Someone once asked me what should be my epitaph? I said - ‘She wanted to be poet and died as one.’ I don’t know whether my words stay or echo in your hearts, but if they do - I’m living a dream.
Much love to all of you - those who read me, copy me, love me, hate me and especially to those who stalk me. I love stalkers. Stalker love is on another level. Bhagwan bas ek stalker toh ho mera. Please, Bhagwan.
Which one is your favorite and which one you relate the most with? I’ve lived each one of these, though.
If love was written on the bed, we would have been on the New York Times Best Selling list. We were that good. But if love was to be felt like a warm whisper on a cold February night, we would have made each other deaf -- note the contrast. It was not our fault. We were young. Our bodies dictated our feelings. Maybe, we didn't know how to love anyone at that age. We knew the kind of love we saw in the movies. We didn't read poetry, then. Even if we did, we only read the roses and didn't think of the unmentioned thorns that grow with it. Love was linear to us, not multi-dimensional - one kiss, a phone call, and a handsome boyfriend. And that linear love resulted in only one emotion after our breakup. It made me angry.
I held onto that anger till 24. Then, time took care of it. You become that memory I buried in the someone's backyard. Well, I was afraid of even burying it in my own. You were my biggest mistake. I moved on but carried the dead weight with me all the time. If I liked someone, I doubted him even before the first date. I didn't trust the compliments. I believed all promises were fake. I thought love was to keep the bed warm, not the soul. I took one man's fault and blamed it on men. I cursed men when I should have picked up the broken pieces of my heart and created a beautiful mosaic. But then, I was angry. I was angry because I didn’t understand love.
It was only with age I understood the real meaning of it. Love is not about the longevity of a relation, it’s about the tiny moments we create. Love is not about growing old together either. If you grew as a person even after your breakup, love has served its purpose. So, I did one thing, one evening I sat down and asked myself, ‘What have you given me?’ At 29, the answer was - the ability to love better. Because of you, I know what is love and how to love. I know whom to love too. I know the ‘why’ of love as well. My only regret was all those years I was bitter. I wish I could go back in time and smoothen the arid patch of my life. I wish I could go back and bloom.
P. S. Sharing it as I love this post. Hope you do, too.
1,7729520 December, 2018
• He Went Softly — Softer • .
Went is intentional. 🤣🤣🤣🤣
If you’re #christmas shopping, all of my books are available in bookstores and online. Search “Alfa Poetry” on Amazon for the list or click on link tree in my bio and look for my book tab! Let me know if you get one today! .
Sharing an old one. Tag someone who you know is going through this. 🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻🙌🏻 | |
If you’re shopping this weekend all of my books are available in bookstores and online. Search “Alfa Poetry” on Amazon for the list or click on link tree in my bio and look for my book tab! Let me know if you get one this weekend.
Escape 🧜♀️🦄🌸 there are days where you can lose yourself and who you are.. getting caught up in the mundane, the ordinary, the dull routine of life. This is when you need to get a breath of fresh air 🦋 take a break and go somewhere that feels familiar .... somewhere fun, somewhere that makes you come alive again and reclaim your spirit. A place where you can feel more like yourself. “ @n.r.hart • bring a friend tag someone special
you can order my book Poetry and Pearls vol1 avail on Amazon and Barnes and Noble book stores 🌸 signed copies on Etsy @NRHartAuthor
Thank you for sharing my words each day and buying my book ✨ I appreciate your wonderful support! 🙏 #throwbacktuesday
1,354454 December, 2018
A page from my winter season “Poetry and Pearls II” 🌹
taken by a fan 🙏🙏🙏
if you have received my book please send a picture so I may share. I love seeing where my books end up. And Thank you again!!! @n.r.hart —————
my second book of poetry “Poetry and Pearls II“ just released 🍃
Available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble
my book is in full color like volume one 🌈
divided into the 4 seasons 🦋 Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn poetry reflective of each Season... because I feel there are “Seasons of the Heart” too...💗
follow the link in my bio to order! ————
Thank you for sharing my words each day and buying my book.
I appreciate your wonderful support. Love, N.R.Hart ❤️ #poetryandpearls#nrhart
1,783625 January, 2019
Someone asked me about my favorite couplets. This is one of my favorites. Also, flowers are one of my few weaknesses.
This summer I lived by the beach.
The Somerton beach.
I walked to the corner cafe every day.
Back and forth.
In my head,
I was thinking.
I saw children splashing, tip-toeing, and laughing;
I saw teenagers chatting, gossiping, and wondering;
I saw young couples hand-holding, walking and kissing;
I saw runners puffing and huffing;
I saw young families holding their babies for their very first beach-stepping;
I saw dogs catching sticks, tails wagging, freely running;
I saw elders sitting, quietly into the horizon, staring.
when I have a daughter, I will shower her in poetry. I will present to her the most emotional writers I have ever read. I will educate her on modern poetry, the rights and the wrongs of it, how for some, it has morphed into more social media aesthetic than actual emotion, how there is more to it behind the stereotype and stigma. She will learn the art behind healing, the power of her own beauty, the weight of her own worth. She will read these poets and she will grow into and beyond herself. And because of that, I will not be showing her yours.
You write about brokenness like its a pretty lipstick color, like it brings out the color of her eyes. As if getting crushed is what will make her lovable to others. I will not let my daughter think that being broken, being small, being quiet, is the way to find somebody who will love you. I will not let her be convinced that crying in the shower and barely eating is the only path to the right person. I will not allow her to read about what types of women deserve respect and what she has to be to have value. I will not let her internalize competition against other women. She will learn that she is respectable and valuable because she exists. She will learn that being loud, angry and strong is okay. I was taught to be loud, and to never apologize for how my voice captures a crowd. I was given the courage to speak out about anything and everything wrong, and to never regret doing so. When my first heartbreak came barreling into me, my parents wiped my tears, held me, and hauled me back to my feet. I fell after that, again and again, but soon, I was able to get back up on my own. I used poetry as a crutch and limped my way back to wholeness. and it is because they did not let me bleed out. They trained me to be resilient.
so I will give that to my daughter. I will give her an earth-shattering voice. I will teach her that being too much for some people to handle is not a crime. That wanting to grab attention does not make her less worthy than those who seek to avoid it. She will grow up knowing that she is not more or less than any other woman, and that women are not to be her competitors or her enemies.
На поверхность твоей воды
невесомо ложится взгляд,
обдаёт её кипятком,
заставляет смотреть в ответ.
Мои чувства тайком велят
оставлять тебя «на потом» -
чтоб не выпить в один присест -
я даю им такой обет.
Я комок из обид и бед,
но у кромки подтаял лёд.
Кроме пунша из горьких слов
я тебе ничего не дам.
У меня занемел язык
и промокло насквозь белье.
Я хочу погасить свет,
чтоб не мучаться от стыда.
Я беру твой сосуд с водой
и его предаю огню.
подступают к твоим краям.
Не даю тебе закипеть,
чтоб не видеть твои глаза -
не желающих умирать.
Видит Бог, я плохой друг,
но весьма неплохой лжец.
Я однажды сойду с рельс
и устану играть роль.
Отпечаток твоих губ
и смиренный в ответ жест.
В моей жизни одна цель -
потерять, наконец, контроль.
Но пока мне хватает сил
в институте температур
мой наилучший эксперимент
достигает своих высот.
Поумерив привычный пыл,
задаю непростой вопрос,
оставляет пустой след
You were nodding out in the hospital.
I was on my 5th, 6th, or 7th pin
With a Corona 40. I'd let them melt on
My tongue and the pain would tingle, the ache
In my mind dissolving like pink poppies
Glowing faded ghost fields in the Never
That one we floated into like weather,
Thick Houston lava pale as the sick sun
On a blue factory morning at 4am.
Two green voices swaying through the snake phone,
Jagged spleen absinthe drinkers, flickering
Bloody sandpaper tongues at the candle
Of Love..."Hey, you still there?" "Yeah, I think so."
"How'd we get here again?" "Fucked if I know."
‘But this overshoots the mark, / this gnashing sorrow, so Wagnerian; / it was more a vague, grey element I moved in / that kept me remote and slow, / like a bound and stifled fly, half-paralysed’
I’m scared of poetry, especially by modern writers. Not quite sure why - I think I’m worried about ‘not getting it’ and so, even when I do read happen to some [ie, I’m ashamed to say, when scrolling through Twitter] I rarely give it the space or respect it needs to have an impact. But this new collection is being talked about by so many people - inside and outside work (where this happens to be published) - that I wanted to give it a chance.
VERTIGO & GHOST is split into two sections and an opening poem. Roughly, the first section retells Zeus in modern guise: a serial rapist and psychopath, a relentless sexual aggressor with the power to get what he wants, ad infinitum. It’s horrible reading, stripping any glamour from our imagined Disney-fied thunder God: (from the poem [surveillance]) ‘I WILL RAPE A CHILD WITH AN IMPLEMENT / AND THAT IMPLEMENT WILL BE A SWAN’.
I personally enjoyed Part Two more - it felt more relatable and conversational. Here the poems turned to the poet’s own life: the defiant love and exhaustion that comes from giving birth to her daughters, and the ebb and flow of her mental state. The quote at the top comes from my favourite poem in the collection - FLY - about the ways that we describe depression to ourselves.
I’m not close to being a worthy poetry critic, but even I was hugely engaged with these. I’d avoid reading them in one go like I did though, and instead savour one a day - with your morning coffee perhaps? ☕️
Did any of you artsy types attend the launch/poetry reading last week?
I'm not the type to put all my feelings out there, yet I've been putting more out there than I normally would. I'm not the overly dramatic type, unless someone makes me crazy. Not knowing if someone felt the same thing you did will make you crazy. Was I right or wrong. That's all I needed to know. I never expected anything to actually happen. No expectations. I just don't like unanswered questions. I don't know if the person I've been writing about even knows it him. He certainly has never asked if it's him. Either he knows and just doesn't care or he thinks Im fucking crazy now, sad, pathetic, annoying...who knows. Or he is completely clueless. Either way, I'll never know what he thinks and maybe I don't want to. I can never face him again but I know I'll have to eventually. And I'll wonder if he's laughing at me, if I'm some huge joke to him. I've put myself out there more than I EVER would normally. And I'm too hot to waste anymore time on someone who isn't interested. All I can do is speculate and it makes me crazy. I hate myself like this. So I'm done. If you know it's you I'm talking about and you can't even say anything, that's fucked up. If you're not sure, you could've asked. I already think I know the answer, I just can't let go for some reason. This is NOT like me and I fucking hate it. I am NOT pathetic. I don't do this kind of shit. I just don't. And I get it. It's impossible anyway. It's just impossible. I'm not crazy or delusional, I'm never this emotional. But I still need to know.