Maths Madness

Our opinions will never be maths,

they’ll always be odd and somewhat biased.

So, let’s stop ticking them all as facts.

Let’s spot and subtract some wrong ones.

 

Let’s face it, everything else is so subjective.

There’ll always be greys and that’s fine for me.

At least maths solutions are always objective,

If not nought, it’ll be one, it’s binary.

 

People often apply thoughts to real lives,

but this view is only half-true.

Facts of life can expire like pies,

but maths stays true, for every issue.

 

Though people preach they’re always straight,

in some contexts, they may not stack up.

Some people may just not relate,

but in all pages, maths problems add up.

 

Math’s textbook formats can vary.

Their pages can be A3 or A4,

but their sayings are always stationary.

We all know that 3 plus 1 is 4.

 

In this world, everything is mutating,

I always navigate an uneven grid.

It's mixed messages feel so grating.

At least maths is as lucid as liquid.

 

It’s awesome how maths never alters,

I can accept it without any falter.

The Whys of Wisely Using Time - 4 quartrains

This mysterious source has many measures.

We must use this unit very wisely,

for every minute and hour is treasure,

for it slips from our palms so silently.

 

Sometimes the hours can feel so long and tiresome.

We can dance or play or sing in rhyme,

or eat food, smell flowers, or enjoy our freedom.

Take care, those hours won’t last all the time.

 

Some day or other, our world shall end,

so, stop scrolling Twitter or spreading hate.

Instead, achieve, travel, help and befriend,

make more memories before it’s too late.

 

If we always harbour grudges and stress,

once our hair goes grey, we’ll regret.

Life is too short for anything pointless.

Do more things you will never forget.

Diya Dhari's Days and Dreams

At last, my daily tailor stall shuts down.

A light wind flows through my bedroom windows,

caressing my skin as I leisurely lounge.

 

I count my joys, lost in a dreamy mood,

like how mirrors glimmer on my kurtas,

how they reflect wearers’ beams of gratitude,

 

stitching chamba rumals with gorgeous flowers,

to rest on bamboo trays for little girls’ birthdays,

or enliven raiment for bridal showers,

 

printing chikan patterns on dove-white tanzebs,

studding them with lambent sequins,

prints like lotus, creepers, and jali webs,

 

pleating my saris along my mannequins,

Sipping my glass of fresh sugarcane juice,

Admiring the sun rays, skimming on the sequins,

 

quilting my kantha with old kurtas, rumals, and saris,

bordering my kantha quilt with bright blue beads

dreaming of each stained patches' past stories,

 

Maybe a vagabond vet healed a hurt hare.

Cleaning its wounds with a remnant from his kurta

Could that explain my quilt kurta’s bloodstain there?

Maybe a rani with her rumal was dabbing her tears,

when watching a doe die in her palace garden.

Could this explain my quilt rumal’s kohl stain here?

 

perhaps someone spilt some strong Kannouj perfume,

on her dove-white sari draped round her waist;

this quilts yellowed sari fills this room with musky fumes.

 

I stroke my kantha quilt’s red cotton thread.

I beam at my joyful days and dreams,

and desire to draw more designs in bed.

Lady of Twillight weds her Duke of Daylight

I slouch on the bed, feeling bored and blue,

I had enough of this rubbish room.

If I did not suffer this hunger and flu,

I’d rush out of here right now.

 

Someone, please see my trembles and tears!

Please just let me leap out of here!

 

At once, I spot an indigo ringed cyan spot.

At last, something new popped up.

I squint to figure out what is this blot,

could they be paint blobs, text, or photo pixels?

 

Seriously, what are you showing me silly smidge?

Just fire me some facts or share me an image!

 

Are you whispering weird words?

Or calling me crude names in morse code

could they be buzzy flies, or cheesy bluebirds?

Or could it be a smea:::rrrrrrrr……, h-h-huuuh!…

 

At once, I shudder, and my breath goes halt

As my body blasts off to some vast black vault…..

 

I sigh blissfully as I notice the Lady of Twilight.

Her midnight mane billows and flows so gracefully,

her face glows opaline, like lambent starlight,

her deep blue dress sweeps away my stress.

 

Suspended in a symphony of shooting stars,

I’d hate to return to roads blaring with diesel cars.

 

She ties a pearly veil behind her silver tiara,

and winds a cyan sash round her slender waist.

She blooms far fresher than earth’s every flower,

could this spellbinding blue-blood be a blushing bride?

 

This comely lady glides to the carmine globe of fire.

The Duke of Daylight awaits: her object of desire.

 

"oh gor-gor-geou..s go-de-de-desss", this bashful duke stutters

"your beau-beautyyy bewitches m-m-my min::::nd"

he stumbles and blushes,

"and I’m proud to call you mine sweet prince " the lady beams

 

as she swishes her gown and swirls around

I pray to stay here and never crash down…

 

Phew…, I pinwheel up to her heavenly pinnacle,

Calid carmines cool down to Cimmerian.

Oh, how those stars still twinkle, and my palms still tingle!

Thank goodness I did not yet crash!

 

We swing on the lady’s crystal chain,

feeling free from those piping hot flames.

 

"I don’t miss my burnished sun’s sunders and sears,

These gelid gusts sooth the cruel sun’s bruises".

"Your warm words brighten my night dear

now let's admire those crystal comets" 

 

we whoop at a cyan rocket bursting away from

stormy skies

we weep at white hot webs shocking a squid, as it

cries…. Ouch, ouch, owwwww, brrrrrrr….. Thud!

 

I wipe my moony eyes and thud back to bed.

I spy a peacock feather flicked with blue drops.

Though my blues have yellowed, and my flu has fled,

I miss the true-blue lovers and that vast black vault.

 

My Next Door North Indian Drummer.

Dear noisy neighbour drumming next door.

Why punch your drum with such madness and might?

Every morning you get me yawning.

Could your thumps be cheering or mourning?

 

Do your bongs summon sultry Bollywood songs?

Do they douse out Big Ben’s brash ding dongs?

Do your drumbeats ignite Punjab’s heat?

Do they drown down others’ chronic chatter?

 

Do you miss orisons ringing in temples?

Do you desire dancing to drums in Carnivals?

Could they clatter like chains grand elephants wear?

While here, chains constrain, and clamp them tight.

 

Do they rumble your room like Baba’s loud laughs? 

Do they accelerate to replicate a snakes’ hiss?

Do they mimic monsoon storms roaring endlessly?

Do they feel like fireworks bursting each Diwali?

 

Could you crave puris pounding in hot oil?

Or the popping poppadoms’ Nani fries for you?

While here, oven beeps signal soggy samosas.

They don’t crackle like her Punjab samosas.

 

Do you miss Baba’s aloo tikka, fresh from his tandoor?

It’s crisp singe, zingy lime and tangy chaat masala?

But these English chefs serve you pallid potato spuds.

Their sauces never sizzle, and sing to your tastebuds.

 

Perhaps your potent punches and pounds,

evoke papri chat’s crunches and sounds. 

Oh, your rhythms rouse and drum up a desire,

for spicy pani puri and sharp papri chat.

 

Let’s sip a lime soda and a mango lassi.

Let’s share your Punjab payasam, and my Andhra arisa,

I’ll strum my sitar with your drum’s bangs.

We’ll play away our bitter pangs.

 

Please tell me how bells tinkle from young brides’ trousseaus.

I’ll tell you when a buffalo bit my Tata’s crops.

We will not just survive but also truly thrive,

if we reveal our fancies, fears, and our childhood lives.

 

I can resonate with your unfair fate.

I miss Andhra’s sounds, smells, and sights,

but perhaps after our music and munches,

your fists can endure less bruises and crunches.

 

Our inner battles should not rattle our hearts.

Though English, Shakespeare sold me strong advice.

He said, if music be the language of love play on.

I say, “if food be the fuel of our friendship, eat up”.

Toy Story Toon: Lucy's Love Letter to all Lost Toys

Dear all lost toys living on Earth.

Whether you feel bruised, broken or blue,

that none of them folks will ever love you.

Read my letter, then feel better.

 

I once had an owner called Sarah.

Life was bright when she loved me,

but life became better when she left me.

I'm loving Liberty, my new best pal.

 

Oh dear friends, out among the stars,

don’t tell me your dreams ended too soon.

We can sail our silver ship way beyond the moon,

but in kids’ cabins, we can't go sailing no more.

 

Why sleep in some kid's stuffy room?

Out here, kids' whines won’t break our ears.

No more sleep, snot, or slimy tears,

but endless fun and games for us.

No more coughing in kid's old cupboards.

No more crying in kid's cramped boxes.

No, we can wander like wild eyed foxes, 

to anywhere our hearts desire.

We are free from such sad things.

From those boring abodes, we can soar,

dance below the streetlights some more,

and just bask under their warm yellow glow.

 

We can awe at flashing fireworks,

embark on awesome new adventures,

unearth new treasures, gush at blue rivers,

pleasures kids' toy slaves can only crave. 

Oh I know, my own heart glows,

when UFOS flash on and fly by,

when dreamy rainbows beam from the sky,

but smeary windows subdue their hues.

 

We can race with Daredevil Duke,

zoom down slides for endless hours,

marvel at awesome meteor showers,

and shoot away to amazing milky ways.

Let's beat the baddies with Bo, and Woody,

ride round car tires and spinning tandems,

go off the beaten racetracks, be random,

and never bawl when kids skinned their knees.

 

Lets bounce with Bunny on light up booths,

and dance with Ducky below bright rainbows.

My heart glows, round those funny fellows,

they're the sweetest pals a doll could have.

 

Let's tell our pals, you got a friend in me,

whenever they weep for their nice warm bed,

whenever they crack in the road rough ahead,

and we'll rise on, to infinity and beyond.

Love, 

Lucy Libertine (nee. McLachlan)

(Sarah McLachlan's Lost Doll) 

💖 

Dear Readers. 

I hope you enjoyed this poetic love letter. It is inspired by Toy Story 4, an amazing and aesthetically pleasing film that still awes me to this day. I wept, seeing how Woody was trodden, and neglected constantly after all he did for Andy and Bonnie. However, it was so lovely to see him find his long-lost sweetheart Bo, new friends (e.g., ducky, bunny, daredevil duke – see poem), and finally travel the world with them. Toy story 4 taught me that lost toys can help others and enjoy life just as much as owned toys, and that every toy deserves respect for their life choices. 

I realised that lost toys can enjoy so many benefits that the previous films ignore such as playing anywhere at night, enjoy rainbows, UFOS, and stars. Plus lost toys are not as lonely and friendless as other toys in the previous films assume, as I saw lost toys (e.g., Bo) playing with each other, and many other children in toy story 4. 

I also observed that owned toys suffer many maladies that the previous films mention get brushed aside in favour of happier times (e.g., children hugging and playing with their toys). For example, some owned toys such as Wheezy in toy story 2, ended up alone on the shelf. Many toys such as barbie in toy story 3 got dumped into the donation box, or worse, in the incinerator – this heart-breaking scene happened to Woody and his friends the end of toy story 3. I chose to list and explore some of these under-explored nuances more in this poem.

My fictional narrator is a lost toy called Lucy, who was recently abandoned by her previous owner, Sarah McLachlan (playful reference to the singer of When She Loved Me). Although she loved her life with Sarah at the time, she discovered how much more bright, beautiful and better her life is now as a lost toy. Now that she is lost, she can wander away to any place she pleases. Plus she can enjoy certain freedoms (e.g., glowing streetlights, dreamy rainbows...) she could not enjoy when stuck in Sarah's stuffy room. However, now she could mostly remember Sarah's whines, slimy tears and cramped cupboards when being with her. 

However, she came across other lost toys who felt lonely and depressed about their situation. As a free agent, just relishing her life, this saddened her. In response, she wrote this empowering poem, reminding lost toys of all the pains owned toys must endure (e.g., kids' whines, slimy tears, cramped cupboards...), their newfound joys, and to comfort other lost toys in this earth.

Here are the songs I have referenced in this poem:

-Toy story 1: You have got a Friend in Me by Randy Newman: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIYOJ_hSs0o 

(lines 3, 45, 46, 47, 48)

-Toy story 2: When she loved me by Sarah McLachlan https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-31VzjC50dY

(lines 5, 6, 7) - I named Lucy's owner after Sarah the singer. Lucy too donned the family surname McLachlan. However, after Sarah left her, she CHANGED it to Libertine, to reflect her newfound liberty (personified as her 'new best pal' in place of Sarah in line 8).

-Toy story 1: I will go Sailing no more by Randy Newman: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2Y7Iz-ePOg 

(lines 9, 10, 11, 12)

I just HAD to end this poem with Buzz Lightyear's classic phrase: to infinity and beyond. It also revives the poignant conclusion in toy story 4, where Woody and Buzz bid farewells by reciting this phrase.

Again, I apologise if anyone is confused or offended by this poem. I just fancied sharing MY thoughts circling my brain when watching the films.  But I would love to learn about YOUR thoughts on this poem and toy story in general. Please feel free to share any feedback, ideas, and relevant resources on the comments below. I am always looking to learn new things and improve my writing :). 

Thank you again for reading and I  hope you all enjoy your days :)

From Rithika Nadipalli.

Chain of Lights in a Christmas Market - Free Verse

I wander in a Christmas market,   

deeper into pitch-black darkness.

Rain ripples across the ground,    

where the booth bulbs cast a chain of lights.

Wending in the wet like a bracelet,  

glowing gold like grains of wheat, 

it gives enough heat to warm my heart.