A poem. Because fuck terrorism.
A series of letters from the battlefield, from a soldier to his fiance waiting to hear from him again.
A performance piece from Pune Poetry Slam of August 2014. This poem was inspired by a letter from Gernot Knopp to Dorothy Bird, a heart-wrenching story which you can read about here.
What if our Indian Pledge (and Anthems from any part of the world) was an honest projection of our contemporary times? Let me break down the walls we’ve built, because it creates more enemies than is supposed to keep away. Let me erase the imaginary lines, because it stops our love from expanding.
Edit from the future, 2017: I don’t like this piece anymore. Someday I’ll rewrite this, or even roast myself for this.
I initially dedicated this to the ones who started Pune Poetry Slam and Airplane Poetry Movement, but as I kept writing, the poem quickly developed a theme of courage to start something wonderful despite all the doubts and pressures of conventional naysayings a person goes through in their lives. Of course, this is also a reminder for myself that every first step is always meaningful.
Poetry in less than 10 mins, just for practice. It helps to sit outdoors and look for stories hidden in plain sight.
A sequel to Art Burglar. This one’s dedicated to Maya Angelou, Walt Whitman, Arthur Conan Doyle, John Keats, all the giants of the past, but is most importantly dedicated to….YOU. Yes, YOU, the one reading this right now. This one’s for you.
This is a satire about some (but not all) people, usually amateurs, in the pick-up artists community, as well as other guys in general who try to seduce women without necessarily connecting with them at a human level.
I’ve neither written this as a means to offend women, nor to disparage the pick-up artists community as a whole.
Please read with an open mind.
This poem is based on a blog-post written by a friend named Aashna Iyer. Let’s just say, at the time of writing, I was suffering from chronic depression.
When we’re left limbo between absolutes and fantasy, it might be confusing to know if we ought to ride the streams as they are, or bend the streams to our will.
Note: This is my only poem currently that requires the use of sleight-of-hand coin magic to properly portray what I mean.