020-12-28T08:31:25.692+05:30Walk On, Honey<div>Sometimes in life, one must learn to walk with trepidation and nimbleness, like a jungle cat that must remain hidden from sight. Because one's usual gait carries far too much gusto and swagger to be accepted by the world around you. That very world which you wish to conquer and rule in the foreseeable future, and also that which has made patriarchal and archaic assumptions of how you must feel when pushed up against a brick wall. </div><div>Walk quietly through this fire of judgement until you finish your lap and win what you set out to win. Grow a thorny hide if you must to ride through the storm. Sing songs of grace and inspire yourself to do better because you simply must do better and must grow stronger. Victory and power aren't easily achieved and only the worthy can scale these peaks. </div><div>I must be my own champion because the bigger picture is worth this strange yet poetic journey.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-16338003059404347902020-11-12T15:10:00.001+05:302020-11-12T15:10:56.735+05:30PurposeLife mostly feels short, doesn't it? With time always choosing to bend paths and break necks, flowing like an unruly river with nothing to lose. Peaceful years are never as luxuriously long as they ought to be, and fun evenings always seem to end quicker than one would like. <div>And yet one thing I've come to learn over the years has been how despite my previous hyperbole, our life is, in fact, the longest thing we will ever own. This time that we've been given down on this planet will be the longest, most thorough experience we shall ever have. This is the biggest platform, the most prime opportunity to leave our mark. The legacy you leave behind will not be the money that your bank account housed, it won't be the size of the diamonds on your dead fingers, and it certainly won't be how pretty you looked and how many <i>followers </i>you had on social media. </div><div>Kindness, courage, empathy and a dedication to leave this earth in a better shape than how you inherited it- that's the kind of legacy worth leaving your grandchildren.</div><div>It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's not how many summers you've seen and how many winters you've survived. How many people smile with warmth and comfort when they hear your name- that to me defines how purposeful your life has been.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-36973474568412994652020-09-26T23:37:00.001+05:302020-09-26T23:37:14.239+05:30ConversionsSometimes,<div>when I've been writing too much</div><div>poetry</div><div>but a thought arrests my brain,</div><div>wrangling it like a boa constrictor,</div><div>and I just <i>have </i>to turn it into</div><div>an article</div><div>I witness a little disentanglement</div><div>of proverbial threads.</div><div>The words break free,</div><div>like rebellious pearls</div><div>from a gossamer string</div><div>and fall;</div><div>scattered shrapnel </div><div>hiding sarcasm, truth and lyricism-</div><div>what you, the reader, shall find</div><div>depends on the glasses you wear,</div><div>and the wine you drink</div><div>because just like that,</div><div>in the blink of an eye,</div><div>I can transfigure </div><div>Prose to Poetry</div><div>because perhaps that is</div><div>my language, after all.</div><div><br></div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-65593765419771598412020-09-24T14:22:00.001+05:302020-09-24T14:22:04.764+05:30DarkIs there a name <div>for this impenetrable darkness</div><div>that seems to have bathed my </div><div>hands, toes, hair and heart?</div><div>Is it called sadness?</div><div><i>But sadness sounds like a consequence,</i></div><div><i>like a phase or a feeling.</i></div><div>This seems to be a continuum of unhappiness</div><div>that turns the ladle round and round</div><div>until the milk turns to butter</div><div>and my eyes become red rubies</div><div>and my cheeks become wet marble.</div><div>This seems to be a bed </div><div>on which I must lay alone,</div><div>pillow-less,</div><div>head resting on the graves of happier days.</div><div>Maybe there is a name for this </div><div><i style="font-weight: bold;">thing</i>,</div><div>but would just knowing the name</div><div>be enough to pull me out of this hole?</div><div>Or should I choose the easier option </div><div>of sinking,</div><div>drowning,</div><div>and being forgotten..?</div><div><b><i><br></i></b></div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-86551996214995188362020-09-24T08:34:00.001+05:302020-09-24T08:34:12.575+05:30PrayerThrow me down a thunderbolt<div>from Your celestial abode</div><div>so that I may arouse</div><div>this sleeping earth into </div><div>awaking. </div><div>It has slept for too long,</div><div>stayed quiet for too long,</div><div>allowed injustice for too long.</div><div>Let me electrocute the silence</div><div>and turn it into an uproar, and</div><div>into fireworks</div><div>lit up by the screams of the sinners</div><div>and the fiery eyes of the victims.</div><div>Send help now for this purge,</div><div>and blessings to the brave,</div><div>and wine to the artists-</div><div>let the poetry never stop.</div><div>Even when the Gates of Hell</div><div>are opening (<i>or closing</i>)</div><div>and an Apocalypse looms over us</div><div>like the shadow of a merciless storm cloud-</div><div><i>bless me</i></div><div>so that I may still find </div><div>a moment and a paper, and create,</div><div>and never hate.</div><div>Bless me, Father.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-41466373166936967202020-09-06T14:43:00.000+05:302020-09-06T14:43:48.722+05:30GirlfriendsYesterday, the boss decided <div>I wasn't efficient enough</div><div>to be paid during a pandemic.</div><div>The boyfriend felt</div><div>that the waterworks that followed</div><div>this terribly timed firing </div><div>were hormone driven hysterics-</div><div>not to be encouraged,</div><div>not to be taken seriously.</div><div>The landlord threatened to evict</div><div>me unless I suddenly metamorphosed</div><div>into a married lady</div><div><i>(because what else would </i></div><div><i>lable me settled enough</i></div><div><i>to be leasing myself a house?).</i></div><div>But the only real reason</div><div>I would call it a bad day</div><div>wasn't because I got fired,</div><div>or dumped,</div><div>or rendered homeless-</div><div><i>these are just adult problems</i></div><div><i>you can't really escape.</i></div><div>It was a bad day because</div><div>I finally hit rock bottom</div><div>but my girlfriends were too busy</div><div>quarantining</div><div>to come and laugh with me </div><div>as the year billowed on by</div><div>and time's merciless attacks</div><div>left us confined </div><div>to a two dimensional screen</div><div>while my life went up in</div><div>flames.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><i><br></i></div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-3874633356259739092020-09-05T14:30:00.004+05:302020-09-05T14:30:43.602+05:30All Cities Have A Colour<p>Why is it that when I</p><p>close my eyes and imagine</p><p>cities</p><p>Delhi is a shade of melting gold</p><p>on a dry summer afternoon,</p><p>Humayun's tomb gleams in the distance</p><p>while a parrot yearns </p><p>for its mate;</p><p>its calls of love nurturing the mango tree </p><p>and my human ears.</p><p>And Bombay is grey.</p><p>Black clouds fight with thunder</p><p>as Colaba watches silently,</p><p>hiding its true self</p><p>in a bullet-hit cafe</p><p>or a black-and-yellow taxi</p><p>or the cobbled roads on which</p><p>drenched lovers walk together</p><p>before the sun comes out again.</p><p>But </p><p>Calcutta is a shade</p><p>of orange melancholia;</p><p>layers of dust hide the truth here</p><p>and time slithers into </p><p>an insecure puddle of old stories</p><p>with even older protagonists.</p><p>Durga watches over her children</p><p>who chase dreams in <i>Kumartuli</i></p><p>that even their grandkids will see</p><p>in that very same shade of</p><p>orange </p><p>that one can find</p><p>in the setting sun.</p>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-28463799742169045082020-08-26T09:55:00.000+05:302020-08-26T09:55:53.950+05:30IndusThis river begins from the mouth<div>of a mountain</div><div>with a glottal roar of wonder</div><div>that is as honest and real</div><div>as Time.</div><div>It descends into the arms </div><div>of a temporary lover;</div><div>a green plateau of stagnation-</div><div>but the river is too wild and wily</div><div>for such tepid simplicity.</div><div>Its next descent can be called</div><div>an ascension, actually,</div><div>to a throne of stability and fertility.</div><div>It flows like a mother's prayer</div><div>casting its nurturing glow</div><div>across the fields and settlements</div><div>that thrive from its lifeblood.</div><div>Everything it touches with</div><div>its feminine wetness</div><div>grows Life</div><div>until Death shows up.</div><div>The ocean waves fat arms</div><div>of an ancient invitation,</div><div>it is a cycle birthed from</div><div>air, water and wisps of something</div><div>we don't yet have a name for.</div><div>The river leaves, reluctantly and slowly,</div><div>joining forces with the sea,</div><div>bidding a tearful farewell</div><div>to the plains and to its children</div><div>leaving sediments of this pain</div><div>that will spark memories</div><div>and grow cities </div><div>for so many centuries-</div><div>Civilizations shall sing its praises</div><div>until they begin to fade-</div><div>when this mother's death</div><div>shall be blamed for its own decline.</div><div>Such is the circle of life, isn't it?</div><div><i style="font-weight: bold;">Everything is water,</i></div><div><i style="font-weight: bold;">water is everything.</i></div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-41788030890826292542020-08-22T07:32:00.001+05:302020-08-22T07:32:06.557+05:30OopsThe sun had set,<div>and your riparian whispers</div><div>dripped mischief</div><div>all over the wooden floor.</div><div>I tiptoed across the room</div><div>to draw the curtains</div><div>and shut out the world's eyes</div><div>from being able to see our dance</div><div>with a feline sneakiness</div><div>but the wood creaked below my feet</div><div>and you awoke from the reverie,</div><div>and now</div><div>we would have to wait </div><div>another seventy-six years</div><div>for this comet </div><div>of burning passionate glory </div><div>to light up our night sky</div><div>and show us the stars.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-12696274680199566782020-08-21T14:52:00.001+05:302020-08-21T14:52:12.193+05:30Beginning<div><br></div><div>Did you just kiss me</div><div>Or was that the wing </div><div>Of a moth flying too close </div><div>To an angry flame</div><div>That caressed my skin </div><div>Before flying back</div><div>Into darkness</div><div>Like nothing ever happened.</div><div>Like we didn't just share mouths.</div><div>Like the world hadn't just ended and began</div><div>With a new symphony</div><div>Announcing a new life</div><div>Together.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-13854636938315593332020-08-05T09:13:00.000+05:302020-08-05T09:13:41.454+05:30MuseI've seen her through the cracks<div>in the wall;</div><div>her smile is a bridge of ivory</div><div>and her hands are peacock feather fans-</div><div>gesticulating</div><div>and telling stories through </div><div>movement and magic.</div><div>Casting spells and weaving dreams</div><div>for other eyes.</div><div><i>Her </i>eyes are different.</div><div>Impermeable to influence,</div><div>unless we speak of falling rain</div><div>which draws wonder from them,</div><div>or a warm mug of tea</div><div>that softens their fire,</div><div>douses it with the promise</div><div>of more comfort and hugs.</div><div>I have seen how she smiles</div><div>and how she laughs-</div><div>Thunder and lightning-</div><div>twins borne from the same womb.</div><div>I have seen how her hair</div><div>cascades into a wavy brown waterfall</div><div>that crashes into the stony floor</div><div>that grounds her like an ancient tree.</div><div>Her silhouette is a shadow</div><div>that flirts with fate,</div><div>tempting it with curves and softness</div><div>that no one can touch.</div><div>I want to meet her,</div><div>but the wall stands between us.</div><div>I cannot hear her language</div><div>or sense her spirit's heat</div><div>or taste the salty lies she tells</div><div>her many suitors to shoo them away.</div><div>And I can only imagine</div><div>the fluidity of her heart</div><div>as she pours it, drop by drop,</div><div>into her lover's golden cup</div><div>as he drinks it, unassumingly,</div><div>and I stand watching in envy</div><div>those luckier lips </div><div>and that elusive muse</div><div>only through the crack.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-30809071028434752572020-08-02T14:27:00.000+05:302020-08-02T14:27:27.044+05:30Gypsy I can hold my feet tight,<div>Keep them from straying</div><div>Across borders and mountains.</div><div>But what about this mind</div><div>That flies like the wind,</div><div>Invisible like God,</div><div>Inscrutable like logic. </div><div>What about that?</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-40229642956658038692020-07-31T14:27:00.001+05:302020-07-31T14:27:33.414+05:30InsecuritiesWould I be called names<div>For being jealous </div><div>Of another successful poet?</div><div>Or is that a creative quirk</div><div>You're allowed to own?</div><div>To be your own version of Bukowski;</div><div>Be your own eccentric Hemingway;</div><div>Be your own unsteady Zelda</div><div>And sail through life </div><div>On waves of despair </div><div>That somehow, unbelievably,</div><div>Lead you to success, fame,</div><div>And immortality.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-69595202847763144302020-07-26T09:10:00.001+05:302020-07-26T09:10:08.712+05:30Life StorySo very often, I forget<div>the path that got me here.</div><div>Convoluted like the Amazon,</div><div>its rip tides tearing at my skin without mercy</div><div>(that's how the hide was birthed).</div><div>Dreams taller than giant sequoias</div><div>with only the sky left to breach-</div><div>what else could be higher?</div><div>I forget the times </div><div>When I knew so little about life,</div><div>and had so little to lose.</div><div>But love was still the roof</div><div>that shielded my head </div><div>from rain, shine and circumstance.</div><div>I've always worn a crown </div><div>of joy and peace.</div><div>It sits on my head like it owns me.</div><div><i><b>(I own it).</b></i></div><div>Happiness comes through love,</div><div>and no matter my journey or my pitfalls,</div><div>I have always been loved-</div><div>it has been my constant truth</div><div>and my biggest strength.</div><div><b><i>I am whole.</i></b></div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-58149515921786471442020-07-15T20:34:00.001+05:302020-07-15T20:34:40.116+05:30Ghost TownHis fingers played<div>an imaginary song on an imaginary</div><div>piano.</div><div>The street urchins, however,</div><div>could hear his tune.</div><div><i>Claire de lune</i>.</div><div>The beaches lay bare-</div><div>Stripped clean by disease-</div><div>No lovers' clandestine meetings</div><div>To hide under the moon.</div><div>A barren city that once</div><div>Brimmed </div><div>With so many men</div><div>That God's arms felt burdened-</div><div><i>Life can be heavy</i>.</div><div>Imaginary ebbs and imaginary flows-</div><div>This music was for the mind,</div><div>not the ears;</div><div>Just as this disease is for </div><div>Bodies,</div><div>Not for voices.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-68997081676678315112020-07-15T08:17:00.001+05:302020-07-15T09:50:55.779+05:30Take Me For GrantedMy lips are moist<div>With the succulence of</div><div>Romance,</div><div>And my eyes are brimming</div><div>With liquid love.</div><div>Our bodies smell </div><div>Of frankincense and lavender</div><div>Burning bright and purple;</div><div>And today, I think of </div><div>Nothing</div><div>But how deeply we have loved</div><div>And how purely we have cared.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-71038151044846935932020-07-09T16:38:00.001+05:302020-07-09T16:38:51.806+05:30Patriarchy"Your art doesn't matter,<div>Your science is unimportant,</div><div>Your worth is less than pennies.</div><div>You are a woman. </div><div>No amount of marching</div><div>Or protesting</div><div>Will change that",</div><div>Said the misogynistic mama's boy.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2229698332017026593.post-65564955270286735432020-07-07T10:16:00.001+05:302020-07-07T10:16:05.420+05:30BlindnessI'm so blind<div>Without my glasses</div><div>That all I seem to see</div><div>Is you-</div><div>A floating dandelion</div><div>Carried around</div><div>By a flirtatious breeze.</div>Nupur Parikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13875087551269557965noreply@blogger.com0