A Pretender am on the stage of Man, always playing a part that never was mine.
I used all the right words and made the right moves, yet my eyes souless;
Searching in the audience's eyes for the one that seeth me for who I am and not who I seem, for the one whom my eyes will tell my true story.
Found her I did in this world of audiences nd sawth through me she did my true self.
Found me you did my baby. Seeth me you did, my dear confidant as I unfold myself unconstricted and unafraid to all your senses.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Quote of The Day
Distance is to relationships like wind is to fire...its extinguishes the small flames but makes the great ones even brighter.
Comments:-
Really beautifully written and it really means something to both of us and is certainly so true...
Comments:-
Really beautifully written and it really means something to both of us and is certainly so true...
Monday, July 30, 2007
Connected
In Mind Conceived Our Thoughts Untainted
Our Bodies Different Yet Minds Connected
Fate Decided Our Paths be Intertwined
Where we stood Defenceless, Alone and Naked
Sawth Pass me You Did
As though A Glass I Am
From That Distant Place Afar
Seeth Me for Who I Am
Our Bodies Different Yet Minds Connected
Fate Decided Our Paths be Intertwined
Where we stood Defenceless, Alone and Naked
Sawth Pass me You Did
As though A Glass I Am
From That Distant Place Afar
Seeth Me for Who I Am
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Sonnet #18
William Shakespeare - Sonnet #18
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
What is Poetry?
What is poetry? A short piece of imaginative writing, of a personal nature and laid out in lines is the usual answer. Will that do?
Poetry definitions are difficult, as is aesthetics generally. What is distinctive and important tends to evade the qualified language in which we attempt to cover all considerations. Perhaps we could say that poetry was a responsible attempt to understand the world in human terms through literary composition.
The terms beg many questions, of course, but poetry today is commonly an amalgam of three distinct viewpoints. Traditionalist argue that a poem is an expression of a vision that is rendered in a form intelligible and pleasurable to others and so likely to arouse kindred emotions. For Modernists, a poem is an autonomous object that may or may not represent the real world but is created in language made distinctive by its complex web of references. Postmodernists look on on poems as collages of current idioms that are intriguing but self-contained — they employ, challenge and/or mock preconceptions, but refer to nothing beyond themselves.
Source: http://www.poetrymagic.co.uk/
Poetry definitions are difficult, as is aesthetics generally. What is distinctive and important tends to evade the qualified language in which we attempt to cover all considerations. Perhaps we could say that poetry was a responsible attempt to understand the world in human terms through literary composition.
The terms beg many questions, of course, but poetry today is commonly an amalgam of three distinct viewpoints. Traditionalist argue that a poem is an expression of a vision that is rendered in a form intelligible and pleasurable to others and so likely to arouse kindred emotions. For Modernists, a poem is an autonomous object that may or may not represent the real world but is created in language made distinctive by its complex web of references. Postmodernists look on on poems as collages of current idioms that are intriguing but self-contained — they employ, challenge and/or mock preconceptions, but refer to nothing beyond themselves.
Source: http://www.poetrymagic.co.uk/
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