Tag Archives: Poetry

Favourite Poems: February 2018

This year, I’ve decided to read a poem a day. It gets difficult to quantify, sometimes, mainly because a) I’m exploring what’s poetry supposed to mean, and b) I like reading poetry collections. In addition to poem/day, I’m also trying to read a poetry collection each month. (But at this point I’m sure I’m just showing off.)

But, since I am doing this for myself, and I am too lazy to think of things to blog about (unless you read my poetry blog where I post more often) I thought hey, why not combine the two, and compile a list of great poems I’ve read every month!

The idea for this series is for me to post at least four poems (one poem/week) that I especially enjoyed every month. This way I can keep a check on myself (with respect to reading) and have something to blog about.

February has been a weirdly action-packed month for me in a way that’s not happened in years. So, maybe that inspired my favourite poems of the month. (Or at least the ones I’ve mentioned here).

So here’s a list of my favourite poems for Februaury:

1) My wife’s the reason anything gets done, by Lin Manuel Miranda.

If you know me at all in real life, you would know how much I love Lin Manuel Miranda as a person, as well as a writer. Sometimes, I want to chill with him, so he rubs off on me a little bit, and other times I wish I could just be with him so I learn how he’s so amazingly talented and pure… you get the drift.
This poem is the one he read out at the Tony’s as a tribute to the victims of the Orlando shooting. Boy, are we blessed for being alive at the same time as him.

My wife’s the reason anything gets done.
She nudges me towards promise by degrees.
She is a perfect symphony of one.
Our son is her most beautiful reprise.
We chase the melodies that seem to find us
Until they’re finished songs and start to play.
When senseless acts of tragedy remind us
That nothing here is promised, not one day
This show is proof that history remembers.
We live through times when hate and fear seem stronger.
We rise and fall, and light from dying embers
Remembrances that hope and love last longer.
And love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love;
Cannot be killed or swept aside.
I sing Vanessa’s symphony; Eliza tells her story.
Now fill the world with music, love, and pride.

Here’s him performing it: link

2) Daddy, by Sylvia Plath

I’d never really paid attention to Sylvia Plath, or had never really read her up until now, and boy what a big, big mistake that was! I wish i had her craft or emotions while writing, because it oozes out of her words and gets to me like I’ve never really felt before.

Here’s an excerpt:

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do

And here’s the entire poem, which I thought was genius!*

3) Every Day You Play, by Pablo Neruda

I cannot get the notion that Neruda is a paedophile** away even as I read this, but if I push it away, this poem is so beautiful. Of course, I even wrote a post inspired by it. It’s just too beautiful, I think.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

Here’s the link to the entire poem.


4) Dreams, by Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes is one of my favourite poets, mainly because he taught me that poetry could send out a social message. I’m not saying he’s the first poet to do that, but his is the first poetry I read that made me realize that it is possible.

This is the entire poem:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.


*I read Ariel as my poetry collection for the month, and I loved most of the poems in it. So, also check out: Tulips, Lady Lazarus, and Cut. I mean how can someone write so wonderfully!!! Beyond me. Besides, the foreword by her daughter almost made me cry. (Maybe I should have written some stuff down for a book reaction post?)

**I generally cannot separate the art from the artist, so posting this is quite weird. But then again, I really like the idea of I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees now that I kind of understand it.



Your haughty arrogance, and your sharp demeanor would render everyone insipid. Your sharp edges, and your pointed looks, your unshaken spirit, and your straight, unsmiling lips are masks they wish to bare open. They look at your dark patches and wish to scribble colour into them.

Unbeknownst to you, they try to scratch your surface and tear open barely healed wounds. They scar you and scare you. They make a spectacle out of your polished quite, and push you believing it a grand joke you’ve orchestrated. Seemingly unhurt, you try to retreat, but they have chained you with expectations you’re now honourbound to fulfill.

They don’t know you, darling. The struggle to open your eyes in the morning, and brace yourself. They don’t know you’re hardened against the tide of uncertainty, and hopelessness. They don’t know the scars you hide underneath your fancy suits, or the crescent moon on both your beautiful wrists. They don’t know that your laughter once meant joy and life, not just obligations, and pretence. They don’t know that you’re drowning and you’re shattering, and your greatest struggle is to load the dishwasher, and doing your laundry, and driving to work, and not deciphering stock values, or doing that extra credit assignment, or writing codes for the most complex programs.

Because to them you’re playing the hard-to-get game till they have drawn you out. But, they don’t know that your dark patches came from an amalgamation of different hues, drawn over and over and over.

Falling in love with a poet

There is something about falling in love with writers and poets. They always paint pictures of you in flattering ways. Your body, your mind, your soul is a muse to them, and they add details to it to make it more beautiful, more ethereal. 

Today, my favourite told me that the way I wake up in the morning is not a mess, it’s a stretch of the mind as much as of the body. The way I carve my body is not to loosen muscle from the terrible way I sleep, but the arch of my arms is his morning drug.

He said that the way I like my coffee isn’t random, it’s a reflection of me- dark with a dash of whipped cream. My breakfast, a croissant, is our relationship- beautiful, classy, unique, and sometimes cheesy. 

He said that the house my parents built is beautiful, because it’s a reflection of them- brown wooden doors that are sturdy, brick walls that are hard to break down, a porch that’s easy to access for outsiders. 

He said we’ll build a glass house by the beach, so we see the beautiful waves and the sunrise, so that we are open to aesthetic beauty of the nature, but we’re not one with the nature. Boundary to save ourselves when the weather is too harsh. 

He says we can have a Summer home somewhere cool, where I can leave my hair open and he can kiss my neck by parting my hair. That the sweetness of my lips would be far better than the ripe golden mangoes that we’d have grown in our backyard. 

There’s something about being in love with artists and poets. Everything is music to them. Everything is beauty, everything is grace. Everything is ethereal and eternal.