Poetry with a Purpose

“Why’m I pushing myself to churn out a poem everyday?” I asked the nothingness around me. My efforts were leaving me disgruntled. I was worried about the number of likes, views, followers and effectiveness of the content in my poems or reflections.

After much thought, I found peace in why I was writing. Here are some concrete reasons as to why I write my Poetry now.

  • To get people to be more sensitive and considerate towards the sufferings of others.
  • To educate anyone reading about disturbing issues that  stealthily plague the undercurrent of our society and world.
  • To encourage anybody and everybody to engage in an expressive art form of their choice.

Articulate Culture: Original Purpose

When Articulate Culture first started up,  I wanted to write for an audience- not because I yearned for a cathartic experience. I felt like writing as a means of educating the public. Since I was curious myself about cultures in different countries, I thought of researching on each country and delivering intriguing details about elements of their culture, to the audiences of this blog. It worked for a few months, reaching a hiatus thereafter.

I felt caged to rigid targets and what was supposed to be a relaxing and educational travel experience,  failed to bring me peace any longer.

Instead of writing to people about countries of the world, I wanted to write about issues in the world that many people are ignorant towards, although a minority fight for them – issues that dwell on inequality, religion, power struggles at the expanse of the loss of countless lives.

Articulate Culture: Now

At present, I’m exploring different methods of delivering poems and reflections. I’m trying to find a writing style comfortable to me within the realm of poetry. I don’t just want it to be comfortable to me.

The poems are not about me. The poems are about people and situations in the world that I want others to think deeply about. 

Older Blog

When I first began blogging as a teenager, my poetry revolved around myself mostly- my worries, pain, joys. I wrote to purge my negative emotions. People were reading the poetry and liking it either because they identified with it or wanted to encourage me on a similar journey we were all undergoing in the world of blogging and during our limited time of life on earth.

Whatever their reason was, it was about finding community in pain. Now, I would like to go beyond the reasons of just finding a community.

I want my work to be able to transform the minds and hearts of others- to nurture a world of more considerate and sensitive individuals.

Transform with Art

As I reach the end of my post, I want to urge you to think about why you’re creating your Art, be it writings, graphics, music, videos, etc.

With a concrete Purpose, Art can be transformative. Transformation is what we need in this fallible world in which men, including me, constantly fall prey to comfort and ignorance. 

 

Gods and Children

In a dreary room,

a large, foreign altar sits,

Colourful figures of venerated Gods

rest within.

 

A mother reaches for a dormant incense stick,

and with a lighter, she

lets its fiery wrath manifest in front of the statues.

 

The Gods watch,

as wars are fought,

shells explode,

 

And bodies of children are torn apart:

Gods want their heads,

Men want their limbs;

Nobody will yield.

 

 

Featured image: http://www.aljazeera.com/news/2015/06/syrian-children-paint-life-saddam-kurdistan-prison-150618101536726.html

 

 

milking the young

He hardly spoke a word in the morning,

neither to his wife nor to his daughter;

The coffeemaker has malfunctioned.

 

A jar of instant coffee sits close by,

his saving grace,

The refrigerator is stocked with

cartons of fresh lady milk,

 

Innocent white milk frothing,

boiling on an aged, adulterated stove;

a cold business transaction.

 

A soft protein layer forms atop the milk;

Condom skin,

stretches over a dark,

guilty cup of caffeine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

silicone Sin

With tired shoulders, skinny arms

and penitent lips,

she makes the sign of the cross,

taking her right hand gloriously up to

her forehead, and to

an almost hidden navel;

But before she carries the hope of redemption to her

Shoulder up High, her fingers

collide into the nearly insurmountable

sinfulness of

her Silicone breasts.

 

Featured image: http://www.lorisart.com/resources/img/artworks_540/22984.jpg

Just one sign, God?

“Good morning, good morning, Hey, good morning Godddd,”I muttered quickly and impatiently while standing at the balcony.

Overhead, dark skies glided speedily towards me and I desperately wanted God to answer me, by a strong gust of wind that splashes tiny droplets of water against my skin, by the sunlight suddenly peeking out of the dark, or by the gentle caress of his breeze.

“Anything, anything at all, just one sign!” I fought under my breath, seeking a sign that weak humans so vainly desire.

Brothel Birds

O Brothel Birds,

ye tied wings are swollen; ye bent beaks croon,

Lying atop a condom bed,

bespattered with virgin blood,

ye writhe away innocence; ye chirp in desolation,

Mother Bird, come,

O come, cum, with free-worm.

 

Featured image:  https://s-media-cacheak0.pinimg.com/564x/8f/0c/e7/8f0ce7f4561cdeb5090428ee9278c49e.jpg

 

Image

Finding you

With memories, I

remember you and without

them, you are missing.

 

 

Featured Image: https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0197/1494/products/DSCN0380_couple.jpg?v=1442119990https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0197/1494/products/DSCN0380_couple.jpg?v=1442119990https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0197/1494/products/DSCN0380_couple.jpg?v=1442119990https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0197/1494/products/DSCN0380_couple.jpg?v=1442119990

C major Rape

Thumb under my middle finger: 1,

2, 3, 1, 2, 3, four-give

me for getting distracted on the bed.

This C major scale has to be imprinted on the frame,

my fingers gently caress the softwood with my favourite melody,

while you bestially plunge

into my whole,

I desperately fight to make my bed a piano,

May my song cut right through your heart like the shard of

glass inside of me.

 

Featured Image: http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large-5/lady-on-bed-tanya-jansen.jpg