NaPoWriMo Day 30: To be a Poet

We are on the last day of National Poetry Writing Month. It’s been an exiciting journey to write poems an entire month and share it with wonderful readers. So, I’m with my last poem for the month. Nevertheless, the journey of writing poems will continue.

To be a Poet,
Is to walk through the roads
one hasn’t explored before.
To be a Poet,
Is to knit the thread of words and
weave into fine saree to be draped.
To be a Poet,
Is to imagine the impossible.
To be a Poet,
Is to breathe through words.

To be a Poet,
Is to make people walk into the world of rhythm.
To be a Poet,
Is to drench in rain without sky.
To be a Poet,
Is to feel the petrichor without rain.
To be a Poet,
Is to feel the fragrance without flower.

To be a Poet,
Is to love and feel loved.
To be a Poet,
Is to feel gifted.
To be a Poet,
Is to splash colorful words
to paint a beautiful poem.
To be a Poet,
Is to have a timeless
devotion to everything around.

To be a Poet,
Is a bless and bliss.
To be a Poet,
Is to walk through the river,
to reach the ocean.
To be a Poet,
Is to live on one’s own world.
To be a Poet,
Is to be simple,
yet live luxuriously.

Journey continues,


Hi guys! Immediately, as you saw the title CORONA you might think i’m going to write some article on corona etc. But that’s actually not the case. Already social media and other news channels are flooded with news about corona. I thought why not write a ghazal on corona. Yes, you read it right. A GHAZAL.


Interviews postponed, employees working from home due to corona.
Social distancing makes a lot of sense due to corona.

Enjoying doing my hobbies to the greatest extent due to corona.
Newspaper, Television and social media are flooded about corona.

A single sneeze during corona sends shivers down the spine.
Self-Hygiene is the best way to take care of oneself during corona.

Hats off to doctors and nurses who spend days and nights through their services.
Scientists are trying to find some vaccines for corona.

Share market, Small scale organizations are hit due to corona.
Old age people, Children are the most easily to be affected due to corona.

People get to know who their neighbours are due to corona.
Many lives all around the world are lost due to corona.

Lock down, section 144 imposed in different parts of the world due to corona.
Animals are having their own freedom due to corona.

Aren’t you feeling bored sitting at home, Rohini?
Connecting to my readers through a ghazal due to corona.

With great obsession,

World Poetry Day (21st March)

Hi guys! World Poetry Day just got over. So I thought I would share one of my own poems.


Few find something in me,
Few just flip,
Few just glance,
Few just stare,
Few underline,
But very few, observe, feel, breathe,
Take a moment to experience what I am
And I am everything for those fall in
love with me.
A forever companion.

Your’s Lovingly,

The Subtle Art of Living Alone

Hi Guys! Hope all of you are doing well.
Many countries around the world are battling COVID-19,
I understand we are all in difficult times and we hope we all will come out of it.
It’s important to spread kindness around us, at the same time give some time for ourselves too.
On that note, I thought i’ll write a small poem on “The subtle art of living alone”.
It’s not about primarily about living alone, rather cherishing time with oneself.
Hope you all enjoy reading my poems. Happy reading! ❤

Flipping the pages of the book
that you’d love to read.
Making some recipes to relish.
Feeling the fresh air around by taking a walk.
Sitting on the balcony and breathing
along with the plants around.
Writing some poems
for yourself, by yourself.


I Left My Head

I left my head
Put it down for
a minute.
Under the
on a chair?
Wish I were
to say
Everything I need
in it!

The author of this poem is Lilian Moore. She was an editor, educator, poet, and self-styled yarn-spinner who played a significant role in children’s literature during the mid-to-late 20th century. 

Twenty June Twenty Twenty✌

Hi Guys! It’s been a long time I posted any poems or wrote one actually. I’m back again with some poems to share with you all. Happy reading !💜

A poem never says anything

A poem never says anything. 
It just opens a door, quietly there. 

Sleepless and bent, 
just like my aged father 
Waiting for me in a lonely winter night.
The author of this poem is Uttaran Chauduri, a Bengali poet.

Summer (A Ghazal)

Hi Guys! It’s been a long time I posted any of my own poems. I have fallen in love with ghazals of late. I enjoy writing it and reading as well.
Hope you all also do.
Happy reading!❤

Water matters a lot at the time of summer.
Even the most yummy food cannot be relished “hot” at the time of summer.

All crowded places start to stink due to sweat.
Dogs, birds are all in search of water during summer.

Juices, shakes, ice creams are awesome to eat at this time.
Even least affected tend to get most affected at the time of summer.

Standing a while, under the tree for shade is heavenly at the time of summer.
It’s the season for mangoes, and the most desired fruit at the time of summer.

How’s that you manage to stay fair during summer Rohini?
It’s my fans like you that keep me fresh from getting away tanned during summer.

Relishing Mangoes

I Had Gone A-Begging

I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered who was this King of all kings!

My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust.

The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say `What hast thou to give to me?'

Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.

But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all.

The author of this poem is Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore. He, sobriquet Gurudev, was a Bengali polymath, a poet, musician and artist from the Indian subcontinent. He reshaped Bengali literature and music, as well as Indian art with Contextual Modernism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He was the first Asian to win the Nobel prize in Literature.


Children, when was
Napoleon Bonaparte born,
asks teacher.

A thousand years ago, the children say.
A hundred years ago, the children say.
Last year, the children say.
No one knows.

Children, what did
Napoleon Bonaparte do,
asks teacher.

Won a war, the children say.
Lost a war, the children say.
No one knows.

Our butcher had a dog
called Napoleon,
says Frantisek.
The butcher used to beat him and the dog died
of hunger
a year ago.

And all the children are now sorry
for Napoleon.

The author of this poem is Miroslav Holub. He was born in Plzeň, a city in modern-day Czech Republic. He earned an MD from the Charles University School of Medicine in 1953 and a PhD from the Czech Academy of Sciences Institute of Microbiology in 1958. Holub spoke English, French, and German. He was not published in the Czech Republic until after the fall of communism. By the 1970s, his work had been translated into over 30 languages, and he was highly regarded by critics.

The applicant

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

The author of this poem is Sylvia Plath. She is by one of the most celebrated poets, one of the first women poets. She was an American poet, novelist, and short-story writer. She is credited with advancing the genre of confessional poetry. This poem is satirical piece on those, the applicants basically, who are looking to marry a woman for their exterior, physical features than the person they are.

Twenty May Twenty Twenty✌

Hi Guys!
It’s been quite a few days I posted any poems.
I was enjoying reading poems written by different authors to keep myself sane during these quarantine days.
Hope you are all safe!

Happy Reading❤

The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheats, reams
of silver handmade by you. 
The night is your cottage industry
the day is your brisk emporium.
The world is full of paper.

Write to me.

Agha Shahid Ali was born on February 4, 1949.
He promoted and popularized ghazal in English keeping intact the mystical traditions from a symbolic perspective.
His collections include A Walk Through the Yellow Pages, The Half-Inch Himalayas, A Nostalgist’s Map of America, The Country Without a Post Office, Rooms Are Never Finished, the latter a finalist for the National Book Award in 2001. The University of Utah Press awards the ‘Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize’ annually “in memory of a celebrated poet and beloved teacher.”

Gregory Orr

How lucky we are
That you can't see 
A poem, that it has
No value. Might 
As well
Give it away.

That poem you love,
That saved your life,
Wasn't it given to you?

The author of this poem is Gregory Orr. He received a B.A. degree from Antioch College and an M.F.A. from Columbia University. He is a professor of English at the University of Virginia where he founded the MFA Program in Writing in 1975, and served from 1978 to 2003 as Poetry Editor of the Virginia Quarterly Review.

PS: I have to inevitably title this poem with the author’s name as this poem doesn’t have a title.

So You Want to be a Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

The author of this poem is Henry Charles Bukowski. He was a German-born American poet, novelist, and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural, and economic ambiance of his home city of Los Angeles. His work addresses the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women, and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over 60 books.