Let me sail into an ocean of poetry,

And battle the wave of words that engulf me,

Fighting pitifully to keep sight of my North Star guiding me home,

And my sharp eyes glued to the lighthouse, shining like a sun.

 

The boat I row never graces a shore,

Always so close, yet so far.

Instead, I continue to balance on the wooden boat,

Sitting on the center of a bench slick with salt and sorrows.

The crumbling precipice yawns over the deep waters below,

Slowly failing to withstand the wave of emotions crashing against its rock.

 

Sometimes the sea rages with a storm,

Sometimes the sea calms with a clear forecast.

Sometimes my boat floats in the air, aided by a pair of wings,

Sometimes my boat sinks in the water, punctured with a thousand holes.

 

I like to think, as I drown parched paper with words,

As I roll it all up and slip it into a bottle, and cast it to sea,

That someone who is also sailing on their own

Finds solace in my glass bottle of poetry,

And that I’ll discover a bottle of theirs,

And that it’ll feel like we share an understanding:

We are alone, but will not be forever.

 

Because while the journey of writing poetry may be a sole task,

The destination of reading it

Is meant for the world.

 

written and photographed by Saanvi Gutta

reviewed by Keerthi Selvam and Tryphena Pilli