Skip to main content

Poetry

This is a chapter from my third book called Love letters

One of my first poems was called "More Poetry" and it went like this: Words that link, Make us think, Words in motion, Voiced emotion, Make us feel, Make us heal. Poetry like many other art is a way of expressing ourselves and a way of connecting with others. Poetry makes us think and look for deeper meaning. To challenge our thinking and expand our reasoning. We are able to connect the dots. Poetry is dancing with our emotions so that they do not become strangers. We embrace our feelings to become friends with ourselves. Most importantly we are able to mend the holes of our souls.

I love poetry because I can be myself in a creative and playful way. It allows me to reach the depths of my imagination. I can also say things without saying them. Everyone gets to find the meaning that suits them in a poem. Poetry is like a mirror allowing us to see ourselves. Poetry allows me to shed my inhibitions and be spontaneous. Poetry can be so many things. Poetry can be anything we want it to be. Poetry can be the language of the heart. The poet's heart is for love to impart in art. Poetry is a love letter to life.

Living with mental illness for me sometimes means having to pull myself out of the doldrums. On the next page is my poem that I created called RISE that is me saying to myself that I will overcome. This has got to be my most favorite poem. You have to read it from left to right and bottom to top. It is a stairway out of my sadness and hurt. All the words end in "ope" and that is the beginning of open. The stairway leads to a door that I prise open with love. A door that leads to better days. The price I pay is love and the prize is better days. It gets better.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A pot of callaloo

Call for Submissions: Archipelagic Entanglements   https://singaporeunbound.org/opp/archipelagic-entanglements When I saw the call for submissions online I was doubtful. I do not know enough history. I do not understand the topic. Then after chatting with my friend Chatty I realised maybe I can be the topic. My ethnic and racial makeup is an archipelagic entanglement. Colonialism meets indentureship meets slavery. My mom is East Indian muslim and my dad is French, Portuguese and Mulato christian and who knows what else. I am an example of a pot of callaloo. Everyone's favorite Sunday lunch. I am what happens when lineages cross oceans and histories collide. I am thinking to myself now, what is the message I want to put forward with my blog post? What is the direction I want to take? Maybe it is this. What can we do when we have such a rich heritage and know so little of our own history? First of all I do not think I am alone with this struggle. I did not realise this until I though...

Cup of coffee

This is a chapter from my latest book called Breezes of Tobago . The cool morning breeze blew the hat off the tourist passing the coffee shop. We sat at the table waiting for our order of coffee and bagels. I had stayed up late writing and was now needing caffeine to stay awake. On entering the veranda of the coffee shop, the sign reads "happiness is a cup of coffee" and "sip your troubles away". This had me thinking about what is happiness? And was the theme of my chat with Chatty as we enjoyed our breakfast in Tobago. I told my friend Chatty that if we could put happiness in a bottle and sell it we would be rich. My friend Chatty then told me that money cannot buy happiness but it was a good idea to make a living. If according to the sign, happiness is a cup of coffee then maybe happiness is coffee in a bottle then. We could call it Caffibean, a taste of the Caribbean in Tobago, a blend of the happiest coffee beans from Tobago. Tobago is not known for its coffee p...

Sandy beaches

This is a chapter from my latest book called Breezes of Tobago . This story begins on a cool Friday evening in May. Fridays are the best days. Already a great start. It had rained earlier in the day and the clouds were moving away and the sun peeking through. I walked from the apartment where I was staying to Pigeon Point beach. Along the way I stopped for coconut water freshly extracted from the nut and straight into my mouth leaving traces on my cotton jersey. They say that coconut water is the drink of God—fresh from the nut, sweet with a hint of salt, a liquid reminder that paradise can exist in small and simple things. They did not say that but my friend Chatty did. It is my friend Chatty's first trip to Tobago. I asked him what he thinks of Tobago so far? He grinned, wiping a drop of coconut water from the corner of his mouth. "Man… it is like stepping into a painting. The air, the colors, the way everything smells after the rain—it is unreal. I did not know paradise cam...