Once in week she would visit him. For a while her lonliness would fade in the air like the cold thin mist. She would sit beside him like a lost miserable soul. She felt that the gift of life had turned out to be a neverending punishment for her. But when she sat beside him she felt some kind of relief that she knew was brief and momentary. Now as she sat beside him,his presence was very different, she did not feel his warmth anymore. Still she would spend an hour or two,reminiscing about the golden past they had spent together. This definitely brought a smile to her face deepening her few fine wrinkles in the edge of her eyes and lips,slowly wetting her natural cameras that had dearly captured her best moments and now she was staring the tomb underneath it, the soil had already consumed his flesh and what remained was his bones. In the process of consuming thousand corpses year after year , the soil had lost all its teeth thus unable to chew the hard bones;dry,dirty and hollow ,they remained forever scattered.With a heavy heart she would trim the bunch of Roses and hibiscus,his favourites which she had planted beside him as his eternal friends. And when they blossomed she felt as if he was born again to be with her and she would return home with few sticks and kept them in a glass vass beside her bed until they withered and she would run for him again…..
Gravity never pulled me down
It always lifted me up
That is why
Even when you
Plucked all my feathers
And blood oozed
I could still swim in the air.
This is not the end
They shot me with words
Disturbing my flow
I ate them
As they corroded my throat
But I didn’t think of atom bomb
Into festoons of poems
Showering them with
Just to heal their soul.
This is my first time poetry in voice. I shared the video of this poem,myself reading it and I got a good response from my friends in facebook. With a positive heart,I am sharing this with all my wordpress friends.
Click on the link below to hear me reading my poem
Where on earth am I safe?Where? Those eyes staring at me constantly as if I am walking naked. I think their mind has become a dress scanner. Such is their looks. Girls its high time we visit a smithy and construct an Iron Woman outfit or Is this the reason why many girls choose boys’ attires. Well may be.
We are little kids until our periods visits us.Our bodily transformation begins. Period days and the stomach aches that lasts for hours.Your breast begins to develop and gets perky and the initial phase of course is painul. We start getting conscious and we are taught to be careful.
While we are on this transformative phase,even the neighbourhood and the street eyes looks at us differently. Officially no more kids. Those sanitary napkins inside your mothers’ secret lockers,bras,now occupies your space.
When walking down the street. I heard for the first time the special sound,they made with their tongue.They whistled while carefully speculating our back.We now meet eve teasers and we are taught to ignore.
While walking down the usual path,the sound of a motorbike,two guys,one grabs my boobs and shooo the bike vanishes.The society remembers me.
I reject someone and the psychopath comes throws acid on my face,shooo the criminals vanishes. The society will never forget me.
Again this is not enough,one day they grabbed me; a hundred licentious eyes and hands their mouth salivating as they clenched my arms and feets,their claws tearing my soft clothes and flesh,one by one they raped me,inserted foreign objects inside my vagina. My body bruised and blood dripping. But shoooo the rapists vanishes. The country will never forget my name.
But does anyone remember any assualters,molesters, rapists? Their names? The place where they belong?
Yes! I am afraid of the dark,of those nocturnal eyes and hands ,of those ghastly beasts who haunts our bodies and enjoy our pain.
Where on Earth are we safe? Very recently I received a message from an unknown person in Facebook asking me to indulge in a sex chat with him.Very instantly I had to block that person.
Even in the virtual world these dirty minds craves for sex.
A few months back. We were inside a three wheeled vehicle and an old man who was seated in front of us. He looked at us and after a while put his hand inside his pant. At first we thought may be he was uncomfortable but no he kept on reapeating that a couple of times touching his private part and putting his fingers inside his mouth. That was gross and we were about to get out from the vechile but fortunately he left .
Thousands of cyber crimes,rapes take place every single day and many cases are not even reported.
Sometimes it is outside your home and sometimes it is inside your home and neighbourhood. It is usually the victims who are blamed by the society. Her dress was short, she was alone, she walked during night,she had a bad character, she had many past relationships,may be she was a call girl,she was friendly and open with guys and so on.
Thousands fingers pointing towards the victim and the voice crying for help is just silenced. But the fault lies not in the girls or in her dress or in her character but in those shameless eyes that are naked and distorted ,that lacks good food and nutrition. Thereby effecting the entire mind making their body abnormal. If we are proud to be the the citizens of a land that is rich with temples and cultures we have much more reason to be ashamed of because thousand minds are getting distorted in a peculiar way thus defaming the whole nation and the human civilisation.
These uninvited guests are present in every street corners and the very recent Bengaluru Molestation incident baffled the whole country. How long! How long! Will the girls have to live their life in fears? How long will they have to stay indoors? How long?
Our country India is blessed with rich cultures, the land of Gods and Goddesses. In every house we have these miniature Goddesses- Parvati,Laxmi,Saraswati,Durga,Kali and so many that we can hardly remember each names and every year we celebrate the festivals, Kali Puja, Saraswati Puja (prayers offering to these special Goddesses or Mothers/Ma).
The picture below which I received in Whatsapp perfectly describes the present scenario.
We all have these questions. Are they people like you and us? Are they human?Are they really men of flesh and blood?
Were they born from a mother’s womb? Those boobs that they sexualise now. Were they not fed by their mothers’ breast? Were they not inside their mothers womb for nine months and were they not born out from a labour pain? Didn’t they cry for the first time as their heads came out of theirs mothers’ vagina,covered in her blood while that umbelical cord still connecting them? I doubt those people were never breast feeded by their mothers. They were never connected to Mothers’ because that female body is the first known part to every men and women when they first step into an alien world.And the same body they now sexualise and disrespect.
Yes,it is true that thinking separates us from the wild animal kingdom but this intelligence is of no use to those retarted evil minds. Its such a shame that even animals such as them do not exist. There is no such thing as Rape! in their world. Better is an animal than a human.
We have used our intelligence to such an extent that we are the most cultivated advanced being who are ruling the earth and the space. But when these uninvited guests disturbs the peace and purity of an individual,we are in the nadir and not in the zenith of our civilisation.Infinite
I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.
Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.
The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.
I’ve sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I’ve seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.
I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I’ve not seen any two
who really were the same.
Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.
We love and lose in China,
we weep on England’s moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.
We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we’re the same.
I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.
Introduction by Peter Davison
February 3, 1999
In February of 1912 Robert Frost wrote a poem called “The Wood-Pile,” a poem that meant something special to him — he would single it out for reprinting in his annual Christmas card nearly fifty years later,just before he died. The poem emerged at a crossroads in his life: he was about to make “a great leap forward,” as he had written to the editor Susan Hayes Ward in 1911. That year the Frost family, after many years stuck on a farm in Derry, New Hampshire, had at last uprooted themselves enough to move, for a season, one hundred miles north to Plymouth, New Hampshire. There, Frost taught college students (women) for the first time in his life, and was observed to be speaking in a different, less formal, more casual way — a way new to him.
At Christmas in 1911 Frost took the train to visit Susan Ward — the only editor who had consistently encouraged his work — in New Jersey. Frost had sent her a sheaf of the last and best poems in A Boy’s Will,his first collection of poems (which he would publish in England in 1913). In New Jersey they spoke about his work and of his plans, as yet unannounced, for the future. After his return to Plymouth, Frost wrote to Ward as follows:
Two lonely crossroads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners. The practically unbroken conditions of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much travelled. Judge then how surpised I was the other evening as I came down one to see a man, who to my own unfamiliar eyes and in the dusk looked for all the world like myself, coming down the other, his approach to the point where our paths must intersect being so timed that unless one of us pulled up we must inevitably collide. I felt as if I was going to meet my own image in a slanting mirror. Or say I felt as we slowly converged on the same point with the same noiseless yet laborious strides as if we were two images about to float together with the uncrossing of someone’s eyes. I verily expected to take up or absorb this other self and feel the stronger by the addition for the three-mile journey home. But I didn’t go forward to the touch. I stood still in wonderment and let him pass by; and that, too, with the fatal omission of not trying to find out by a comparison of lives and immediate and remote interests what could have brought us by crossing paths to the same point in the wilderness at the same moment of nightfall. Some purpose I doubt not, if we could but have made it out. I like a coincidence almost as well as an incongruity.
To me the letter seems fateful. It signals the crystallizing of Robert Frost’s talent at Plymouth, his determination to “set forth for somewhere,” his hesitant welcoming of the true bond between speaker and hearer. The voice in which his poems would take place would alter shortly: it would be the voice more of the farmer than of the teacher, “the sound of speech.” And the poem he wrote next, in the same month he wrote this letter, was “The Wood-Pile,” the first-written poem and cornerstone of the collection he would entitle North of Boston when it was published in London in 1914.
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther — and we shall see.”
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what hethought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather —
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled — and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labor of his ax,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Frost’s poem speaks of finding a kind of order hidden away in the depths of the woods, that perfectly cut and measured cord of wood, “four by four by eight,” the only one to be found, a cord of wood tied up with a cord of — what? — of clematis. It is a poem about trees, like those that had sounded over the house in Derry, and which Frost would write about in “The Sound of Trees.” (“They are that that talks of going/ But never gets away…./ I shall set forth for somewhere,/ I shall make the reckless choice …”) These trees are “too much alike” to let the speaker know “whether I was here or somewhere else.” When the bird hides from the walker he puts trees between them; and when the walker finds the wood-pile it is propped between one live tree and one dead stake, like a body of work that is propped between the established civilization of Europe and the live-but-frosty land of New England, between the meter of a poem and its rhythm, between stasis and motion.
Any careful reader of Frost’s work can point to twenty or thirty of his poems that tell in one form or another what he thought to be the story of his life, the story of a man who ran away from civilization, quitting for his own reasons, and went off into the woods, at the risk of getting lost, and found there something worth taking note of, something that lay at the heart of the mystery, a directive, say, or a star in a stone boat, or a pasture spring, or the song of a darkling thrush — or a decaying wood-pile. In this, the first of his truly great poems, he finds warmth in observing how the labor of our hands ends in “the slow smokeless burning of decay.” The syntax and artistry of this poem’s last sentence may embody Robert Frost’s discovery of his true mission as a poet.
Source: The Atlantic Online via Facebook
I want to plunge into
That deep dark forest
To breathe in that unpolluted air
To kill my thirst with pure spring water
To hear not the chaotic horns but
The melodious voice,the wild music
New songs that birds composes instantly
I an alone audience,Enjoying,
Not the view of that tall skyscrapers
But the high mountain Pines
Rising and still touching the clouds.
Do you believe in God?Do you believe in Spirits and ghosts?
Have you encountered any supernatural occurrences in your life?
I personally believe that many of us have experienced many such incidents,the so called supernatural encounters which is outside the realm of our existence,something beyond our knowledge and something beyond just simple answers. I know many of us believe in such incidents and stories and the rest simply deny it. But we love to watch horror movies right? How many of you have watched movies like The Conjuring, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Amityville etc.,all bases upon the real life stories and incidents. Many of us believe in the world beyond our existence which when collides with the fleshly world might take away that little peace from people who accidentally step on them. There are people who have had such extreme experiences that makes a great impact in their life. It is like an earthquake visiting a particular place and disturbing the peaceful environment leaving a void,a crater within the lives pf those associated with these unnatural entities.
After giving such a slice introduction about the paranormal activity. You must be well aware that I am about to take you with me into a world which might give you goosebumps. Yes I am going to narrate the particular incident that occurred in the 1980s in the life of my dearest uncle. I do not insist you to believe in my story. You can read and enjoy it as a horror story only if you wish. The choice is yours.
It was 1980s. Bhanu Bhavan, a theatre in Chowrastha used to stage dramatic plays then and the tradition continues.This art theatre still exist in our hills as our heritage. My uncle was still a bachelor then. Those were the times when time wasn’t so technologically advanced like now. No mobile phones, no television sets, nothing and theatre was perhaps the greatest source of entertainment to the people. It was fully dark outside when the end of the drama approached.Time was then different,the streets were not so lit up like it is now.
My uncle and his friend made their way back home. While engaging themselves in a casual talk,they had crossed Chowrasthta and now headed towards their home in Toongsung. Few minutes after they came across that familiar public washroom and stopped there because both friends had to use it. After his friend was done he went inside. He did not use the first or the second toilet but went straight to the third one. The third one had a square size ventilator that was much bigger than the first two. But as he began urinating, he saw two strange eyes peeping right from that ventilator. Till then he was done. At first he was not scared at all. And he presumed it to be some kind of animal and it looked more like a cow’s eyes, big with long eye lashes. And that thing whatever it was,grabbed his attention. He too looked very carefully and what scared him was the colour. He could suddenly feel his back swelling as the eyes looked red with lines of veins that was starkly visible and It was staring at him without even blinking once .He then felt that that whatever it was,it was’nt good at all . So he hurried and met his friend outside and went straight home without even uttering a single word. That thing had scared him to death.
Yes! This is one the many real horrific incidents of my uncle’s life and we still get those goosebumps when he starts narrating this whole incident,which now has become a kind of ghost-story for us and to the generation after us.
Time has passed and by God’s mercy nothing happened to our uncle. But it was only a year after that incident that a nearby neighbour got possessed by some evil spirit.His name was Nikunj. No priest could help him. People had tied him in his bed so that he could not harm anybody and when someone went nearby with anything related to God,he would scream loudly. After a day or two,people there called Lamas who could help him get rid of that supernatural entity that living like a parasite inside his body. It was such a relief to everyone there because the Lamas had become successful in helping Nikunj and his family.
What actually had happened to him? Everyone including My uncle were eager to know. After much interrogation,they came to know that one particular evening Nikunj had used the same public toilet that my uncle had used and like him he too had skipped the first two rooms and used the third one with a big ventilator. But it was after he was done that he encounterd the same strange being that our uncle had encountered before. He told the Lamas that what he saw was a man with animal eyes that was exactly like the eyes of a cow and he could not forget that he was completely bald and had horns on his head.
Thank God,our uncle had survived the worst nightmares that could have been his. He thanked God and still thanks that he was saved. But that thing had caught another person. Though,he survived after the Exorcism,he could not survive long and within a month he became dear to God.