Today’s prompt via napowrimo.net was to write a poem that was based on the meaning of our names. I didn’t feel very inspired enough to write something that was based on the meaning of my name, which is ‘auspicious’ or ‘lucky’, by the way, so I decided to do my own thing instead.
Make sure you go and read the poems written by my amazing best friends (Kittu’s Modern Mixtape and Amour Infini) for more incredible poetry! And don’t miss out the endnotes to know more about the poem.
Happy reading! Xx
I picked up my pen,
In the solitude of my sunlit desk,
And I’d pause to marvel at the scene in front of me,
Drunk on the shades of champagne warmth,
Soaking in pools of golden sunrays lie
Loose pages scattered,
Collateral damage from all the verses I tried to write—
The same old sentiments in different words,
Each deeper than the last;
I failed those pages too many times,
And now all my ink has run out.
No banquet in the world that doesn’t come to an end,
But I could never bring myself to say goodbye—
How could I?
When the pages we’ve written span across lifetimes,
Lifetimes walked together as inseparable friends,
But nothing lasts forever, does it?
I picked up my pen,
Limp and lifeless in my hand,
The ink from yesterday still stained,
And I could swear I could have written a hundred pages
About my heart sinking like a wrecked ship,
Down to the darkest depths of despair,
The moment I looked at the last words written there—
In swirling black and adorned with flowers
Like a wreath I strung before my pen bled out,
As though I’d known what was to come—
The last words written
With the last few drops of ink,
Staring me in the face,
‘Lost are the words we write for ourselves,
And immortal are the ones written in fond memory.”
Words that hold no meaning to anyone but me,
They feel like a secret only I keep,
Like a sacred oath we made between the words exchanged,
And the ocean suddenly didn’t feel deep enough;
How sentimental it is to latch on to a pen, I think,
But you’ve never written a hundred pages in the same ink like me;
You’d know if you have,
How it feels to write about lifetimes you’ve never lived,
Painted into a window to the deepest parts of you,
Lies a grave with a tombstone that reads
All the words written in those final drops of ink,
Words that now lie scattered loose all around me.
And as I pick up by empty pen for the last time,
I take a look at the last words I’d ever written in this ink,
Words I would someday carve on my own tombstone,
As a reminder to hold onto everything that is dear today,
Lost as everything I do for myself would come to be,
But immortal will remain the ones I write in fond memory.
~© Shubhangi Srinivasan.
Okay, I’ll admit to not feeling very inspired by anything enough to write a poem today, but then my pen, that I’ve been using for a very, very long time, ran out of ink. And who would’ve thought that it could serve as inspiration for my poetry? This is a poem about getting attached to something that others might find meaningless, but to you, who has been on quite the journey along with whatever you’re attached to, it holds more meaning than you’ll ever be able to express. In my case, it is my pen. I decided that it would be a fun thing to write about and explore in my poetry today. I hope you enjoyed reading the poem.
The Shubhster. Xx