The day turned dark, the winds got wild,
Commoving feelings, numbing souls
On India’s hills where peeps are mild
With a nature that warms men’s wholes.
Never shall you out of forlornness despond,
For answers looked for are engraved in your soul;
And when your thoughts, words and deeds correspond,
Your self will truly form many a bonafide bond.
Author Emma Joy Hill has been telling herself stories for as long as she can remember; and when she learned to write in sentences, writing down a story was one of the first things she did. ‘I remember writing a story called The Pretty Trees. It was inspired by a particular morning when sparkling frost covered all the trees in the city,’ says the Ontario-based Canadian writer, who is also well-versed in Dutch, beginning her interaction with The Literary Juggernaut.
Kind we’ll be to our kith and kin,
Smile at them, each person we see.
Gratitude shall be the slogan,
Insides will soon turn clutter-free.
This is the morning song
I sing to you,
rushing into the billow of your embrace,
ascending to the sky in your eyes,
flowing into your oceanic love,
eloping with your wind-withered soul…
Each morning as the smog enshrouds this town,
I am benighted by my trembling mind;
As I breathe, not being ware of the act,
My heart chokes while I cough phlegm up and frown.
And as my mind meanders through the past,
The now is slain with a might unheard of.
English poet Jim Khan has always had a passion for writing. ‘Growing up in a disadvantaged environment meant the only safe place was in my own head and the local library,’ the 41-year-old Nottingham-based author, whose everyday life is very much like Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the mountain only to have it fall back onto his head again, says, beginning his interaction with The Literary Juggernaut.
Today as I flip through the dusty dailies,
The vagaries of nature read of and about
Storm my mind with impressions from the gory past
And subtly rain down sorrow, angst, and ill luck
I’d happened on not less than seven years ago.
Is like a flourishing tree,
And every other person you know
Is its leaf.
Leaves are its beauty;
And some may not be more than a burden.
But at the end of the day
Leaves shed off.
The draught of air won’t slay this searing heat,
a heat that now has slain the cold we bore
for years in our hearts till love came to fore
The day I proffered we go out to eat.
Author Cat Ritchie knows the art of painting pictures with words, and her book entitled Bosco and the Bees stands testimony to that. When we began reading the book, we’d thought it would be just another fairy tale that tends to end with a moral. Nonetheless, when we started flipping the pages of the spellbinding novel, we were awestruck and captivated by the awe-inspiring characters, each of which has something moralistic to convey in a manner that is both funny as well as alluring.
I will never get what I’ve hankered for;
So I shall not want to imagine that
My dreams will turn into reality;
This might appear too sudden now, but
I’m foreordained to be good for nothing;
And I shall thus not allow you to say
I do deserve everything wonderful.
Author Nicolas W King first started writing when he was thirteen years old. ‘And it was a bad X-Men fanfiction,’ laughs the writer, beginning his interaction with The Literary Juggernaut. Stating, nonetheless, that his first original story was a one-act play, which he gave to his theater teacher in high school, Nicholas, who works his day job in IT Support and tends to write at night, lets on with a smile, ‘She enjoyed it but could see I needed a lot more practice!’
His water brush draws
the mirror for the sky:
the vast lake beneath
captures the continuum
on its refractive surface
in deepening silence
Her voice was poised,
and when she addressed us
for the first time
a wave of silence descended
as if it were preordained
that a shrilled silence would dawn
when she worded the thoughts
she had in her mind,
for silence was a word
not in the dictionary
the students of St Mary’s used.
Come join me on my imaginary beach
The night will be warm, the moon full
The sand will sparkle in Luna’s light
The calm ocean will set the rhythm
With waves lapping quietly upon the shore
Oh, I wish I were with you up above
So we both might make love afresh each day
And pen grand sonnets that no man shall shove
Out of their dying yet unending way.
In spoken English, it would make little sense to report something using the direct speech. It would not just sound peculiar but also a bit theatrical for the listener. Therefore, another way to report is to use one’s own words and yet convey what the speaker had said. This does not mean that one can casually add words of one’s own choices for the essence of what was said should not be lost. This is exactly where the role of indirect speech comes into the picture. Indirect Speech is, hence, the second type of narration in English.