The following questions have been posed as part of this writing assignment
- What are your writing habits?
- What equipment or supplies do you use to write?
- What do you need and want in a physical space?
Habits are usually used in the same breath as addictions. An inability to make it through the day without spending some time on that activity. It could also refer to a set of forced actions that we have to do whether we want it or not. I don’t think writing is a habit in the sense of these definitions. It’s neither a forced action nor an addictive habit.
Continue reading W101.V2. Day 6. My Space
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.~ T. S. Eliot
I don’t know where to begin to describe or define poetry. I believe that poetry is the art of showing the world in a light it has never been seen in. It isn’t about looking at something new. It isn’t about looking at something with a new look.
Poetry is the art of finding a new way to look.
Then what about the poet? Is the poet merely a looking glass or a window to the world that was never opened? John Keats sums it up with his quote:
Continue reading W101.V2. Day 5. Musings of a Muse
The truth be said, there is only one
who can be a model for perfection.
I believe that would be nobody
which will be accepted by everybody
who is a part of this creation.
Nobody is indeed perfect
something that we need to accept.
But then what is the meaning
of perfection – I find it exasperating
that no one can find its value on the market.
How can the value be defined? It is
something that can’t be
touched with a kiss.
Perfection can be defined in different
ways: To each their own statement.
After all no matter the name, a rose is a rose.
But as I said a few lines ago – isn’t perfection
under nobody’s possession?
Well, then who is this person?
And how is this quality in their arson?
Right now I have found an answer to this question.
You and I are the nobodies that the world has seen –
we are the perfections that have been
present right from the moment of existence
to now, where we are our own sustenance.
Be you. Be unique. Be perfect. Be your own king or queen.
Style: Prose Poetry,
Device: Internal Rhyme
The moon felt sad about his bad face
and asked the sun to share one of her rays.
Soon it grew to be in a new phase
And light filled its quiet rocky surface.
The little boy could never smile because he always thought that he was the ugliest person to live. He thought none wanted to be close as he was hideous and unattractive. He had often asked the doctor to help him out, and once the doctor had consented. Exchanging the pills for a wad of cash, to his home in excitement, he did dash.
Yet, the gorgeous moon was far from joyous
A dark mark stayed on the Earth, which was mysterious.
It projected him into guilt more than he expected
and created a plan to work to help the dejected.
On his way he saw the homeless, begging for food and money. But he noticed that they neither had shelter or anything to call cosy. This brought tears to his eyes, as he felt him despise for himself. He chalked up a plan and walked up to the clinic again.
The moon bounced the light to the provinces that were dim
So those in the shadow were thankful to him.
He felt joy that made him melt, in which he started to swim
He knew he should do more according to his prayer hymn.
The boy went back to the clinic and traded his money back for the graded pills. He got back to the sector of the poor and gave out the money, becoming a donor. He found joy, by spreading it. A pleasure he had been unaware of so far. He made the decision to take the action forward as he knew the God of this creation would want him to.
The moon soon disappeared to become new
and about where it went no one knew.
Till he eclipsed the sun, he did grew
and the solar power did cry and raise hue.
The power of the moon was thus made known
The sun cowered and was covered by the moon which shone
His influence on the earth’s waves and ways are stronger
It is the moon that is, to the earth, closer
much like the boy who, as a better doctor became renown.
Because it is the only way possible to survive
Each thought of mine is devoted to her to revive.
Passing on the fluid of life from my body to hers
Occasionally stopping, to check if she is better or worse.
She’s my only love, just as each day has only one night.
I want us together like the two eyes that share the same sight
To make sure we are bonded without separation
I give her the gift of life, without any deliberation.
Venting out my blood to her to save her during her complication
Every last bit of my B positive blood is ready for the donation.
He had lived his life, fully planned.
Every day, he knew where he wanted to go as if his whole life could have been mapped out. He knew, what to do, how to do it – or otherwise, how to get it done. He was perfect, immaculate and a flawless gentleman. He was there for everybody, and that was the problem.
Continue reading W101.V2. Day 4. Alone In A Crowd
Secrets have always been part of our lives. Some things are best kept a secret. Especially as people grow older, they are more conscious about things like their age and wage. Secrets are usually shared between a tight-knit group of people, a trust circle if you get my drift. We’ve all heard or said the phrase “I won’t tell anyone” and the usual aside “except for my best friend” when dealing with secrets.
Continue reading W101.V2. Day 3. Ssh !
Why do we make lists? Me? I have a mild disposition towards perfection. Not as much as Sheldon Cooper, but not less than Sherlock Holmes. Although I’d love to have a sock drawer index.
Continue reading W101.V2. Day 2. Listing My Lists
Why do I write?
This question is right up on the same list with
- Who am I?
- What do I want?
- What is my purpose?
- What will give me happiness?
In essence, it is fundamentally, an existential question. I could say that it is to express myself which is an answer that many people are going to have. But there has to be something deeper than that. It doesn’t feel right if I talk about something I feel I am good at without it involving something special.
Continue reading W101.V2. Day 1: The Right to Write