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Vatsarah Stavyah

Vatsarah Stavyah is the nom de plume of an Indian poet, storyteller, and former journalist. He is the founding editor-in-chief of The Literary Juggernaut and dwells as an English coach and writer in Delhi, India.

Reigning and Feigning

Oh, he reigned in the field, fooling those watching him,
And he feigned innocence, made us believe his lies.

The World Is But a Speck of Dust

Hence, worlds that exist in our very small vision
Are just lies mirroring truth;
But what the true truth does is work illusion
Thus causing pain, agony, and ruth.

Love and Hate

Each who has wronged me does deserve to be abhorred.
And so, not once will I ever want to think that
No one’s my foe and that world’s friendly, lovely, great.
For I’m quite strongly of this sound opinion that
There’s no mates in the real world that we dwell in.

Do Your Duty

Let each thought causing you harm now cease; strong and brave you shall be!
Not brooding on what’s past does sound wise; exactly what we feel.
The acts you do are not done by you; there’s forces you hardly see.
Fruit, therefore, you’ll not seek even once; let’s just term all this deal!

Feelings Felt

Askew went the planning
Because of our notions,
Caused lots of lamenting
Did soil our emotions;
Edged then were our portions
Facetious was fought fight,
Gone feelings then lotions
Helped both to become light.

I Saw Thy Awed Eyes

I saw thy awed eyes loudly doubting me
Isled, raw thy flawed sighs howled, in silence yelled
Eyed flawed, awful lies ruining me, thee
Thy augured thoughts then soundly themselves quelled.

You’re Such an Ingenious Fool!

You tell me you know best,
That there’s none that can best you;
Shall I put you to test
So I could find out what’s true?
There are days when I oft rue
The friendship we did share
When does come a blazing loo
That tells me you don’t care.

Hailing the Sun’s Might on the Day Called Pongal

Here’s Pongal, a festival that celebrates the Sun’s glory, might
Observed well by Indians, its epicentre sure being south
In mainly a state that bears those who employ an old tongue to mouth
Their praises and plaudits to yon great and mighty Sun giving light.

‘Being an Author Isn’t for the Faint of Heart’

The author, who can speak a bit of Spanish and Welsh besides swearing in Punjabi, thanks to his Indian friends at school, also stresses while accepting the reality might be hard, if one does accept, then it will take the sting off the inevitable rejections and negative reviews that all authors get. ‘With rejections, try to be level-headed when they land. First consider whether they are sincere, or whether they are just a form rejection with little thought or substance behind them. If they are sincere, then study them carefully, take on board the comments and try to learn,’ he explains, adding, ‘This is especially important if those rejections go into specific detail about what did and didn’t work. Try and see this as honest advice from top people within the industry, which, in any other scenario, you would probably be paying good money for.’

The Living Death and Silence So Sounded

Soon enough we did notice some huntsmen with arrows, bows,
Who looked keen to put rollicking, glad deer yon day to death;
So like soldiers who safeguard the borders, we formed two rows
In hope we could stall each man that did tread with baited breath.

‘Write’ From the Land of the Rising Sun

Besides, Mr Frankel shares with us that being an English coach and editor, he has to make time for other essential activities as well. While he usually writes at night for a few hours and takes breaks every fifty minutes or so, we learn that during the day too, he gets interesting ideas, which he more often than not jots down immediately. ‘During the day, however, I teach ESL (English as a Second Language) besides editing other writers’ works. Then, I do my own thing, which is writing. When I want to relax, I listen to music, read, or try to sleep. Most writers are sleep deprived at one point or another, and sleep is imperative to being creative.’

The Garbageman

He does inhabit rooms that oft look like glooms,
Oh! But he prizes all he’s got, come what may.
He visits us with brooms, helps each man who dooms,
But I find it sad that he has got no say.
The few months that we were compelled to stay home,
He came, collected our dirt, greeted all in warm tone.

Elvis Lives Across the Lane

His eyes are white, his hair is green
His nose and ears are super clean
While walking on his fingers weak
He never permits his mouth to speak
He buys books at the garment shop
At garment shops he books a mop
He gets paid just one time a year
And he lives his life in no fear

The Supreme Controller’s Mission

And when morning was unfurled,
I did open my eyes to sight
Blueness of the sky so deep and grand
That revealed the Saviour’s power and might.
And I wondered then if there was some site
Where His great vision might never land;
I cognised soon there wouldn’t be light
if He left our little world.

Ten Words Every Poet Ought to Know

Every poet, without a shadow of a doubt, wants to be appreciated and acknowledged. However, little do many self-proclaimed poets know there exist different kinds of poets just like there are different kinds of poetic forms. While ‘poet’ seems to be the most commonly used term to denote someone who composes poems, it is very much possible to categorise poets. After you read this post, we believe you will get to know the category you belong to; so if you’re ready, get going!

The Storm in the Dorm

Yon day we did feel the nature’s rage
When the city was hit by a storm;
And like puppies in a little cage,
We were locked, confined well to our dorm.
Oh, we heard the thunder’s rowdy dance
That did put us in a wondrous trance.

‘It Is Difficult to Be an Indie Author’

Talking about ‘The Mayor’s Daughter’, which was self-published last November, Emma CrowE says it is a YA LGBTQ+ Contemporary Fiction novel. ‘It follows the lives of seventeen-year-olds Chloe Carp and Ash Martin, and the story alternates between the two POVs,’ states the author, who dwells in Wenatchee, a city in north-central Washington.

Impressions and Fire

My face had wilted and withered and waned,
Revealing every pain, emotion, thought;
And there was not one thing I could have gained
Had I not written ’bout what my mind fought.