Oh, mansions seen embellish narrow streets,
Each of which is graced by dire slums as well,
And every man who dwells in slums defeats
The filth of their soul to escape pain, hell;
And each who weens karma exists not meets
Death like those who believe in strength of knell.
Author Matthew P S Salinas first began writing in the fifth grade, which happened to be a time in his life when he adored reading stories of all kinds. This was also the time when he began dreaming of becoming an author one day. Speaking to The Literary Juggernaut in an exclusive interaction, the author and poet, who is currently working on releasing a sequel to his current work besides actively looking for a literary agent and traditional publisher to help him expand his audience and improve the quality of his work even more, says he primarily wrote poetry and was published in Visions Literary Magazine. ‘After that, I went on a hiatus for a while and eventually returned to my roots in poetry and my interest in horror fiction,’ the twenty-seven-year-old American author shares with us.
Going on to aver that writing is a career for him even if he does not make a living at it, Mr Link, who has studied Spanish, Japanese, and Brazilian Portuguese, tells us he thinks authors get too tied to the financial aspect of writing, and that’s not the bar he sets for his success. ‘I want to reach people so they’ll read my stories and enjoy them, not so I can quit my day job. That’s one of the reasons I love Kindle Unlimited. People can read me for free,’ he says.
When I was young, I’d longed to float and fly
Because the welkin charmed, allured me much;
I’d hankered after gladness and pure bliss,
The airy, blue expanse I’d hoped to touch.
When you were thrown right into darkened, foul pits,
Each of which snatched your chilled-out cheer, chastised charm,
I wept, wondered if ever you’d sense the harm
Caused by ones that laughed, staring at you like kits;
Spring like a deer, one scrounging for lush leaves!
Is that not something you adored to do
When your heart learnt what brought my charmed soul to
You was a force that never weeps or grieves?
What transpired next caused me great harm,
For I learnt I was conned, fooled
By you and those you had valued;
Places you’d been to were revealed,
So were lanes you’d trodden upon;
I smiled though my heart rang bruised bells.
The snakes sometimes squirmed like worms you’d detest
While en route to work fields that gleamed on Earth,
And like raged, raging winds hoping not to rest,
They oft assailed and harmed and caused great dearth.
There’s a world abiding in each where blooms love;
Nothing great can be gained if yon world dies!
I say rear the world now; never ask when.
Would that you could grasp what in yon world lies!
Author Robert Stubblefield started writing around the age of ten. As a matter of fact, he began composing poems at the time as a way to cope with the loss of his grandmother. Speaking exclusively to The Literary Juggernaut, the twenty-eight-year-old American author and poet, who is currently residing in Maryland, the US, says poetry has always helped him express his feelings towards the world around him. Emphasising that he usually writes when he has the urge to pen down his thoughts and whenever he feels low, Mr Stubblefield, who holds a bachelor’s degree besides two master’s degrees, says he composes poetry so he may articulate the deepest of his thoughts in ways he cannot do when he happens to be speaking.
I suggest you now grasp that heart’s core
Is illumed by none but God; thought ain’t vain.
Same is force that guides the worlds galore,
One birthed by a chaste woman. Prized lore!
But I suppose there is no fun
In leading what you’re leading – gruesome life;
You think not of superb acts dropped
Before you say the thoughts that stay well popped
Until slain is the mental strife!
And goodness goes on to stand sadly done.
Lambasted love couldn’t even minds
That shall float now, forever,
Be born again to be dead, gone.
That is life’s nature; it quite binds,
Creating love in ways clever
In order that worlds may move on.
Could you will to enquire where we are caught,
And why the ball of fire has not touched us?
Give it some time, give what’s been said a thought
Before you put your questions, making fuss.
Author T C Weber is a morning person, and he begins his day with what he loves doing most: writing. In an exclusive email interaction with The Literary Juggernaut, Mr Weber, who is a member of Poets & Writers and the Maryland Writers Association, says when working on a novel, his goal is to write one scene each day, schedule permitting. ‘I ensure that I write something every morning, even if it’s just random thoughts or a few paragraphs. Long scenes may take several days,’ explains the author, who also knows to speak Spanish besides a bit of Russian and Japanese.
The stars greatly glowed when the night was young,
And the moonlight gleamed, glistened upon seas;
It looked as if the stars were lights well strung
By men who would prize nothing but calm, peace.
Pretentious men sat, watched the harm,
Recalling to word their dead thought;
Observed was chaos; there was no calm!
Farm laws were blamed and farmers bought.
Pandemic plagiarised plagiarised plagues
Plagued pure places, preyed ‘pon poor people
Plotted, planned, plunged persistently
Placed plain pain, pessimism, pricks
Pained planet proudly