Blue Diamond

About Me

Dearest,
Greetings! Greetings!

My name isTanya Singh. I am a poet. A poet for all sorts of things, and all sorts of seasons.

Poetry makes me pause in apprehension, like a six year old sitting atop the banyan tree, wondering how fast I can fall from this height. Poetry makes me pause in joy, like a seven year old, sitting under the banyan tree, wondering how fast I could climb. Poetry is some weird fire to me. As if someone had set me on fire from inside, and the warmth was comforting me in the cold blizzard. It is strangely eclectic.

I write for myriad reasons, and a couple more.
I write so that I can remember that taste of cotton candy, and potato chips against the back of my tongue, rolling off under the side, as if my mouth was a wave in the ocean. I write because I like to dream in the bliss of words. I write because somewhere, it makes me feel beautiful, as if someone had given me a word I never knew before. I write because every-time when a word binds itself in a tryst with other words, I feel like I can taste my own skin wrapped inside my mouth in another wave.
I write because when my tongue is tired of the ocean it expels in every utterance, my hands write tsunamis I am not scared of.

My work has appeared, or is forthcoming in Literary Orphans, Dear Damsels, among others. I serve as a Goodwill Ambassador for Postcards for Peace. I am also a contributor to Iuventum’s quarterly newsletter, and I serve as a Blog Editor for Moledro Magazine. Presently, I am working on my beautiful project: The Cerurove. There are just so many things I like to do. Sometimes, I paint as I put on some jazz, and dance without a care. But often, you will find me in the corner of the classroom, scribbling words that I write for you. Sometimes, you will find with a book at a party. Sometimes, you will see me walking down barefoot on the streets, whistling a tune nobody has quite heard of. I will write. I will write. I will write. Till my heart tells me to stop. And, I know my heart isn’t going to go against my will. Or rather my heart and my will are pretty much the same.

I will believe you when you tell me that the only good thing you did today was that you ‘wrote a poem’. I will believe you when you tell me that good things exist. That there is magic. And, when I tell you that certain words hold powers relative to you, I will know that you know somehow. That there are words that can do more good than my own name. That there are words that heal more broken hearts than cardiologists. That there are words that hurt more people than the reality we conjure up. That there are words that are just as warming as finding a love letter in your drawer few years from now, not knowing who wrote it. But you know that it was with love.Poetry to me is all that, and more.

I am an independently funded artist. But I cannot do this all on my own. I would truly appreciate your help. Click the ‘Become a patron’button, and join me on my beautiful journey, as I learn and grow.

I hope that as I continue to write, maybe someone will find something to hold onto.
I’ll write. I cannot stop. So when I pass through the trees, below the leaves, like a conscious rebellion, I become the wind, and maybe we will all burn as bright as we can, turning into a Phoenix.We will collect our words from our ashes, and rise again. Till then. Thank you.

It is lovely to know you!

Also read my official biography.

Biography: Tanya Singh is a 17 year old. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming in Literary Orphans, Dear Damsels, among others. She is presently working on her magazine The Cerurove. She serves as a Blog Editor for Moledro Magazine, and a First Reader for Polyphony H.S. A Goodwill Ambassador for Postcards for Peace, she earnestly believes in the power of creative expression to bring a positive change. She is contributor to Iuventum’s quarterly newsletter, and Voices of Youth. She is the India Director for the India Association of Next Generation Politics, a nonprofit organisation that aims to empower the young political voice.

And where do poems tread?

Do they ride on limericks or horse backs?

Do they cry out with a ballad?

Where do poems tread?

To give up their verses in your soliloquy,

As you throw up your coffee in exhilaration,

.

.

.

What about poems“? She asked.

Where do poems tread“?

On your lips like the bitter-sweet coffee.

And in the moment we knew, the taste of our poems.

 

Heal the world at the tip of your verse.

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