I came up with the first two lines and the last two lines about two weeks ago. Then, I used them as a prompt and expanded it into a poem. The thing about prompts for poetry is, it doesn’t have to be one word. It can be an interesting conversation that you come up with or a cool concept you find on the internet. Don’t limit yourself with just a word. Be inspired by anything. I hope you like this poem! (also, I don’t want any of you to miss this in the poem so here goes: red+blue=purple)
You told him your favorite color, he shrugged and said “okay”. Six shots down, you wrote I love you on the back of his white tee and he never wrote it again. You were just another “he loves me not”. Even after you sung him songs, he slept humming the tune of Lonely – Akon. There’s this concept of With the sea in your eyes, you told him you had to let go if he didn’t say he loves you, if he didn’t promise a forever. He shrugged and said “okay”. It wasn’t an Augustus Waters reference.
I had this concept of story telling – palm reading mix for a long time and here it is. I hope you like it!
I met a palm reader once who convinced me to let him tell me my story. His readings weren’t conventional – he came up with stories of past lives by reading the calligraphy on our hands. Mukkadar used to be a storyteller but the people needed some catch to sit for a story, so he chose this unconventional palm-reading.
Assume all TRIGGER WARNINGs. I’ve been trying to write about such issues more often and I hope I do them justice. (secret: you might enjoy the poem more if you google the meaning of some of the names) Let me know if you liked it in the comments.
When my father told me we were the gold pots at the end of the rainbow, I was only ten. He loved rainbows. Every year on his birthday, our house would become a castle made of blue, yellow, and red and my sister and I would draw him a red carpet made out of every color in the 62 rupees color pencil pack. It would start at the door and only last four steps but it made abba smile the widest every year.
About a month ago, news came that a young man had died protecting two women in Sudan. He was shot. His favorite color was blue and that’s where #blueforsudan comes from. They still need our help and that’s only possible through spreading awareness. So this is me, doing that in the way I know how to.
This poem is fictitious but hopeful.
(TW: misery, death)
26, died protecting two women.
Stood like a wall
made of every instance throughout his life that made him
the man we know;
protecting his humanity to the very last breath.
With his finger wrapped around the width
of his mother’s finger
like a burka around the head,
he must’ve said his first proper word when he was 17 months old.
“aas-” giggles “-rakkh” drools.
His mother must’ve told his abbu and cried a little.
Despite living in a conservative household,
his parents probably spoke to him about everything.
He must’ve known about the horrors women had to face
at the hands of men who slaved for liquor,
at the hands of monsters that called themselves human.
While his bedtime stories were of castles,
his dreams must’ve been of being worthy of it.
When Mohamed turned 13,
he cut a black forest cake for the first time.
It must’ve been a gift
because his friend’s mother had called to thank him
for saving her kid from the bullies,
or judging by the type of man he was,
it must’ve been a gift by the bullies to thank him
for making them human.
Some random facts about him that I think
could be true:
His first breakup was mutual.
His favorite food was kofta.
He was always a good man.
His favorite t-shirt had the graphic of a cute doggo.
He loved cats too.
His mother was proud of him.
One fact that is definitely true:
we are proud of him.
Two hours before he became the voice of Sudan, he cut a black forest cake for the last time. He’s gone but his first word has stayed behind, to protect. 26, died protecting two women.
The love of my life was named Autumn but she hated her name as much as I loved it. “It reminds me of everyone who has died, of everyone who has turned into gold leaves and stars,” she’d say every time I asked her why.