It was almost like the sepia filter was turned on, On the old forgotten roads. Not a soul to be seen on the muddy streets. He rode a bicycle and sang songs from the 80s. He hurried home, Saw his little daughter waiting for him at the porch. They went inside hand-in-hand, And found awaiting – A bowl of hot rice Steaming hot sambar & crunchy papadam That made his belly rumble and grumble with joy. He sat down immediately to eat, From the kitchen came his wife shouting, “Wash your hands before you eat!” All of a sudden, he woke up from his sleep. Found beside him a white lady in green. He wondered to himself, “Which one of this is a dream?”
I am not a dragon, I do not have a horde. I am trapped inside this empty dark cave With no shiny heaps of gold.
I wander aimlessly in the darkness with no real goal. I wonder what’s in my destiny, Is there a purpose for this existence? I curl up in a corner and sleep like every other day. But, who’s here today? A little boy has walked into the cave.
He stands in front of me fearlessly and smiles. I snarl, smoke rises from my nostrils. He steps forward cautiously, his hand reaching towards me. I curl deeper into the cave. He waits patiently, his soul emitting an aura of kindness. I rise up and breathe fire. The boy as small as a shrimp near my feet, Watched me in awe with no fear. The cave was no ordinary one, The fire melted the layer of soot away and revealed walls of gold. The cave shone like the sun in the darkness of the night, With a mighty dragon queen and a little boy as a guiding star by her side.
this is for us. This is for us who sing, write, dance, act, study, run and love and this is for doing it even if no one will ever know because the beauty is in the act of doing it. Not in what it can lead to. This is for the times I lose myself while writing, singing, playing and no one is around and they will never know but I will forever remember and that shines brighter than any praise or fame or glory I will ever have, and this is for you who write or play or read or sing by yourself with the light off and door closed when the world is asleep and the stars are aligned and maybe no one will ever hear it or read your words or know your thoughts but it doesn’t make it less noble. It makes it ethereal. Mysterious. Infinite. For it belongs to you and whatever God or spirit you believe in and only you can decide how much it meant and means and will forever mean and other people will experience it too through you. Through your spirit. Through the way you talk. Through the way you walk and love and laugh and care and I never meant to write this long but what I want to say is: Don’t try to present your art by making other people read or hear or see or touch it: make them feel it. Wear your art like your heart on your sleeve and keep it alive by making people feel a little better. Feel a little lighter. Create art in order for yourself to become yourself and let your very existence be your song, your poem, your story. Let your very identity be your book. Let the way people say your name sound like the sweetest melody.
So go create. Take photographs in the woods, run alone in the rain and sing your heart out high up on a mountain where no one will ever hear and your very existence will be the most hypnotising scar. Make your life be your art and you will never be forgotten.
– CHARLOTTE ERIKSSON
Beautifully expressed by Charlotte Eriksson in her book, Another Vagabond Lost To Love. Thank you my friend, Abhishek Labhe for sharing this poem with me!
It perched on my windowsill Looking for a tidbit; A place to rest its weary self, Eyeing the view.
I drew close, in awe of its silhouette Deep, black lined eyes, Rotund, fragile, and beautiful.
But the sight of me made it retreat Farther and farther on the tiny rim. Until it could no longer stand And away it flew; So quick, so sudden, so soon.
– Madhumita Paul
A lovely poem contributed by my dearest friend Madhumita Paul. Thank you for sharing this with me and the community. If you enjoyed reading this, then don’t forget to show your love and support by liking or commenting below. Looking forward to more of your writings! ❤
Dear readers, if feel you have a story/poem/idea to share, then please give me an opportunity to put you under the spotlight. Email me at: email@example.com
To bake a cake in the eye of a storm; to feed yourself sugar on the cusp of danger.
By Ocean Vuong
This quote is from the book, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong. Every line in this book is like poetry, beautiful, graceful and so impactful. The title of the book itself was amazing enough for me to pick it up and start reading. This literary fiction discusses some serious elements like trauma, violence, race, war, and survival.
To explain the above quote, the author says, “In the story, when a girl and her grandmother spot a storm brewing on the green horizon, instead of shuttering the windows or nailing boards on the doors, they set out to bake a cake. I was unmoored by this act, its precarious yet bold refusal of common sense.”
It was noon, sometime in June, when the wildflowers had started to bloom. A straw hat on the head for the groom and a dusty pink gown for the bridegroom. In the golden light of the summer sun, people glittered like shiny pearls. Glasses clinked, lovers winked, kids frolicked holding orange ice cream. Eyes sparkled with merriment, there was a magical happiness in the air. Celebrations, weddings, garden parties, on sunny days are always the best.
Dreaming of low tides, Long nights under the moonlight Sitting around logs set on fire Upon white sand and Mountains looming under dark skies.
Sea breeze muffles our voices As we share stories Holding mugs of warmth In our mitten covered hands There’s always so much to say, To listen, To laugh, With friends around There’s no track of time. Soon. Those days will come soon.