Dead Souls is an unfinished work which Nikolai Gogol couldn't complete. I have no explanatory words for this poem but I think we all know how hard it is and has always been the surviving battle for writers. Such that many literary artists have to leave their art of writing. #art#wod@writersnetwork
Saffron today are you Dipped in scald hues No blithe faces No mourning cries Silent like nothing is born Nor dead, only worn Are we solving mysteries Of leaves not battling the wind Of wilderness forgotten in histories Of eyes so blind To the unpublished realities Tress stand in condolence Our minds travel in resilience Tracking down the patchwork of clouds While our hearts lament for those wrapped in shrouds Congruent pictures of sky and horizon Of life and death, crisscross frozen Shores of uncaged imagination A bent pole and wired branches Sing melancholy in attire of rock band Tons of talent in youth But parched throat of avarice Has shut all phone booths Of success and prosperity Left with ceiling of scald sky Are we burning in ashes of hues. -Samiksha ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ @mirakee@writersnetwork You are UNFORGETTABLE @john_solomon sir It's the scald sky burning and breaking but you will always be remembered as a person who always gave us great intellectual lessons and as the haiku king as @lovenotes_from_carolyn ma'am rightly crowned you as. Lots of love to @john_solomon❤ P.C. to the rightful owner
Like a dove, flying heedlessly in the ocean of sky Strolling on the road less taken was I If clouds were kite I would wish to fly them If Maktub was hand written I wish to hold the pen
Like a sandcastle my world was washed away Holy words leaked from heaven drifted my soul to sway
What shall I grief about in my poetries dancing with shadows on the walls And why shall I mourn in the dark For the forgotten people who lost my cards.
What for shall I pick my tormented pen to bleed the syllables of distress and burning agony
When all is written in stone words on the manuscript Of life, sorry no editing could be made alive Knitted in actions is the next chapter of the saga Before promising your lovers my friend
Hold your breathe and promise to yourself The words "Ala Rasi"yes make it written on your head. -Samiksha ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ #languageart#wod#pod@mirakee @theinkdomain back for sweetie ❤ @virtually_real can't resist reading you after coming on mirakee for a quick sneak peak.. Ala Rasi: anything for you - let's turn to the other side i.e. Self Love... anything for our own well being first.. Love yourself first, before falling for others❤
Who am I? In this Bright Darkness amidst Still Winds under the Heavy Lightness of clouds listening to Myth Realities veiling my skin in shrouds of Sugar Sorrows Filled with emptiness is the heart the unanswered questions Opaquly Transparent, Difficultly Simple standing like a Giant Insect WHO AM I? am I a Wealthy Beggar hunting for answers in modern world of Uneducated Literature?
Who was I? that drowned in burning flames and flew in Stationary Waves on the soil of Rained Droughts and days of Laughed Cries, trials of Innocent Crimes and rivers of Unholy Shrines WHO WAS I? was I an Adult Child solving problems longer than my own height?
Who I used to be? I used to stroll on the walls of the past sticking pictures on Stainy Clean albums wearing a naked skin of Demonic Human during sunset in Pristine Drain I used to mirror myself Purely Contaminated in Silenced Anger, Colourfully White I used to be. WHO I USED TO BE? do you know? would you care to unearth the Irrational Reasons behind my lively death, find me behind the scenes behind the curtains with no stage to perform an act of life would you reopen the locked album where I am Smiling In Grief, Long lasting story so Brief woukd you weep your Happy Tears that you didn't in so many years once I am gone.. would you Forgetfully Remember me For who I used to be For who I was For who am I half baked and Deadly alive because this is Not the last goodbye.... -Samiksha
Yesterday, I was floating as light as feathers Roaming in solitude splits collecting shells from the ignorant shores of Mumbai Nobody was sleeping and so was I Up! Like an owl of midnight, Wolf of an opera house in forest. Was trying to fill my lungs with the lights of the city of light, the smell of its spicy street foods bloating my belly, the Indo- Saracenic beauty calling to write a farewell note on the walls. But I had to leave soon, my baggage stuffed with CHILDHOOD. With the dools and rags I collected.
Today, I am broken looking at the golden sky of the city of joy The taste of its festivals and the thriving theatre art caged me like a lone spectator The careless whispers of folks reached my ears and my lips hummed their language Unknown to the indeciphered meanings Time flew by like fireflies of the marshland The previous baggage that I unpacked Was to be done again This time My baggage had the scent of dahlias and cosmos I grew in spring From seed to blooms Like I metamorphosed here I was carrying a piece of Kolkata In me And so was the city breathing an ounce of me My echoing voice of arguments and cheers for my friends.
Tomorrow I will be in another uninvited city Remembering my journey I will be scribbling some journals About the worn out walls On which I became the painter I am Writing on the walls And a family picture Broken from the corner Like each of us, tired with the baggages Yet I would carry my bagpack and pipes Tuning the music of my past life Of highs and lows Of gains and pains That each broken window pane gave The vibrating stories of my grandparents in air Will always be in my baggage The scent of the cities I travelled Will be smelled from the artefact memories I carry from their abode. I will carry the baggage from earth to heaven. -Samiksha
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My father has a transferable job and it is always a story of packing and unpacking.. from Mumbai to Kolkata to Delhi to Neverland... #bagpack#wod#pod@mirakee@virtually_real PC : Pinterest
WHAT IS A HIJAB? // Only if you knew I was a silhouette of you//
A gift of scarf am I from the shops of Prophet. Embracing your curious head like sky over earth, stitched to you inseparably. Never rusted or dusted in the racks of almirah but shining in glitters of silk, for you keep me treasured as your mother's last memory.
The songs of innocence and your radiant smile keep the quest of love unempty. You were a five year old seed of your mother, when inquisitively you asked " what is a hijab Umi?" Her trembling fingers touched your head softly as if searching for the answer on my fabric. I whispered softly with the tunes of wind and she replied "a hat of your faith".
Oh women of all age don't condemn me and the embroidery of gulmohars in red weaved, as a hindrance to womanhood or your marches of liberty and freedom. I will be a companion from cradle to grave, a protective halo and a crown of ethereal ethics. When you will be a 'wandering lonely cloud' I will be your 'golden daffodil' 'fluttering and dancing in the breeze' Not a chain of patriarchy but a bliss of feminism am I. -Samiksha
No offence to any body Have I had more time may be I could have portrayed better. Will read to my mirakee friends amazing composition soon. See you all soon today! #concrete my first attempt of concrete, if not clear it's a hijab ( a covering scarf for head) #clothing#wod#pod@writersnetwork@mirakee
Haphephobia: The fear of touching or being touched.
TOUCH ME NOT
What I fear is the touch of others' skin on my brown cloak. I avoid my tears and find solace in my shell, close my wings so no light could enter. I wish to inject anesthesia.
My spirit burns under the sky of fingers searching me, producing currents further dismantling me into unrecognizable pieces. I search for fresh air to stretch my arms without touching yours.
So Touch me NOT or else I get coiled in knots around my neck. Bereft of words and expressions my face gets all pale. Don't leave your prints on my land, talk from a distance I will greet you with a solitary smile. -Samiksha
All the colours are absolutely beautiful, but I could include the following ones only -- ✓ saffron ✓ russet ✓ red ✓ white ✓ azure ✓ aqua ✓ green ✓ feldgrau ✓ abendrot ✓ viridian ✓ grey ✓ aureolin ✓ silver ✓ blue ✓ brown ✓ golden ✓ black
This is my 200th post and I want to dedicate this one to all the writers and poets of miraquill (formerly mirakee)...☺️ Thank you all for weaving such beautiful pieces and making the readers (many of whom you don't even know) feel that there is someone out there who feels the same or at least understands the situation...Thank you all again...
You all are also welcome to tag all the writers and poets whom I missed...
Poetries are like those sunsets, you await for so that you could sit with your partner on a cozy chair, with a warm cup of tea and see the ball of fire hiding behind the mountains and pulling down the sheet of dusk.
Poetries are like that journal you keep besides your pillow and fill it up every night before your eyelids rest. They not only give you some space for yourself but even let you vent out everything you've been hiding in your heart which is gonna sink at the pith of your stomach with the heaviness of your feelings.
Poetries are like that chapter of your favourite story which you can read again and again on a lazy weekend afternoon and smiling all to yourself thinking about some happy days you had in your life.
Poetries are like that last drop of rain falling on your hand, biding you adieu so that they can come again next time when you'll be waiting for 'em on a struggling night so that those drizzles could hide your tears.
Poetries are like those flowers in your little garden which you water every day even before starting your own day, making you feel fresh with their fragrance and epitomise a new begining every morning.
Poetries are like that shoulder which let you rest your head on, cry out your pain and let yourself the person you're. It makes you act like the way you're rather than faking it which you do for adjusting all around yourself.
Poetries are like those dandelion of hopes, which hold your hand on days when you break down and sit on your knees after a failure. They give you a reason to look up, stand and make your failure a reason for your success.
Poetries are a part of life with which you come across at every step. It is a way, not only to express yourself but also to know yourself. It is not only about grammar, vocabulary words or sentences. But, it is all about what you let flow through your pen on a white page. Even a line created by you is a poetry and it is all yours.