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Poetry Month: GENTLE

Today's the first day of a 30-day poetry writing month. I'm delighted to see 170 poems written today on the theme GENTLE. Here are some of my favorites today:


"I am the potion maker’s daughter,

A collector of voices at dawn,

I am an eye over an eyeglass,

A patient ear pressed against lonely walls.

I am your regular waiter

A flower forgotten between a book -

Dry, without fragrance,

And yet somehow beautiful.

I am the chorus of tiny plants

That grace your sidewalks,

A celebrator of lazy thoughts

That walk in when you are lost.

I am a country

That’s rewriting her history for she knows

The truth was misplaced

By overfed thugs.

I am a lover more brutal

Than a Russian winter,

A juggler of languages

More voluptuous than Tarantino's tales.

I am the subway stops

you don’t stop at,

And all the women you’ve loved

But left.

I am the last rays of receding warmth

The first bite of a hungry tongue,

I am the words you miss between the lines

And the lingering sigh of a desire long lost."


"These hands shall rise,

From bottomless waters,

Bear the canoe and the oar

That will get you ashore.

These hands shall meet,

The need of caresses ungiven,

Wash your tears away with the creek

And wind the shelter and shade you seek.

These hands shall weave,

A hammock from where you gaze

At the lay of this land so far stretched

And the shimmering waves so sun-kissed.

Son, have no fear of falling

For these eyes watch over you.

Should you tumble even so,

Do not weep, a healing breeze so gentle will blow."


"maybe we could discuss this


when my tea doesn't burn my lip

and your coffee leaves a ring on the floor,

when the sun climbs higher

into the sky, and the bed is warm to the touch.

maybe you could think about this


after i've read the day's paper

and you've taken the trash out,

when the cat has lapped up the last

of the milk, and the air is warm to the touch.

maybe i could give you your answers


after i separate tomorrow from the past

and you water your words in the vase,

when the house is less an island

on stilts, and the room is warm to the touch.

maybe this will end a little while


when i cut too many holes into you

and you leave kindness at the door with your shoes,

but on mornings this slow

and gentle, the story is still warm to the touch."


ten things to do while you wait by Dhruvi Modi


look out the window.

notice the pair of boots

mysteriously strung upon

one of the electric wires

that connects us all.


yearn. yearn to feel

spring blossoms rain

gently down as nature rejoices,

even in your absence.


close your eyes,

listen to the birds.

they have things to say.


lie down,

preferably on the rooftop.

drink the sky.


after a while,

muster some courage,

put your pen to paper.

let it take you elsewhere


think of memories,

fond and sour:

her first birthday with you –

how she fed you the cake

last of all –

how loved, how warm

you’d felt;

when they told you at lunch

that someone you loved

(but did not know) had left -

as quietly as a flower blooms -

and you kept on


these memories are important.

let them remind you

of the love that courses

through you.


give yourself a hug,

a pat on the back.


breathe. let the air fill up

the tightness in your chest.


if tears arrive,

let them gently fall,

then gently wipe them



look in the mirror.

smile a kind smile."



The Writing Process (Is Not Gentle) by Eshna Sharma

Inspiration, elusive stranger

arrives unexpectedly

in the seconds before sleep,

in the haze after love making

making poached eggs for breakfast or walking the dog

The birthing is difficult,

it is not gentle, or elegant, or any of those beautiful things

that writing is compared to,

to push inspiration out into a tangible form

there is blood of course, torn muscles,

and men do not often like what they see,

when their wives spread apart their legs

Then, the glistening head of a newborn,

a breathing, purple tinged alien is received

the joy is boundless, but temporary, for then another struggle begins

You must nourish it

breasts may turn sore, but the beast, is not satiated easily

it demands more, it mewls and screams and there is no peace to be found

then chisel it, carve, Michelangelo's apprentice

muscles ache, sweet, salty sweat and maybe, even tears

What emerges of all that toil

of the struggle of whittling thoughts

into shape, of pruning a word here, a paragraph there,

sandpaper, sandcastles, coffee, killing time

and characters and plotlines


beauty, coal turned jewel

yet the cautious writer is never too attached to this creature of his own creation

If ever he begins to resent it,

find fault, or misstep or weakness

he discards his work, without sentimentality,

without filial affectations

and soon embarks on the long, stretched out journey of birthing another.



Follow the poems on #TheAliporePostPoetryMonth


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