istfuls of snowdrops from her eighteenth winter melted when grief ed a scornful; scalding her like cinders of a former lover.. September bore redolence of his sillage spilled on an amorous ℴℯ ℯℯ that refused to wear off...clinging to her skin, mellowy akin the autumnal ℴℯ soft as a dreamy october .
.. some get l o s t in the silhouettes of the night & some get s e p u l c h r e d neath the gold dust of time. Some t a k e shape as reminiscent souvenirs whilst some c r a s h against those melancholic waves, austere. A few s u s p i r e on broken breaths and parched lips.
A couple of them b i d e as softly folded silk tucked inside her rustic armoire. Yet a piece or two oft p e e l off as fractured pieces of broken syllabary. Some are s h o v e d down that musty drawer for they exist as poems no more but as a catalogue of grave mistakes. While a dozen half baked l i n g e r atwix those pale parchments. But one... her treasured one slowly e v a n e s c e d as wisps of mist; still aromal of her long lost love...
lowly.. the residues of melancholy ebbed when flecked light streamed through a crown of sage leaves allaying the scourge of . Hope waltzed to the cadence of the marigolds as amber winds untwined her golden ..
/Comes DAWN humming an aubade of sweet beginnings./
*Amber winds & sweet beginnings, cadence of the marigolds, residue of melancholy credited to @thetasteofmypen
**'Flecked light streamed through a crown of sage leaves' credited to Libby Jenner.
Is there any veracity in the axiom that 'pain births an artist'? Is it true that suffering is a requisite for a writer to bleed on paper to liberate all his bottled up emotions? Is dolour a desideratum for a painter to limn his precious art on the blank canvas?
Joy & sorrow are the alternating dyads of a congruous totality. Pain & pleasure, the obverse & reverse of the same coin called . Then why some august & authoritative dogmas regard 'happiness ' vapid? Joy is eyed as corny.. why? And grief is revered..despondency is deemed a sophistication!? Why is it oft conjectured that an artist is nourished by his scars?
Angst fuels creativity; this maxim is true to an extent but then why only angst? Bliss too can provide an impetus to the creativity of an artist. Or any other fervid emotion for that matter can educe the latent or rather the already smouldering ingenuity of an artist.
Art is the reflection of reality. Reality that is coarse & unpoetical. Reality that happens to be founded on the rhythmically altering moieties of brightness & darkness, nuances & brazeness.
For an artist to create an oeuvre, the subtle & strong twain emotions needs to be felt intensely. Gloom & joy is nowt but the mere mirror images of each other, harmonically juxtaposing to give the ultimate dramatic effect to an artist's opus! Conclusively, demystifying happiness as the to pain.
here Summer hums melodies & winter monodies Spring chimes & autumn rhymes Proses rush whilst verses gush Twirling notions ride on swirling emotions Words twill on the magical quill.. That's our very own Mɪʀᴀϙᴜɪʟʟ.
'm an abandoned building with few birds visiting me at sunset. Sometimes kids enter through the front door to search for a lost cricket ball and other times melancholia visits me cloaked in drab overalls.
I'm home to some bush crickets, their buzz being the only sound that resonates in my now deserted premises after eventide befalls. I'm home sometimes to a vagrant mendicant too who seeks shelter in my ruinous remains away from the bustling crowd of the megalopolis. My decrepit walls covered with funereal moss at times spring to life with the dormant but reverberating echoes of the bygones when I used to stand as a grandiose sprawling heritage ' ' of ' ' in the erstwhile Bengal Province.
The pristine white ground of the magnificent surrounded by arches & commanding columns but now covered with layers of dust and muck used to come alive everytime a new bride used to set foot in my majestic realm with her adorned feet & ...the crimson of my floors in the bedrooms matching the blush of her cheeks.
During , every year the womenfolk of the ' ' used to assemble to celebrate the spring festival on flower decorated swing hung on the brawny branches of the lone Banyan tree in my courtyard with the red & yellow of their reflecting to be an embodiment of contagious sparkling hopes.
Gush of memories oftentimes exude from the perforations in my now derelict ceiling along with the rain whenever those wistful grey clouds hover & open up atop my dour prosaic edifice. Now I'm just a remnant of my former glory, a dilapidated ̶r̶̶o̶̶b̶̶u̶̶s̶̶t̶ rickety entity savouring the pungency of solitude since a decade whilst occasionally tasting the acerbic grief, riffling the musty pages of lucid poesies of my resplendent history, humming hushed melodies and appreciating the sangria sundowns & scarlet sunrises with the whirr of the gentle breeze & mellow sunshine in between..waning, waiting for my ultimate D E M I S E.
Benarosi~A Banarasi (pronounced Benarosi in Bengali) sari/saree is a sari made in Varanasi/Benares,an ancient city of India. These saris are among the finest saris in India and are known for their gold and silver brocade or zari, fine silk and opulent embroidery.
Alta~Alta is a red dye that is applied to the hands and feet of women, mainly in the Indian subcontinent. It has great significance in Bengali culture.
Jamdani~ Jamdani (saree) is a hand loom woven fabric made of cotton, which was historically referred to as muslin. The Jamdani weaving tradition is of Bengali origin, traditionally woven around Dhaka, Bangladesh.
Basant Utsav~ Spring festival.
*'Boro Bari of Thakur Moshai' literally translates to 'big bungalow of Mr. Thakur'.
Synecdoche(Greek for " taking together ") is a figure of speech wherein a part of something is used to signify the whole, or(more rarely) the whole is used to signify a part. For instance, "ten hands" signifies ten workers and "a hundred sails" signifies ships.
--Today, write a poem using synecdoche in less than 10 lines.--