Okay, so here is when I technically began to fall off the wagon. I wrote this on day six, because I was busy on the 5th, and today it’s the eighth, and I haven’t written since then, so errghhh (how articulate). I’m blaming this on my college assignment due tomorrow, because I’ve been procrastinating on it and trying to screw up the courage to do it, and I’ve conveniently convinced myself that if i write poetry, it’ll lull me into a false sense of productivity, so I’ve banned writing till I get my shit together. I’m hoping for a poem to be written tomorrow (I highly doubt it, because you know how deadlines are), but till then, here is this one for your enjoyment.
I’m going to call this one Amby, for obvious reasons. This poem is my baby, my child, and I’m honestly really proud I wrote this. I’m a beginner poet by the way, I’ve written very, very few poems in the past, so there’s not much that I can look back on to be proud of. I do know, however, that this poem wouldn’t have reached this level if it wasn’t for the lovely, absolutely amazing, day 5 prompt, which you can find on napowrimo.net, along with all the other official prompts. The prompt was called 20 Poetry Projects, I think, and it was a list of various things I was supposed to add to my poem that really spiced it up.
Enough rambling, now, enjoy Amby:
If you’re thinking of life in terms of a rat race,
with a finish line, or whatever,
then let’s say people are assigned vehicles upon birth
to get there.
so in that case,
donald trump’s got a fancy, made-over unicycle
with streamers blowing out the sides, gilded,
mirrors all over to deceive the eye
of its size,
but it’s still a unicycle, all the same,
because he hasn’t got the sense to upgrade,
and because a single wheel doesn’t give much insurance,
he’s beginning to lose his balance.
you’d find me, on the other hand,
in a paavam* Ambassador,
sturdy and reliable–
but only at a slow pace.
because pushing me can lead to grating complaints,
bitter-tasting anxieties at pit-stops,
gritty worries in the oil gauge.
I say this because
eventually is my middle name
when I lose a hair tie, or my keys,
it’s eventually that I rely on,
and two days later, there it is,
under the temperamental lampshade in 133.
eventually, she’s her own person,
she lets her ideas steep and brew in her head,
tea-stained puffs of aroma finally
spilling out over pages and pages.
eventually isn’t sustainable in the rat race, however,
because
ay, dios mio,
another deadline missed,
another paper due,
eventually smells houses burning
but eventually
does not
extinguish,
and, in 2014, the Ambassador was manufactured no more.
but now, when the world is at a halt,
with Ferraris idling in garages,
nursing worries of maintenance, obsolescence
and with unicycles struggling to stay in place,
— as balance requires momentum–
I sit in my Ambassador,
quiet and content,
because there is nothing this car knows better
than to wait out the years
and come through.
for it may be true what they say,
about slow and steady
winning the race.
* paavam- a malayalam word meaning poor, in this context, used as how poor would be used in the phrase ” oh you poor dear”
