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.
The clear cold skies
of deep indigo
Bask in the enigma
of the inscrutable heavens
Upon a starlit night
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.
Come with me
Come join the dance
Listen to the music
Come and take a chance
Let the joy take over
Take to the floor
Let the rhythm move you
Do not ignore
The call of the music
It draws you near
Be open to the feeling
No more fear
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.
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.
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.
So many memories
Stored in our hearts,
The good times get reminisced,
Now that we are apart.
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.