writer’s Quote: Joan Murray

writer’s Quote: Joan Murray

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. I had initially planned on sharing a poem by C.K Williams, titled the Nail, as this week’s submission, but then decided against it today.

Why? Because, I personally have had enough of what’s going on in this world. We are not good to one another. I mean, just look at the ridiculousness carried out by “white supremacists”, in the United States. How did we even get here. From celebrating the first black president just a few years ago, to having to convince people that something as simple as the colour of one’s skin doesn’t make a person inferior.

This has got to stop. And so, I decided for this week, instead of bringing another poem depicting the sad world we live in, I wanted to take you guys along to South Africa, in this poem. Where one woman, against the backdrop of poverty, politics and economic difficulties, displays strength and courage. She plays her part in a society where even the leaders fail to play theirs.

Her Head by Joan Murray
Near Ekuvukeni,
in Natal, South Africa,
a woman carries water on her head.
After a year of drought,
when one child in three is at risk of death,
she returns from a distant well,
carrying water on her head.

The pumpkins are gone,
the tomatoes withered,
yet the woman carries water on her head.
The cattle kraals are empty,
the goats gaunt—
no milk now for children,
but she is carrying water on her head.

The engineers have reversed the river:
those with power can keep their power,
but one woman is carrying water on her head.
In the homelands, where the dusty crowds
watch the empty roads for water trucks,
one woman trusts herself with treasure,
and carries water on her head.

The sun does not dissuade her,
not the dried earth that blows against her,
as she carries the water on her head.
In a huge and dirty pail,
with an idle handle,
resting on a narrow can,
this woman is carrying water on her head.

This woman, who girds her neck
with safety pins, this one
who carries water on her head,
trusts her own head to bring to her people
what they need now
between life and death:
She is carrying them water on her head.

Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!

Hands of man-

Hands of man-

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Because children are dying,
And women are dying,
And men and animals
Are dying,
And women are killing,
And men are killing,
And we-
Are the cause,
Of the death in our surroundings.

The climate is changing,
For we are polluting,
Then we complain,
The heat is unbearable;
The land shores are flooded,
And that’s not the problem,
The dirt they flow with,
We had thrown-
with our own hands.

The trees- are cut short,
New ones are not planted,
Animals tortured,
For simply ornaments;
Their forests are burnt out,
The animals homeless,
And yet we are
Mortified,
When they visit our home lands.

Children are dying,
Animals are dying,
At the hands of,
Men and women in our society.

Facebook page: words of a random. Let’s connect!

the above image Is courtesy of My word wizard

Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

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Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s featured poem is one I came across only recently, and I haven’t been able to stop reading it. My heart bleeds at it’s verses. The poem is titled bleeding heart by Carmen Giménez Smith, and as I couldn’t stop at just one poem, I can safely say she is one amazing poet.

The poem, bleeding heart, talks about an overly sympathetic individual who feels so much, in fact too much. The poem begins as a metaphor- “my heart is bleeding”, then goes on to describe all the things which make the character feel so much; bleed so much. The suffocating effect of feeling too much can be felt in the line where the writer says, “it becomes the cork of me and I choke on it.”

She goes on to further explain her predicament by referencing, she bleeds so much, sometimes, she is a raisin (a dried fruit). And then immediately afterwards, she lists some more things which make her bleed, Indicating, as long as there is a sympathetic situation, she would always feel, bleed.

I love this poem in particular because it reminds me of the current situation we are living in, so much atrocities going on in different parts of the world, and my heart bleeds for them. It bleeds for the animals being treated cruelly for no fault of theirs, the children getting displaced, the women and men oppressed and abused- my heart bleeds.

Bleeding Heart BY Carmen Giménez Smith 

My heart is bleeding. It bleeds upward and fills
my mouth up with salt. It bleeds because of a city in ruins,
the chair still warm from sister’s body,
because it will all be irreproducible. My heart
bleeds because of baby bear not finding mama bear and it bleeds
to the tips of my fingers like I painted my nails Crimson.
Sometimes my heart bleeds so much I am a raisin.
It bleeds until I am a quivering ragged clot, bleeds at the ending
with the heroine and her sunken cancer eyes, at the ending
with the plaintive flute over smoke-choked killing fields. I’m bleeding
a river of blood right now and it’s wearing a culvert in me for the blood. My heart
rises up in me, becomes the cork of me and I choke on it. I am bleeding
for you and for me and for the tiny babies and the IED-blown
leg. It bleeds because I’m made that way, all filled up with blood,
my sloppy heart a sponge filled with blood to squeeze onto
any circumstance. Because it is mine, it will always bleed.
My heart bled today. It bled onto the streets
and the steps of city hall. It bled in the pizza parlor with the useless jukebox.
I’ve got so much blood to give inside and outside of any milieu.
Even for a bad zoning decision, I’ll bleed so much you’ll be bleeding,
all of us bleeding in and out like it’s breathing,
or kissing, and because it is righteous and terrible and red.

P.s What makes your heart bleed? 

Writers quote: Maya Angelou

Writers quote: Maya Angelou

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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

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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

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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-

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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-

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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

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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-

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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

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