New Year Resolve

 

The first day of the year begins

Just like the ones before-

with a Resolve.

I rouse myself

At an un-godly hour.

 

But sleep, the ever-clingy companion

Sticks around a bit longer

Inviting itself for a cup of tea

And some biscuits too- Marie.

 

The crisp, thin, brown soulmate

 of the milky tea.

But what does it mean,

to be called Marie?

Why give it a name reserved for a fair maiden.

 

And when did I graduate,

From the rectangle ones -with a strange blown-up

pic of a brown big-eyed child,

To a circle? To this not so Indian sounding cookie?

From the humble Parle Ji

To the classier Marie.

 

Perhaps it was the Indian railways

That brought about this divide

Serving tea in posh ceramic mugs

With two biscuits in a  pack of Marie.

 

Or wait! Was it the posher hospitals?

Serving the “healthy” biscuit with their morning tea,

Even for patients with diabetes?

 

Like all things chic- Marie too is wooed

by many suitors in corporate suits.

Each has their own version of the hype.

Its not a brand but a type..

 

TYPE!! Oh My! I am off again!

on a driverless train.

My mind leads me astray from the resolve

To write a few “good “poems

That would be worth it all

 

 

The erstwhile brain

That had been jumping from a thought to other

Now sits still. Staring back at me

…with absolutely nothing to offer.

Pretending it doesn’t understand

why it must produce

Some rhythm or rhyme

When it can with abandon, run loose.

 

And the poem glances at me with idyllic eyes

Refusing to come down

From its high horse.

Onto my crisp white sheet

Dangling its feet and twiddling its thumb

Sticking out its tongue.

Defiant. Delinquent

 

 

Poems! Crafty little brats

Hormonal teens on caffeine

With their mood swings!

They will come and go as they please.

 

Not a word nor a verse

No specks of creativity

For days the mind is a barren land

A simple line- not a possibility.

 

And then as I am wafting into my dreams.

They come, creeping a word at a time

And I must scramble in the dark

to find an apparatus to write them down

For they are capricious and easy to flee.

 

Oh what I would give

To have a muse like Shakespeare did.

 

But today is not “that” day

Or maybe it’s the verticality of my anatomy

That throws the words out of the window.

 

I too, must throw in the towel

and the pen too.

Perhaps my mind is better suited today

To scout the internet while I sip my tea

To learn the secret behind

the biscuit known as Marie.