Writer’s quote: Dorothy Parker

Writer’s quote: Dorothy Parker


Hello and welcome to another writer’s Quote Wednesday where I share poems and quotes from some of my favourite poets. Today’s choice poet is Dorothy Parker and I am sharing the first poem of hers, I ever came across. It is titled “a very short song” and I can tell you, it lives up to its title. This poem also goes to show that poetry comes in different length and form.

Most of the poems I share on here are long, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good short poem. I actually have a few favourites. But coming to today’s poem, it talks about heartbreak in its few lines- both ends of the rope. The character describes how it feels to break a heart and how it feels to be heartbroken and which, she believes is worse.

She writes the poems without much bitterness but rather with a realism and wit which reminds me of billy Collins’s poem- litany, I have no idea why. Here is the poem below and I hope you enjoy it. And thank you for taking part in last week’s question, it was interesting to read your take on what poetry means.

A very short song by Dorothy Parker

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.

I’ve used the above poem one too many a time as my whatsapp profile picture (don’t ask me why), so i’ld love to hear, do you have any other heartbreak poem. It doesn’t have to be a romantic relationship. Looking forward to getting to know a few more poems from you guys.

Writer’s Quote: Walt Whitman

Writer’s Quote: Walt Whitman


Another Wednesday is upon us, and for this week’s edition of writer’s Quote/ Poem Wednesday, I’ll be sharing a very famous poem, one which I know a lot of you would be familiar with. 3 tips- it’s an elegy for a past American president, it was featured in a movie and the author is a male.

Time’s up, high five if you guessed it right. This week’s poem is “O captain, my captain by Walt Whitman”. It was an elegy (a mourning poem) written by Walt Whitman after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and its also been featured in the movie- dead poets society.

O captain, my captain by Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Writer’s Quote: Nick Flynn

Writer’s Quote: Nick Flynn


Something horrific happened recently. I hear you say, “which one?”, because sadly, every single day brings on a new horror story. The incident in question is the suicide by an 8 year old boy Gabriel Taye, after he was brutally assaulted in school by some students to the point of unconsciousness. A video released showed Gabriel lying unconscious on the floor being beaten and kicked by other students.
His mother had no idea about the incident, (which I believe the school should have called and explained the situation to the mother because, her kid was assaulted to the point of unconsciousness), and after Gabriel got back home, he killed himself.

I am saddened by his death and the incident surrounding it. It is stories like these which remind me that I cannot stop writing. Something needs to be done, kids with anger issues need to be taught ways to express themselves and an 8 year old kid should be playing with dolls and toy cars and not be tortured to the point of not wanting to spend another second on earth

It’s due to this I’m going to share a poem by Nick Flynn called Cartoon physics Part 1 as my writer’s quote/poem Wednesday submission. It Better expresses what I want to say than I can. Thank God for poetry.

Cartoon Physics, part 1 BY NICK FLYNN
Children under, say, ten, shouldn’t know
that the universe is ever-expanding,
inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies

swallowed by galaxies, whole

solar systems collapsing, all of it
acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock
only he can pass through it.
Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds
should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,
ships going down—earthbound, tangible

disasters, arenas

where they can be heroes. You can run
back into a burning house, sinking ships

have lifeboats, the trucks will come
with their ladders, if you jump

you will be saved. A child

places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus,
& drives across a city of sand. She knows

the exact spot it will skid, at which point
the bridge will give, who will swim to safety
& who will be pulled under by sharks. She will learn

that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff
he will not fall

until he notices his mistake.

I apologise for my absence, will try to Get back on track with my writing and blogging ❤

J- John McCrae

J- John McCrae


Hello to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, in continuation with the a-z challenge I am currently undertaking, today’s poet’s name begins with the letter J, and he is someone some of you might be familiar with- john McCrae. The poem for today is called “in Flanders fields’ and it is about the First World War. It was written after the death of the author’s friend.

The first stanza of the poem talks about the dead lying in Flanders fields, and how the sounds of blazing guns have drowned the noises of the flies. The second stanza goes on to the describe the dead, who have lived and loved, now lain in Flanders field. The remarkable and different thing about this poem, for me, is the third stanza. Here, the author actually tells his mates to carry on with the war for the sake of the fallen, otherwise those dead would not rest in peace. This is a great contrast from several poets, who talk about the futility of war. Below is the poem, and feel free to share your thoughts on it.

In Flanders fields by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

D- Dylan Thomas

D- Dylan Thomas


It’s writer’s quote/ Poem Wednesday again. In correlation with the A-Z challenge going on, I chose to share a quote and poem by a writer whose name begins with letter D and that person is Dylan Thomas. Below is one of the most popular poems of his.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This is a scheduled post. I am away at the moment; take care and happy reading .

Writing because-

Writing because-


“It’s not just the writing”, she said,
It’s the looking back at a formerly white page, now transformed into a confluence of rugged slanting black ink. Words, which were formerly a jumble in your head. And you stare at the piece of paper, wondering who on Earth could possible read that, jumble.
You crumble it up, dumping it at the back of your room, the back of your thoughts until…

yes, until, someday. Days, months, maybe even years. You find that crumbled piece of paper you had denounced into rubbish. A forgotten piece of work. Your eyes move across the page, word after word, line after line and everything you ever wrote down is exactly what you need to hear at the moment. And the words you had once upon a time sought refuge with cannot contain the bucket of emotion brewing up within you. What you once thought was rubbish, looks like a masterpiece. How time changes everything.

——“nothing is ever wasted”, she said, “so write today, not just for the present, because not everyone will appreciate it, but because someday, those same words might be exactly what you’d need to hear”.

Writer’s Quote: Gilda Radner

Writer’s Quote: Gilda Radner


I wanted a perfect ending, now I’ve learnt the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.
-Gilda Radner

I find that there is something beautiful in not knowing- it leaves room for hope and as Emily Dickinson famously wrote, “Hope is a thing with feathers”.

It’s being honest in admitting, yeah, at times we chase perfection. We want that perfect scenario, the perfect family, perfect kids, perfect draft (though I’m not sure how realistic I’m being here) and it is okay to want that.

In the chase of perfection, we shouldn’t become blind to the reality that perfection is a relative term. Not all poems that rhyme are perfect and not all perfect poems rhyme- I hope I’m making sense. And if I’m not, take it as this- you could lose your senses chasing perfection.

At the end of the day, what you’d remember most of all, what would fill the bulk of your memory is not the ending or the look of the book once you’ve written that final sentence, but the journey it took to get there. The mishaps, the spilled coffee, the messy desks and Pajama writing; it’s the smiles that curve on your lips when you recall how you ditched a friend simply because you needed to edit that first horrible draft; it’s the days when the muse decides to be your best friend and you write for all you are worth and the days when the muse takes a break and you wonder if surely, you are a writer?!

In the journey of chasing perfection, it’d do us a lot of good to remember, A perfect puzzle piece is in fact, made up of many imperfect and irregular pieces fitted together, without which it wouldn’t be possible.

This post is in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge

Writer’s Quote: Charles Bukowski

Writer’s Quote: Charles Bukowski


Oh the days I’ve felt the same way as Charles Bukowski described in his quote, and sometimes, climbing out of bed is the easy part. Knowing a deadline is looming close with zero inspiration to write has a way of dampening even a good day. But then, how many times have we said we couldn’t and we did.

Charles Bukowski was a poet and writer. He wrote short stories, columns for magazines and poetry. According to Wikipedia, he wrote thousands of poetry during his lifetime, many of which were still being published after he passed away on March 9, 1994. He is one of those writers who “say things as they are”. From reading his works, you get this raw honesty and the picture that, this is one man who does not sugar coat his words.

The above quote is in honor of those days when we feel like the ground should hole up, swallow our horrible drafts and replace them with masterpieces; its for the mornings of deadlines when we race to defeat the clock; its for Moments in time when we thought we couldn’t and we did triumphantly.

Below is one of the first poems of Charles Bukowski I came across:

The flesh covers the bone
And they put a mind
In there and
Sometimes a soul,
And the women break
Vases against walls
And the men drink too
And nobody finds the
But they keep
Crawling in and out
Of beds.
Flesh covers
The bone and the
Flesh searches
For more than

There’s no chance
At all;
We are all trapped
By a singular

Nobody ever finds
The one.

The city dumps fill
The junkyards fill
The madhouses fill
The hospitals fill
The graveyards fill

Nothing else
-Alone With Everybody (C. Bukowski)

This post is in response to Writer’s Quote Wednesday hosted by SilverThreading where we share “writer’s quotes” which inspire us. If you’d love to participate and share your quote, just click on the highlighted link above.

Writer’s Quote: Maya Angelou

Writer’s Quote: Maya Angelou


Whenever I post a Maya Angelou quote, I don’t like writing much under it because her words are sufficient and have such profound wisdom in them, I feel anything I write would be subliminal. It’s been over a year since Dr. Maya passed away but her words live on as a source of inspiration and that’s the strength of writing. Her poems are a testament of a woman who went through fierce storms but didn’t let them cloud the shine in her rainbow. You read her works like, phenomenal woman and Still I rise and you can almost hear the sass in her voice as you sift through the words, savoring every sentence, every line, every verse.

I chose the above quote because it’s a reminder of something we are in desperate need of, all across the globe. We are in dire need of peace, but in order to attain it, we have to be unified; we have to be color blind; we have to realize we are more alike than we are unalike.

We’ve all got our struggles and just because they are different doesn’t make them any less of a torment than any other persons. I read recently about the importance of writers support groups. There are days as writers where we’ll feel like “we just can’t do it anymore”. You know who’s going to be there in our corners, pushing us on, those writers who have once sailed across the turbulence. They’ve been there and crossed it, it wasn’t easy but they did it. They are the ones who’d help paddle our boats across the storms, being our support systems when our creative juices clog.

A big thank you to everyone who has participated in writer’s Quote this year and has been a source of inspiration to me and also to Colleen from SilverThreading, for hosting this event In the first place. That’s it, and see you in 2016, God willing.

Writer’s Quote: Erin Hanson

Writer’s Quote: Erin Hanson


And then, there are writers like Erin Hanson. She is a twenty year old Australian (according to google) with hands that weave magic in form of poetic words. I initially came across her works on Pinterest and noticed her initials were E.H . I automatically assumed they meant “Ernest Hemmingway” due to the wisdom and flawlessness of her words. I was quite impressed by Hemmingway, for walking in the skin of a girl and writing from the female point of view for a lot of the poems. Turns out, it was actually written by a female named Erin.

Erin Hanson is one of the few modern poets I enjoy, a second is lang Leav. Every single one of her poems, leaves a message with me. When I hit that dry spell of writing, her words are an inspiration. I find myself thinking, it’d be nice to be as good as her; plus another bonus, she rhymes. If you’ve written poetry before, you’d know it’s not an easy feat to make complete sense, all the time, and still rhyme. Erin Hanson makes it work and I admire her for that.
She has also released a book titled: “The Poetic Underground” which is available on Amazon. Without further adieu, after talking the talk, here’s a poem of hers to walk the talk.

You can write for hours on hours,
Of all the things you wish you could be,
But the truth of the matter is simple,
People are not poetry,
And I know that you wish you weren’t awkward,
That sweet words could roll right off your tongue,
But your time here’s too short just to worry,
How each single sentence is strung,
It’s okay to be rough round the edges,
To be bruised up and broken and scarred,
But it’s not okay to let people tell you,
That it’s a reason to change who you are,
Your hair doesn’t always seat nicely,
The way a poem sits so neatly on line,
And sometimes you might feel like a word,
That nobody has learnt to define,
You might not be a star that lights darkness,
Or a bird that can teach us to soar,
But it’s okay, because you’re too complex,
To be crammed into one metaphor,
It’s okay not to know what you’re doing,
Since your feelings don’t have to all rhyme,
Though a poem once complete is eternal,
You have the freedom to change over time,
You’re much more than can ever be written,
There is no title to say, “This is me”,
You can’t be trapped in the lines of a notebook,
Because people are not poetry.

This post is In response to Writers Quote Wednesday, hosted by Silver Threading.