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.
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.
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!’
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.
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.
Well, troubling thoughts alone could be dismissed
On those hills where the band settled to play
Songs and lays and all they’d learnt, known, and seen
In those years that were past and months between.
The mornings greeted by hens that did lay
Would be gone when they’d depart; they’d be missed.
A professional ballerina whose father is a classical philosopher, military historian, and writer and mother a teacher, dancer, and choreographer, Anne, we learn, also loves the high romanticism of Baroness Orczy and her Scarlet Pimpernel series. She tells us that ‘romances’ in the old-fashioned literary definition, the tales of nobility, loyalty, daring exploits, and the great love match between the hero and his wife make for stirring reading. ‘However, I plowed through them feverishly as a child; and I still re-read them today when the mood strikes,’ she lets on.
Oh, the birds greet mirth and mirth births love
When winds wind their ways through woods of this land;
And the days turn sound with the nights that shove
The light that brightens the homes that here stand.
The murder of a top detective is the tipping point in the entire story. The slayer, who has his own very special modus operandi, is smart enough to escape the nation (the United States of America) where he has committed several gruesome murders. He flees to Mexico, adopts a new identity, and assumes he will never be apprehended. On the other hand, the son of the murdered detective joins the famed Los Angeles Police Department, his sole goal being locating his dad’s killer and giving him what he deserves – a body without a soul. But does the young detective obtain what he hankers for? Or is his plan foiled? Well, that’s the part that will make you read the book, right? So, we’d better zip our lips for now!