Writers quote: Maya Angelou

Writers quote: Maya Angelou

IMG_5665

Last week, I went down with fever and after a few doses of injections, I am back by the grace of God as right as rain and ready for writer’s Quote/poem Wednesday. This week’s featured writer needs no introduction, it’s the phenomenal woman Maya Angelou. I knew I wanted to share a Maya Angelou poem with you guys, but I also didn’t want to share one of the more popular poems. It came down to two selections which are completely different in pattern and theme- alone and woman work.

I have decided to go with the poem, Alone. It’s got a pretty straightforward message with depth hidden within. It begins with the character lying and contemplating, about her life, others lives, and the world at large; and it ends with the conclusion that we cannot survive this world alone. Even with our wealth, for the few who have them, we’d still need company to survive and not isolation.

Alone by Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

What do you think about Maya Angelou’s conclusion? Can we make it out here alone?

The world of 2017

The world of 2017

IMG_5629.JPG

We live in a world where-

misery is loved,
Violence ignored;

Hope is foreign,
Faith- turned scarce.

Living is dreary,
Dying is norms.

Tears have dried up,
The soil is bloodied.

Wealth is secluded,
Poverty- rampant,

Walls are put up,
Humans are shut out,

Colour is a measure,
Of worth of living.

It’s 2017,
And the life, many are living.

the beautiful image I used above is courtesy of The dream store

Writer’s Quote: Charles Bukowski

Writer’s Quote: Charles Bukowski

IMG_5620

Hello again, to another Writer’s Wednesday where I share some of my favourite poems with you guys written by other authors. If you’ve been following my blog for a while now, you’d know I read a lot of Charles Bukowski’s works. I love them and I admire the realism in them, the lack of conformity with classical poetic style and the harsh truths he throws in every now and then. He is one poet who says things as they are with little sugar coating.

Below is a poem from one of his poetry books, Love is a dog from hell. I feel it reflects the situation of this world in recent times, even though this was written decades ago.My favourite lines from the entire poem are these:
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

And that is just the truth.

Charles Bukowski- Love Is a Dog from Hell

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.

people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.

it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone

untouched
unspoken to

watering a plant.”

My kind of sadness-

My kind of sadness-

image

There’s a sadness,
      Which begins-
           In the quiet of dark;

There’s a sadness,
      Which peaks when-
            there’s noise abound;

There’s a sadness,
       From which sleep-
             Is a sought for solace;

There’s a sadness,
       Which grips me
              -wide awake.

Then there’s the sadness,
        From which my –
                 poetry originates.

It’s that sadness,
        I cling to-
               During life’s turbulences.

When I viewed my “serched terms” recently, I discovered that someone searched for “sadness”. So, here goes.

the above image is courtesy of Me2go.tumblr

Black History-

Black History-

image

The minute she opened
her mouth, He was gone;
He was a criminal,
In the eyes of the world;
A man born from black race,
Against a white skin;
No court of man would,
acquit and free him.
The case was a plain one-
“Her words against his”,
With damning evidence,
Betraying what she speaks,
But the world then was ruled
by prejudiced men,
Who place white color,
Above all else.

But that happened decades
Ago- it’s history,
Depicting the struggles,
Of our fathers to be free.
So when you look down,
On the black of your skin,
Be nothing but proud girl,
You have every right to be.
Black, white are naught but
Colors of the skin,
For, we have the same red
Blood coursing our veins.

The beautiful art above is by Anya Brewley S 

Flash Fiction: The Ritual

Flash Fiction: The Ritual

photo-20160229092555202

I watched in mild amusement as Rayna read her list:
            Rose water, check
            matches, Check.

She then urged me to shut my eyes unless “you don’t mind seeing what you cant un-see” she joked.
I opened them to find Rayna wrapped in two pieces of Ankara cloth. One around her chest and the other covering her waist to mid-thigh. She raised a finger to her lips motioning me to silence- The ritual had begun.

Rayna encircled “the guitar” with salt and ginger powder. Next, she sprinkled rose water on it seven times and finally, she lighted the matches and set It to flames. The embers rose, dancing wildly as a grim smile formed on Rayna’s face.
            “There!” She exclaimed “I’m rid of the devilish thing.”

“Where on earth did you get this idea from?” I asked, curious.
“Well, Google of course.” She replied causally, adding “you can find out anything on there”.

“Uh-huh”, I nodded. Wondering what on earth the world was turning into.


word count: 165 words. This story is in response to flash fiction for aspiring writers photo prompt challenge hosted by Priceless Joy where we are given a photo each week and are required to write a 75-175 words story on it. You’re welcome to join the fun, simply click on the highlighted link above. Thank you Pixabay for this week’s photo.

A paradell-

A paradell-

image

And she hid from the world;
And she hid from the world;
Labelled an outsider, she sought freedom;
Labelled an outsider, she sought freedom;
An outsider, labelled- she hid
And she sought, freedom from the world.

And she drowned her sorrows;
And she drowned her sorrows;
In the flips- and pages- of books;
In the flips- and pages- of books;
And of Her sorrows in the books
flips and pages- she drowned.

She was of different specie;
She was of different specie;
A unique entity underneath hazel eyes;
A unique entity underneath hazel eyes;
A different specie of hazel eyes,
Underneath- a unique entity she was.

And- freedom she sought,
In the flips of books
And pages- her sorrows, she drowned;
Underneath hazel eyes, From the world, she hid;
Labelled- a different specie, an outsider;
And she was of a unique entity.


Day 16 of October poetry writing month. Prompt: The Paradell structure. In this, The first two lines as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas must be the same (repeat) and then the fifth and sixth lines must contain all the words from the preceding four lines within the stanza using them only once to form completely new lines.
The final stanza of the paradelle does not repeat like the preceding stanzas, rather the final six lines must contain every word from the first three stanzas, and only those words, again using them only once to form completely new lines.      IMAGE CREDIT: blog.lily.farm

twitter- @wordsofarandom 🙂

The ones in glass houses-

The ones in glass houses-

image

I can scream and I can shout, what difference would it make to-
the ones at the top, who believe the world is their game-
and they live with their crowns, reveling in people’s misery-
and they shut their glass doors, to the voices of masses crippling.

And I try and I’ll try, little difference it makes to those-
whose hearts have been numbed, by vices a long time ago.
And my words, flutter past, their ears like empty promises-
and they think, their silence, over time will diminish my spirit.

One by one the rest may fall to the ground,
but I implant my feet in the soil of the land-
and the silence thrown by the ones wearing crowns,
only help to make my resolve grow stronger.
And the glass doors shut to our pleading cries,
will one day crumble from the strength of our voices-
and with that I go to sleep every night-
and I wonder, I ponder how you sleep at night.

I will scream and I will shout, I believe it will make a difference-
and if not, then I’ll die trying, knowing I did my sole best.
‘Cause I know, it’s not time to worry yet,
and my lungs aren’t saturated-
you can sleep tonight while my tears hole the ground,
they remind me my heart hasn’t numbed from your acts.
And the glass doors that shelter you will come to crack,
awaiting that is what keeps my feet on the ground.
And indeed, that day will arrive.

IMAGE CREDIT: photo gallery.com

I’ll Survive-

I’ll Survive-

image

Tell me to fight wars,
And live in exile;
Tell me to live numb
From love and desires;
Tell me to give up
The light in my eyes;
But spare me my writing,
Which keeps me alive.

Tell me to wander,
For eternity wise;
Tell me to live wretched,
Like the bedouins;
Take my possessions
My money, my lands;
But spare me my writing
With it I’ll survive

Keep all your trinkets,
And worldly acquires;
Save all your princes,
For maidens alike;
Kneel not before me,
I’ve made up my mind;
To stick to my writing,
With it I’ll survive.

Image Credit: A shade of pen

The Blame game-

The Blame game-

image

It reaches a point,
Where it does need to flow;
But we bottle and lock up,
Restraining it’s zone;
And life keeps hinting at us,
To go with right, the rest- ignore;
But man is picky and choosy,
we go with what we want.

We think desires and needs,
Are two colors on a bee;
And wants are part of necessities,
Which must be fulfilled;
So dusk departs while day arrives,
We find our lives at standstill;
And blame the rest of the universe,
Remaining sin-free.

The things made so easy,
Yet we burden ourselves;
Beyond means of living,
we always crave what other’s got;
And when the tears come running,
We bottle up; throw the lock;
Staying stuck in the cycle-
We blame the world,
And progress not.
Forgetting life’s tough enough,
Without the extra burdening.

Image courtesy: don’t give up world.com