Writer’s Quote: Soul Unraveled

Writer’s Quote: Soul Unraveled

For this week’s Writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, I’m going to take a personal detour. We all have those people in our lives who are much more than friends and are practically family. People who waltz into our lives unexpectedly and inadvertently take up a huge space in it; well, my friend/housemate/sister recently published her first poetry collection called Soul Unraveled.

IMG_1881.JPG

This book is a journey through Love, heartbreak, abuse, and rising above it all. It touches on aspects of life in short free verses divided into six different chapters. The poems in this collection are raw and unfiltered especially when tackling issues such as sexual assault.

Now that I’ve talked the talk, Its time to walk that talk. Below are a few poems from “Soul Unraveled“. If you like what you read, you can pick up the book which is available in e-form and hardcopy on amazon. The link is at the bottom of the post.

IMG_3290

IMG_3291

IMG_3293.JPG

You can also catch up with the writer on Instagram  @ Soul Unraveled

Available on Amazon: SoulUnraveled: Rising from the ashes 

If there are any book reviewers who would be willing to review this book, please send me an email at mykahani@yahoo.com

 

Advertisements
Writer’s Quote: pleasure & sorrow

Writer’s Quote: pleasure & sorrow

IMG_3007.JPG

I was scrolling through images on google to get a quote to share for this weeks’s Writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, when I came across the above words by Victor Hugo. I literally said out loud- This is beautiful.

I had intended to share a quote by Robert Browning as his poem is my pick of the week, but I couldn’t pass up the Victor Hugo quote; so much truth in it.

The poem I’m sharing below in turn contains so much wisdom in its few lines. It reminds me of an elderly person giving advice to a young one. It is so true when they say- we learn from adversity. I hope you enjoy the poem below.

By Robert Browning Hamilton

I walked a mile with Pleasure;
She chatted all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow,
And ne’er a word said she;
But, oh! The things I learned from her,
When sorrow walked with me.

From experience, I am a believer that sadness and tears and sorrow help us to grow and evolve into better human beings. Do you agree?

 

 

Writer’s quote: I am!

Writer’s quote: I am!

IMG_2250

Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday. The poet I’ll be sharing today is John Clare and in this poem, he takes the reader through a journey of sadness and loneliness.
I cannot remember the first time I came across the poem, but I’d say this- John Clare threw an emotional punch to me with this poem. I felt it and I hope you do too.

I am! by John Clare
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death’s oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
And e’en the dearest- that I loved the best-
Are strange- nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil’d or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below- above the vaulted sky.

Poetry (poets)-

Poetry (poets)-

IMG_1543.JPG

She told me to write about
The one thing I owned;
What set me apart from,
The writers i know;
What made my heart bleed,
What turns my head spinning,
Bleed from your pen, she said,
The truth you’ve kept hidden.

It began with a conjunction,
The first line i wrote;
Alternating between free verse
And rhyming, i poured
What kept me at night ,
What made my gut churn;
I wrote till I couldn’t,
And made it my own.

Poetry is a journey,
To each poet, their own;
When one pens of heartbreak,
Another pens of joy;
To each their own story,
To each their own woes;
You just do you– she says,
No need to conform.

I’m sorry I havent been able to reply to your comments and posts. Will get to them soon.

Writer’s Quote: The Nail

Writer’s Quote: The Nail

IMG_1135.JPG

The poem below is one I feel strongly about. The reason I am sharing this poem is because I believe it is a poem everyone should read at least once, especially with the state the world is in.

This poem holds a message we all should hear and absorb. We can turn off the news, ignore the papers, block out the internet, but it doesn’t change reality.

Although, I am one of those who like to pretend everything is all peaches and rainbows, but as a human being, it is my duty to remember and acknowledge- there are bad things happening in this world, even though it may seem like a myth. It is not, this is happening in reality. Only by recognising, Yes, there is a problem can we come together and find a solution for it.

The Nail by C.K Williams

Some dictator or other had gone into exile, and now reports were coming about his regime,
the usual crimes, torture, false imprisonment, cruelty and corruption, but then a detail:
that the way his henchmen had disposed of enemies was by hammering nails into their skulls.
Horror, then, what mind does after horror, after that first feeling that you’ll never catch your breath,
mind imagines—how not be annihilated by it?—the preliminary tap, feels it in the tendons of the hand,
feels the way you do with your nail when you’re fixing something, making something, shelves, a bed;
the first light tap to set the slant, and then the slightly harder tap, to em-bed the tip a little more …

No, no more: this should be happening in myth, in stone, or paint, not in reality, not here;
it should be an emblem of itself, not itself, something that would mean, not really have to happen,
something to go out, expand in implication from that unmoved mass of matter in the breast;
as in the image of an anguished face, in grief for us, not us as us, us as in a myth, a moral tale,
a way to tell the truth that grief is limitless, a way to tell us we must always understand
it’s we who do such things, we who set the slant, embed the tip, lift the sledge and drive the nail,
drive the nail which is the axis upon which turns the brutal human world upon the world.

 

Writer’s Quote: Silence

Writer’s Quote: Silence

IMG_0774.PNG

Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem wednesday. I just want to clear the air that Billy Collins isnt exactly my favorite poet. He writes a lot in a humorous fashion and although i love a good comedy and a good laugh, I prefer my poems sad. 

That  being said, he has written some great poems like “the litany“, “on turning ten” and the poem i’m sharing today- Silence. I hope you enjoy it, I think you will.  (P.S- the above quote is by him)

Silence by Billy Collins

There is the sudden silence of the crowd
above a player not moving on the field,
and the silence of the orchid.

The silence of the falling vase
before it strikes the floor,
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child.

The stillness of the cup and the water in it,
the silence of the moon
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun.

The silence when I hold you to my chest,
the silence of the window above us,
and the silence when you rise and turn away.

And there is the silence of this morning
which I have broken with my pen,
a silence that had piled up all night

like snow falling in the darkness of the house—
the silence before I wrote a word
and the poorer silence now.

Writer’s Quote: Loss

Writer’s Quote: Loss

IMG_0493.JPG

We’ve all suffered losses. Be it a missing pen when we’re about to write an exam, or a missing doll; the loss of husband to someone else or the loss of a loved one from this earth. Some losses, the magnitude of a life ending and some minute. Nevertheless, we have all experienced loss.

The poem I’ll be sharing today for writer’s quote/poem Wednesday is written by the poet- Elizabeth Bishop, and it talks about loss, all forms of it; the inanimate and humanly ones.

Below is the poem and I hope you enjoy it.

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

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.

A writer to another-

A writer to another-

IMG_6125

You have your love,
I have my darkness,

You pour your heart,
I divulge my soul,

You have your lover,
I have my black dog,

You write of the future,
I disdain my past.

You write of rainbows,
I write of dark clouds

You write in free verse,
I drown in rhymes,

You are a writer,
I write in hiding,

When you’ll write of heartbreaks,
I’ll write of hope.

You bloom under sunbeams,
I strengthen with lightning,

Our swords are the same
Just not our pattern of fighting,

When my clouds dissipates
And you, darkness visits

Here are my words,
To keep you company.

You have your love,
I have my darkness,

We both need each other,
In a world that keeps changing.

The above image is courtesy of Tumblr

Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

IMG_5826

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?