Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. – Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, Chapter 3 (1929) Fiction, like a delicate spider’s web is so light and impalpable, but it yet needs to anchor to reality to be perceptible. Some webs […]
Today I crumpled a poem and used it as fuel to boil a cup of tea.
It is discouraging to knowthat I am a mediocre,And will never doanything of extraordinary value.Like the painter who knowsthat he is no da Vinci.I sometimes get appalledat the burden of life hereliving as if I were the whole world,Like the spider who gotentangled in his own web…I hate to see things the wayeveryone do,although it […]
Your eyes, filled with ocean are dynamic, restless and blue. I mistook that the Great Artist, the God- had made a mistake in His unique creation by painting them ocean blue, not muddy brown. Poured in your eyes is the turbulence of the ocean. I wonder the salty drops you weep belong to the […]
I want to lay the language open with a knife,and make her bleed through a gore so deep.(I could do that too, I could be cruel.)So that I could drink the syrup of poetrythat runs through her veins, to my minds full.She would lie motionless, (her face calm and serene)like a frog, etherized on the […]
The evening sun had robbed the blue colour of the sky and had put in its place tints of crimson red mixed with shades of grey. A few golden streaks of light added to the beauty of the painted sky. The fluid line of the horizon was getting erased slowly as the sun plunged into […]