Alternative title: A Potterhead goes to watch the Cursed Child and the expected happens
I walk down the street,
and I can’t help but romanticise the night
after walking out of the spell that was
the Cursed Child.
The night —
it’s not wrapped in a starry blanket
but a stark blank canvas
onto which the buildings are painted,
the light from the windows are the stars in this city.
The Cursed Child’s music
floods through my earphones
and becomes the soundtrack to my steps.
I breathe in the cool air
as the music crescendos
and wonder why the hours long play
of the slight sadness I felt
when the cast took their final bow
The play had
enveloped the whole theatre,
not missing one nook or cranny,
in its wake of evoking
a rainbow of emotions
and unfettered reactions.
And now its music
envelops the night around me
in its spectacle.
I went to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child live almost a year ago and it was one of the most — well — magical experiences. So here is a piece of prose with line breaks about that night.
(Unrelated: I don’t know if this classifies as “poetry” – which is a whole other debate – but I like the way the line breaks look and read so I’m kind of just going with it.)
Hope you’re staying safe!
Photograph: Saakshi Gupta
There it is again,
the apartment is settling in.
I take one earphone out, the music still playing
as my head looks around,
my eyes scanning the room,
my ears straining to pinpoint the source of the creaks.
The apartment readjusts.
It has been sitting still for too long
so now it stretches its sleeping muscles
It’s three in the morning when the pipes in the walls come alive,
their gurgles joining the symphony of the quiet.
No taps are running and yet,
blood courses through the apartment’s veins as it stirs in the dark,
making me acknowledge the unwanted company.
Sometimes footsteps join in the cacophony of the pipes.
They walk around above my apartment after midnight,
followed by screeches of furniture moving around.
Living on the last floor of a building
where the door to the roof is locked and rusty with time,
I try to find sense in the shuffling upstairs.
Maybe I can borrow a broom from the
witch I hear every weekend,
her cackles echoing from another apartment unknown,
travelling through to my window and into my room.
Mind you, I don’t mean a Harry-Potter-witch,
but a green-skinned one with all her pointies—
Maybe I can interrupt her stirring through
the black cauldron of filth,
ask to borrow her broom and
fly up to the roof to find sense in the shuffling upstairs.
Or maybe I will just sit in my weird creaky apartment and
ponder over its haunted-ness.
Photo by rawpixel.com from Pexels
As the years go by,
you slip them
and the memories they
between plastic sheets in your
album of souvenirs.
They gather dust,
and get shifted from
the most accessible spot –
to that place above the cupboard,
the one saved for things which are
not of immediate use –
out of reach.
And then one day
your surroundings get dipped in
a dreamy blue of nostalgia.
Sudden or with reason,
the nostalgia sinks into you,
and plays you like a
taking your hand
and making it reach into the
foggy recesses of a corner which is
out of reach.
It plays you a tinted
starring those who told you to
‘keep in touch, okay?’
and those who do.
The albums keep
but you still find yourself
the details missing
and the facts blurred,
but the comfort of the washed out
memories remaining warm and
Image from here.
When once my pen used to bleed with ink,
forming words black and blue,
it now rests barren
on a paper which is white as snow
and vacant like my mind,
with not even a blot of ink to boast.
My mind has become a sieve,
my thoughts too inconsequential
dismissed as soon as they arrive.
Maybe the pages will remain just as,
yellowing as time takes its toll,
devoid of words.
Or maybe they’ll finally be adorned
by prose and verse.
Till then I wonder,
what I am supposed to do.
Should I sit idle,
waiting for an idea
to wade its way through the clutter of my mind,
or wander around
and window-shop for an inspiration
till one strikes my fancy.
With no muse or stimulus,
I only hope that this period of
won’t be my undoing.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
There's a fury inside of me.
a fury, dark and deep.
just under the surface,
struggling to spill out.
This ball of fire
has been growing in me,
egging me on
to just let it free.
And I want to let it go,
let all of this burden
But it scares me,
that if I let it erupt,
it will destroy everything
in my wake.
And so it resides within me
spreading its tentacles,
the flames dancing passionately,
consuming me whole.
Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash