36 Days of Type in Verse | 2018

Mohor Ray
5 min readAug 15, 2020


In 2018, when everyone was doing their fabulous versions of #36daysofType I decided I’d do mine in verse—drawing with words. Almost all were written on the go, in the car ride to & from the studio, as hasty notes on my phone. Here’s the set, spellchecked and in an ordered lot.


A comes first.
Always, alone
At the top.
But just another one
of a kind.


To only Be,
Is really, not-to-Be.
Be free, be silly
Be brave, be dizzy,
For who ever remembers a rock,
That stood still, & just was.


Don’t believe
everything you cee,
Letters change colour
camouflage & conspire,
And just when you think
you had it covered,
They go silent
without as much as
a scent.


Do it.
Do it now.
And only then,
It will be done.


Lady Eager
Had means meagre,
But made it up
By excellent effort,
Of lending her ear
And tender loving care.
She went too far, however
When she offered up instead,
A slice of her heart
To an unknown stranger.


Rare is to be found,
Such range on-ground
As the marvellous Eff
And his talent to express himself.
A creature for all seasons,
He enunciates at slightest provocation–
Moved by dismay
Or a bawdy hooray,
In the throes of passion
Or just casual irritation.
There are critics who think he’s a bit much,
But Eff being a rascal and such,
Doesn’t give
A flying fuck.


Give in,
To this glorious day,
Gallivant, gambol
Hop & ramble.
Breathe it in,
Let it get under your skin.
Until the last speck of light,
Gives up, and takes flight.


Toil through the night
And fly in, to save the day.
But who will hold their hand,
When the world
Comes to its very end?


I am
Made up of:
A bit of her
A bit of him
A bit of us
The rest,
Is just biology
And me.


Jitters feel
Like giddy eel
Nosediving butterflies
And seismic jellies.
All at once
Doing the boogie,
Shimmying up
from knee to tummy.


your inner klutz.
Spill & stumble
Let go, and bumble.
For just a bit,
You must submit
To being a mess
And march on, nonetheless,
Imperfect & oblivious.
Leave a trail
Of carefree fail
That says,
You’re just ordinarily human.


Life, little one,
Is big & small.
Enormous in its potential,
Yet tiny,
In the second
It flickers out.


Flesh & bones,
That was just a start,
Mamma made you,
With a piece of her heart.
When you broke yours
She felt the pain,
And reached back in
To pull out some more
Of her beating heart
And said, Hush,
It’ll hurt no more.


This news,
Is noise.
Thunderous & deafening,
But I can’t hear a thing.


Oh what a wonder,
This steadfast planet
Despite human blunder
Running lost, right & left,
Does not quit,
Will not submit,
And sticks to faithful orbit.


Princess Polly
Was struck by melancholy
With the weight of her crown
Weighing her down.
No matter how hard
She shook her head
It was always misread
As a timid nod,
Saying yes yes yes.
Tired of the ceremonial circus
She flung the crown into a fiery furnace
And instead, made of its metal
Knuckle dusters so gorgeously lethal
And said,
Now I’ll demonstrate
What I really meant.


The Queuer was a person
Of such disciplined fashion,
That he stood in line
Patiently, to profess adulation
To a lady, of immense attraction.
When it was,
Finally his turn,
It appeared that,
Lady Love had run,
Away in a huff
Of whimsical passion.
Oh woe!
If only had he realised
That orderliness Is useless
In matters of heady dalliance.


The run
Is a place
Past the wind
Of quiet mind,
Of pulse and pace
Arms & legs
Taking off,
touching down
At the beat
Of a silent,
primal sound.


A silken nudge
Kohl-laden smudge
Crushed cotton
A glance wanton,
Fingers trace
Arches of grace
A sigh escapes
This sweet embrace.
Enter now
The rising fever
Climbing higher
Gently, but eager.
At the peak
They meet
United in call,
Of an ecstatic,
Exquisite fall.


Tell me a tale
And take me away
To a place
Where it rains sunshine
On dreary dark nights.


The last bastion
The cusp of fruition
Until is the horizon
Between now known
And unknown thereafter
Not now, But later
Not here, But there
Standing firm in reminder
Of ticking clocks
And fleeting sands.


Superlatively spectacular
In his indulgent vernacular,
Sir Very
Made his friends
Feel average & ordinary.


Oh whee!
We’re free!
But woe
We don’t know
What are these wings,
Flappy, weird things?
What do they do?
Where do they go?
Liberty is ours
But how, now,
Shall we scale
This sky, those stars
Of our restless dreams.


X marks the spot
Where two enterprising dots
Took a walk
To meet at the cross
And said
Lets expand our horizon
And flew off in opposite direction.


How can a year
Be a number,
Marked in print
And set in stone,
Of days
That stretch
With infinite abandon.


Zig & Zag
Were inclined to drag
Matters straightforward
Into corners rather awkward.
When questioned
They said,
Where’s the fun
In being humdrum
To hit bullseye
And not take in the view.


Nothing there,
Nada, zero,
Yet a void
Of significance
In absence
Of its presence.


The chosen one
Was so very done,
With high expectation
And heavy admiration,
Disguising the fact
That he must act,
To clean up the mess
Of strangers nameless
And their thoughtless


Me and you
That makes two
Halves of a sum
Whole and even.


The trouble with three
Is the eternal quandary
Of the middle one
Choosing a side
Of primary affection.


No more, Just four.
But alas, there is
Nothing in play
As midway
For east is not west
And north faces petulantly
Away from the south and rest
It is a hard choice
Of contrasting compromise
Though it’s no more
But just four
Roads to surmise.


Fingers Five
Being rather naive,
Left the cosy coterie
Of firm fisted unity,
And stretched out
With ambition
In different direction,
Only to find
Slipping through the gaps,
Returns of their
Mutually invested funds.


What would you do
If it looked clear as day
And rang true as a bell,
If it tasted of success
And smelt of no fishy business,
If it felt smooth & sound
To touch, all round;
But your sixth sense prickles
With invisible, soundless scruples
What would you
Do then?


When the cuddle
Ended as a huddle
And the kiss
Went amiss
Mister and Missus
Put it down
With a worrying frown
To the onset
Of the seven year itch.
But the thought
Of starting afresh
The strenuous ablutions
Of new flirtations
Made them agree
In acute degree
To the inevitable fact
That it too
Would pass
Just like their mild obsession
With material possession.


The enterprising Octagon
Was on a mission
Of broadening his horizons
In holistic fashion.
He stopped one day
All of a sudden
When he realised
In his quest
To grow all round
He was inevitably bound
To lose his characteristic edge.


If I had lives nine
I’d set a baseline
For a series of escalating risks
For the first eight.
In the ninth, I would
Wind down good
With a pawcketful of tales
And absolutely no regrets.



Mohor Ray

Designer of brands, words & ideas. Cofounder Codesign.