By: Noor Dhingra

Seawater and Salt

That instant when you’re walking on the
Sand, the sand that contains seashells and
Stones and sandcastles built by children with
Hearts and minds soaked in seawater and salt is

The same instant that you look at the horizon
In glances of fleeting amusement and worry, the
Horizon that keeps moving onward and onward into
Spirals of creation and ruthless destruction is

That instant when you feel the tide rising in the
Beats of your braggart heart, when you realize that
There are seven oceans worth of turbulence in your
Mind, and that the horizon keeps trying to
Meet you halfway, at sunset.



Her name was the only word that
Rang in your head, repeating itself until even
Eternity gave up and stopped progressing, and
Her name sounded like all the times the
Rain fell on your fingertips and drenched your
Oversized trench-coat, and it was like all the
Orchestras in the world had synchronised their
Trombones and trumpets, only to produce a few
Syllables of symphony, and it sounded like all the
Times the snow fell softly on your yard, slowly,
Until the green was covered completely in ivory.


Work in Progress

I am a work in progress
My sentences don’t form in my head, just yet.
Instead, they form in mid-air while I’m trying too
Hard to find the right words to say, while time’s
Running up and I can’t quite articulate the way life makes me feel.

I am a work in progress
I haven’t learned the art of forgetfulness, just yet.
My arms and legs are covered in letters and digits,
Full of phone-numbers and names and obscure places that
I’m dead worried that I will forget.

I am a work in progress
I am not entirely complete, just yet.
I am trying to find myself in places and people and
Song lyrics, and I am slowly beginning to realise that
Some works of art never really reach a defined end.


Noor Dhingra is 17 years old and attends Vasant Valley School in New Delhi, India. She sent these poems after finding The Telling Room online.