Tag: poetry

The Power of the Pause in Creative Processes

For me the power of the pause is the most important part of any activity, whether it is a creative one or a simple thing like planning my Menu for the day.

I have known people who say that “why do you need to plan a menu? You just go and make something. After so many years of running a house, you should be able to do it with your eyes closed!”

Well it’s never been that simple for me. For me any activity is creative activity- whether it’s writing a book or a poem or even a small haiku for an Instagram post, I need to pause, imagine, toy with words, reflect and then put on paper my thoughts.

The white space that is believed to be a negative space is a very vital and positive area of activity. If I were to plan my white space consciously ( I am, let me be honest, a very impromptu creator so I do not actually construct or build a white space consciously) but yes there is a method to my madness and in retrospect I realise that I have unconsciously structured the pause that is the hidden depth of my foundation of any planned or unplanned activity.

When we were students, we were urged to write our answers or essays with a beginning, middle and an end. A simplistic attitude maybe, but that grid has stood true for so many centuries that all those years of training has deeply ingrained my psyche and I follow it in a nonlinear way.

Before I start any project, I need to have that seed in my mind – it could be just a line “The safe door was just that bit open” and this would usually pop into my mind just before I fall asleep. The next day, amidst the busyness of everyday life it would keep popping up and in the moments that intersperse my day I would play around with it. This then is my beginning.

My middle would be that part where my logical brain would argue with my heart; that it is an idiotic sentence. How can you create a story from something as inane as that? The brain would argue! Then my heart would smile that very secretive smile and say “wait and see! Give me some width!” there would be conversations like this yo-yoing within me while on the outside I would be calm and either indulging in another creative outlet (sketching or stitching…) this is the most difficult part. It has sometimes taken me months before I could formulate my thoughts into coherent action. It is filled with self-doubts, uncomfortable clarity, and restlessness. It is here that I need to push at the resistance that engulfs me overwhelmingly.

The end is where the beginning was. I have at this point decluttered myself and have taken positive steps towards planting that seed. It is here that I do a lot of research on my topic. Frame and reframe my story in a million different ways. Here I use myself and others as a sounding board and then question and requestion my intents. If it’s a story it is straightforward, I begin writing each chapter with the whole picture in front of me (again to be honest there have been many a times that I have erased whole chapters or rewritten whole conversations due to my indulgent emotions during this period). If it is a poem, I have questioned the veracity of what I want to portray or a short story where I have changed the passage of time.

This final moment is my incubation period; the time when my story is born with all its limbs intact.

According to me ‘scheduling’ goes against the grain of any creative venture but white space is necessary for clarity of thought and expression. If you were to think of creativity as an impressionist’s painting as opposed to a portrait that photography mimics now, then white space would definitely be an inherent part of the plan to create.

Mind, Body and Soul

Dedication

For

The storm within the self, and the calm that follows.

To the fire the flesh, and the whispering soul – may you find your truce.

 For the eternal battlefield where shadows and light

Wrestle – may these lines be your map.

Step into a world where words breathe, emotions flow, and the human experience unfolds in all its raw, beautiful complexity. Mind, Body and Soul is a collection of poetry that delves deep into the essence of who we are—our thoughts, our struggles, our joys, and the quiet moments that define us.
A journey through the heart, mind, and spirit—this collection of poetry explores love, loss, resilience, and the quiet moments that define us. Honest, moving, and deeply human, Mind, Body and Soul invites you to reflect, feel, and discover yourself in every line."

This book was born from conflict — the quiet,
ceaseless struggle between mind, body, and soul.
For as long as I can remember, these three parts of
myself have spoken in different voices, each vying
for attention, balance, and truth. These poems are
my attempt to listen to them all at once.
Within these pages you will not find answers so
much as reflections — echoes of late nights,
internal dialogues, and moments of stillness that
rose after storms. Some pieces are sharp, some
tender, some questioning, but all arise from the
same place: the space where our inner worlds
collide.
I wrote these poems not just for myself but for
anyone who has felt divided or at war with their
own being. If you have ever sensed a quiet tension
between your thoughts, your body, and your spirit,
you may recognize yourself here.
This collection is an invitation to witness that
eternal battle, but also to glimpse the fragile peace
that can emerge from it. My hope is that these
words will help you feel seen, understood, and
perhaps a little less alone.

Mind body and soul

Of Poets and Poetry

The Oak Tree Speaks

Do you know how many ways there are to die in this city?

1. Speeding taxicab.

2. Open manhole cover.

3. The man breathing so heavy at the bus stop.

When I was a teenager, the boy I loved would pay a homeless

guy ten bucks to buy him the cheapest bottle in the liquor store. 

My love sucked the glass ‘til his teeth were marbles. Rolled

himself down the subway stairs, hopped into the tracks. Waited.

4. Jealous wife.

5. Brooklyn Bridge.

6. Fire escape.

Only once, he let it get so close I screamed. I had never made

that kind of sound before. He turned, his face a prayer wheel

atop his neck, a smile so foreign I could not speak its language.

Like water running in reverse, he spilled himself up to safety.

When the train hurricaned past, the fist of air rattled my branches.

7. Rooftops, all of them.

8. The barroom brawl.

9. The West Side Highway.

10. The wrong street corner.

In New York, when a tree dies, nobody mourns that

it was cut down in its prime. Nobody counts the rings,

notifies the loved ones. There are other trees.

We can always squeeze in one more. Mind the tourists.

It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t wanna live there.

11. Disgruntled coworker.

12. Central Park after dark.

13.  Backpack through the metal detector.

14.  

15.  

16.  

For years, we wouldn’t watch movies where they destroyed

New York. The aliens never take Kansas, we joked. They go straight

for the heart. Poor Kansas. All corn fields and skyworks. All apple

pie.  Nobody to notice if it’s missing. Just all that open space to grow

in.

Sarah Kay

I read this poem, first, on a torn piece of newspaper which was used to wrap flowers. The title had been torn off! So, my introduction was “Do you know how many ways there are to die in this city?” I read on thinking it was a statistical analysis of causes of death.

As I read through it, I realized it was far from that, intrigued I googled it and found this wonderful young poet. Having studied the classical and the neo classics during my college days, I had long since stopped being excited about modern poetry. I felt that the modern poet was turning into an exhibitionist. (The world now was fawning on the loud and show stopper kind of literature) the soul was missing! It did not make me sit up and want to know more.

I was actually introduced to Sarah by my daughter’s enthusiasm for her poems. I first heard her on You Tube and literally sat up to listen to her. But this was not a poem I had heard before.

The personification of the oak tree is what strikes you through the poem. The poem first talks of this boy “she loved” (the poet or the oak tree?) as the number of causes of death continues we are exposed to this boy who is trying to get himself killed, or is he just a tease? The calmness (his face a prayer wheel atop his neck) tells us, he is tempting fate.

I did not start writing this to give a critical analysis of this poem by a great young poet! What I am trying to say that poetry is not dead; it is not limited to the rap lyrics sung by wannabies. What I love about this poet is how she breathes life into her narrative rhythms. I love reading poetry aloud and I do so when I am alone at home. The harmony and peace that it gets me cannot be got by reading the motivational speeches that the market abounds in.

The starkness of her words, bereft of even a semblance of ornament, catches your gut; wrings it to dryness and then lets the phrases explode in your brain with multi-dimensional layers of meanings. The pleasure that it imparts to my parched soul is like water on the desert sand – it is never enough but it continually quenches the inner being.

I bring before you a poem I wrote when I was very young maybe eighteen or so. I wonder now what made me think of such things? Was it the adolescent mind with its chemical battles that make you look at things so deeply? Or is it just a tentative foray into the beautiful world of words and rhythm? Whatever it is, it gives you an insight into not only the poet’s mind but the universal truth that it encompasses. I wish we could go back to the times when reading poetry was a part and parcel of every get together not the incessant playing of Antakshari ( A game where Hindi film songs are sung beginning with the last sound of the song sung before) Poetry which touches your core with the least words and the strongest implications.

Destination

Dull throbbing of muted silence,

Opened up

Myriad options…

The mind took off on a flight to,

Unknown destination.

Multiple possibilities…

Body tittered, laughing anticipation,

Closed and shut

Various limits…

Omnipotent soul hesitated on the brink

Longing, desiring.

So many cycles to go…

Before the ultimate END.

Benita Patnaik