If I should go away,
Beloved, do not say
‘He has forgotten me’.
For you abide,
A singing rib within my dreaming side;
You always stay.
And in the mad tormented valley
Where blood and hunger rally
And Death the wild beast is uncaught, untamed,
Our soul withstands the terror
And has its quiet honour
Among the glittering stars your voices named.(submitted by ifellowedsleep)
(written in response to an NY Times book review of a book by an author with this name.)
I Missed His Book, But I Read His Name
Though authors are a dreadful clan To be avoided if you can, I'd like to meet the Indian, M. Anantanarayanan. I picture him as short and tan. We'd meet, perhaps, in Hindustan. I'd say, with admirable elan , "Ah, Anantanarayanan -- I've heard of you. The Times once ran A notice on your novel, an Unusual tale of God and Man." And Anantanarayanan Would seat me on a lush divan And read his name -- that sumptuous span Of 'a's and 'n's more lovely than "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan" -- Aloud to me all day. I plan Henceforth to be an ardent fan of Anantanarayanan -- M. Anantanarayanan.
Heck yeah, sometimes I think that poetry = that which has no logical sense :) In some ways poetry is a way for me to express the things that don’t make sense in words. Poetry’s purpose is whatever you use it for. Poetry has been used for propaganda, for beauty, for ugliness, etc. There really are no rules.
Try to think like a little kid for a few minutes…you know, imagine dragons and crazy plants and everything that we tend to ignore now telling ourselves, “Oh, this isn’t realistic enough.” Read some Daniel Pinkwater if you need imagination, he’s amazing at this. And it’s also worthwhile remembering that creative doesn’t necessarily need to equal crazy; there’s creativity in even the most realistic of fiction.
haha, thanks! I appreciate the compliment. I wouldn’t call myself a genius though, at all. If you want to improve your writing I’d definitely suggest writing every day or every week (like a poem or short story) and then you’re guaranteed to get better just through the practice. I think I definitely had an advantage because I started practicing early. :)
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Submitted by user Starbear.
Just a collection of extremely short, but mysterious poems and ten-word stories….all by me, myself, and I. I just think there’s an odd sort of spark in all of these…
Poems:
The spider dangles from the sill
She draws and notes, her silk is born
The weaving spins without a quill
And from the glass, she hangs forlorn
10 Word Stories and Poems:
He looks
With hand on heart
Into the distant
Art
Sky-glass shatter
Through leaves
Erases all doubt
And grieves
“Everything, please.” I handed her the slip.
Cackling of triumph.
Perhaps, the pencil wrote. That was all the writer wanted.
Whistling freely
Whistling deaf
Whistling highly
Whistling bereft….
Mute flute
A world in a word
Is a flight-full bird
Probably…hmm, maybe “On Biscayne Bay”? I think it’s not even two pages.
Submitted by Malea Kotelo
Geniva awoke in the morning feeling flustered. She had stayed up for long hours working through the night on a project she was required to submit today to meet her deadline. She was not done yet but she was optimistic she would complete it on time before her boss arrived.
Just for a brief moment Geniva reflected on her life and its entirety. Would this be how her life would be like forever? How she had yearned for so much more, when she was younger. She was starting to feel like one big tragedy of a cliché. She felt a hole in her heart and a sadness so intense she had to breathe in occasionally to compose herself. Her obsession for things she didn’t have was taking a huge toll on her life and today she was going to put that to an end. She was going to live on dreams like she did when she was younger and love without judgment.
As she ran out of her apartment she went past Gaza the bellboy and smiled at him and muttered words that almost threw him off balance, “I am sorry I am always so sad Gaza, today I will try to live better”. Lost for words Gaza just stared at him and watched her go.
No, that is what she wishes she had said to him but instead she just ran past him and never even greeted. She was lonely and felt helpless a lot of the time of each and everyday, day in and day out she wished something magical would happen to make her feel good about her existence. Nothing ever did.
Looking at her watch Geniva realized she was running out of time. She had to get to work at least 2 hours earlier than usual to give her project a go if it was to ever be finished on time. “Taxi!” she yelled waving her hand. A woman next to her on the queue stared at her with her mouth wide open. Geniva had to giggle a bit at the sight of this woman’s reaction but Geniva couldn’t help herself, her day was becoming ever so predictable surely it wouldn’t hurt to call for a cab to come save her from the 2000 meters queue she was stuck in. She was not in New York City where ever so often she had seen people on TV just summon taxis and have them emerge almost immediately out of nowhere to take them to their desired destination. She was instead stuck in South Africa, Johannesburg at one of the most notorious taxi ranks in the country – Noord Taxi rank. She was lucky enough to be able to afford the flat she lived in and each and everyday she imagined it was an apartment in another city. She especially liked New York.
“Wa Hlanya, are you crazy child?” the woman standing behind her asked. “Can’t you see we are all waiting here for a taxi?” Geniva smiled to herself and replied “I guess we all are”. Suddenly everyone was speculating right in front of her if she was mad or not. “Did you see her shout ‘Taxi’ like a deranged mad person just now?” one woman muttered to the other. Nodding woefully another woman added “Our society is going to the dogs, such a young woman, so sad”.
Geniva was proud she had in a matter of seconds started something, a dialogue amongst strangers that connected them all. Just for a brief moment she was the center of attraction and all it took was one misplaced word. She smiled and agonized a little at the concern of the strangers that were waiting with her, but more than anything she was touched by their sense or worry. If only they knew.
Today she had decided she would use a different name and she would be in New York and her name would be Geniva and not Tlaleng. She was rushing off to work to complete a major project at work and not Ntate Motsamai’s homework. Her day was really looking up already and she was glad that today was not going to be another everyday day.
