Tag Archives: Literature

Villanelle Unveiled

I wrote a villanelle. Three actually, but the one I’m going to post is the only one I really like. This form was making me neurotic, I swear. I didn’t want to write it because I felt I would fail miserably. (Free verse is the only kind of poetry I’ve ever done, after all.)

But it wasn’t letting me rest either. I just had to write it, the weight of it was getting unbearable.

So after three tries, this is what materialized. Criticism is more than welcome, but please be gentle. I don’t want my first born to be slaughtered just yet.

 

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep

While the lady in the apron stood at the shore,

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

I gave the ocean all my treasures to keep.

But the lonely fisher-boy evened his score.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

 

What you sow, the others will reap,

the waves came whispering at my door.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

Once, the moon was a hurdle for my sheep.

Now, it rules the tides that crash and roar.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

 

Don’t take me down to where the weeds creep.

Don’t push me to mend what the wind tore.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

I ran to where my dreams lay in a heap.

I sorted them, put them back in my store.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

P.s. Changes have been made after applying the constructive criticism given by Marie.

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To-Do

Tomorrow, I’ll attempt a villanelle.

Should I try a sestina too?

Maybe after I master the villanelle.

It might take ages, or not.

Speaking of which, I’ve never even tried a sonnet before.

 

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love you tomorrow.

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Rolling in The Deep

Throw your soul through every open door

I’ll try closing them before you barge in.

Let’s see who wins.

 

It’s been how many days since I last blogged? I lose track of time. I am guilty of being insanely busy with college work.

Romeo as a playboy… Do you think I’ll be able to pull that off? We’re doing this play for our Theatre Skills class and I’m Romeo. I don’t end up with Juliet and I couldn’t care less.

New To-Do item: Learn moonwalking, this Romeo is gonna dance to Smooth Criminal

Oh by the way. I’m sexy and I know it.

Sorry, that was the song of the day as ordained by a girl who will be an year older tomorrow.

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The Women

This is an assignment. I should not be posting it.

by Anwar Maqsood

 

 

 

 

Three women.

Two with birds on top of their heads and one with hair.

Did the birds eat up the other women’s hair? Why?

The one at the back seems

younger, you can tell by her eyes if not her height.

She’s safe, no bird pecking at her head.

Innocence? Did the others lose it as the years went by?

Is that why the eldest woman’s face is half red?

Mortification?

Or is it anger?

No, it can’t be anger. Her face is too relaxed.

There’s distance in her eyes.

A kind of vacant stare.

Passive is she? Resigned

To her fate, to the fact

That a bird is perching

On her head, content after ripping out all her hair.

 

They are all blue, in color,

Blue in essence too? Are they?

Sad, morose.

Did life do that to them?

Different eyes, they all have,

Smaller with every woman,

The youngest has the biggest.

Maybe she too will have her hair ripped

When she grows old,

And will lose half her face

To the vivid red.

Mama always says this painting

Makes no sense.

I might be coming

To the same conclusion.

 

Noor says the birds are men.

That’s an interesting take.

I never would have seen it that way.

So if the birds are men, preying

On women then…

Okay, no.

No.

That’s just too disturbing.

I’d rather the birds be time.

Yes, I’ll leave it at that.

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Day Off And Reviews…

Begum Nusrat Bhutto passed away yesterday so we have a day off. I actually had my Media Studies mid-term paper today, now scheduled for the 31st of October. I wanted it to be over and done with. But what can be done now.

I desperately need a book review, contemporary preferably. Can someone help me out? Pretty please. I’ll love you forever. And you’ll have your name immortalized in the second issue of Reality Romanticized.

I’m currently writing a review on Emily Dickinson and a few of her oh-so-amazing poems. Did you know that she almost always wore white? And that she didn’t come out of her room for months at end? And that she spelled her name childishly for most of her life, as in Emilie?

But she was awesome.

Here’s my favorite poem of hers:

A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer’s morn—
A flask of Dew—A Bee or two—
A Breeze—a caper in the trees—
And I’m a Rose!

Two words. Awe-some

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The Art In Us

Afremov DANCE Original Art Oil by Leonidafremov

I’m a painting in oil.

You’re pen and ink.

I smudge with every lazy stroke,

Parallel to your defined lines.

My shades run in, every chance they get;

Ochres mixing in with reds.

You’re cleanly white, then starkly black;

Rigid, conforming to your code.

I make up for the colors missing in you.

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Criticize Please.

Here is the first part of a story that I started in the summers, when I wasn’t exactly confident about my writing skills. (I’m still not confident, I need honest criticism to tell me what I’m doing wrong.) Anyone who would like to help me out, please give your feedback on the story, either in the comments section below or email at bunnythewabbit@gmail.com. I’d be really grateful. Thank you.

She slipped back into the pool, drowning herself in the murky memories of her broken life. The cold water chilled her to the bone; she shuddered at the contact. Solitude was her kind of self-inflicted torture. Alone she was vulnerable, an open prey to the negative sadistic thoughts ready to hound her every chance they got. And they did. Her face bore the marks of these attacks, her lank frame screamed out the story of a life that wore her out. She was in need of help. If only someone would notice. But no one ever did.

 At some point every rose has to die.

 She died, countless times, in countless ways, at the hand of countless people. But this time was one time too many.

 Broken glass can never be re-assembled. Even if you put back together a few larger pieces, the tiny crevices remain, forever weakening an entity that always spoke the truth. Broken mirrors lie, for distortion in reality portrays dishonesty.

 Her life was one such broken piece of life.

ooo

  Marina took her fingers off the keyboard and leaned back, away from the computer screen. Re-adjusting her glasses she let out a sigh, as if she’d dropped a considerable amount of baggage with the words she had just typed.

  Writing from a third person perspective made it easier for her to write her story. The impersonal pronouns took away the familiarity, made it seem fiction. Writing about her own life kept her agent happy too., the words were emotional to the right degree, jerking tears and spewing venom at appropriate parts. The pain was fresh, the hurt ongoing and her pen poured out exactly what her heart felt.

She saved the draft and decided to turn in for the night. She clicked her laptop shut and pulled out the battery cord with a sudden vehement move. The aggression surprised her. She let out a startled cry and dropped down onto the settee behind her. She cursed her agent out loud. It was his fault she was facing this emotionally extolling exercise. But she had to put food on the table. A broken heart and an empty stomach did not make a good combination.

She stared hard at her cell phone, willing it to ring or just flash the incoming message sign.

Tough luck.

She was living her protagonist’s life, or rather her protagonist was living hers. Her boyfriend didn’t call her either. If it weren’t for her own strong memory she would have long forgotten her relationship status.

Relationship. Only a fool would call what she was in a relationship. It was one sided to say the least. There wasn’t even a grain’s amount of love for her in his heart of steel. He simply did not care.

But she kept hanging on, in the hope that one day he might. Optimism was her biggest tool in keeping sane, and sanity kept her alive.

Not that she wanted to live. Each night she went to bed in the hope that her eyes won’t see another sunrise. But since when did anything happen her way?

Bitterness was taking over the reigns again; time for bed, before her mind started working on overdrive, processing negative thoughts.

ooo

  Nightmares plagued her. She saw herself running into a void, running with no idea when she’d stop. She could actually feel her legs aching, long after the dream was over, the lingering pain a constant reminder of what the future held in store for her.

She believed in dreams, signs, directions from beyond, and her dreams usually came true.

She enjoyed analyzing cryptic images and sequences, it kept her mind from rusting, kept her experimenting with ideas she would never have imagined dealing with.

But this current series of nightmares was redefining her staunch belief; it spoke of her inevitable doom and as much as she wanted to discredit it, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Fear, for her, had always been a driving force she wasn’t easily scared. She had a way of channeling those uncharted neurotic reactions into productive release. And that is why she wrote, scooping up every bit of emotion and letting it run free on paper.

 ooo 

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