"And when you'll have my carcass burnt, my flesh and bones will be dusted to ashes, but my poetries will continue sharing their existences to every passerby. A part of me will still continue the eternal life."
*Participation lines closed* (but I'm a sweethearted person you see)
Namaste people! Here is your dear (or cursed, maybe XD) Krish from his home, stuck between drawing books and college books, bringing to you the part for which you all were waiting (I have got all freedom to contradict things lol).
Krish : Mr. Wait, bye bye, you're being hated. Mr. Wait : You'll have to bring me sometime in the future, I'll charge you higher by that time. *feels a slap on his face* ________________________________________________
| A VERSE AND A PEN CHALLENGE | (Part 02 - The recipe of revelation) ________________
1. Write a letter to death, explaining how nice or bad your life was/is.
2. Write a piece from the point of view of any one "emotion".
3. Write a piece based on the theme "Darkness in the limelight".
4. Write a piece personifying a framed photograph which makes the family shed tears.
5. Write a piece based on the theme, "if your heart were a physical place on the earth, which people would visit, how would it be?"
6. Write a piece based on the theme, "How humans met feelings, and the sun met the horizon". (for the first time)
*imagines pretty smiles on the participants' faces* ________________
~ You must "mandatorily" use a line, or an excerpt from a book you've known, and probably loved. Now this can be used anywhere in your piece.
~ Since the line limits might be quite restricting, it is fine if the words are used as the theme (making sure not to divert from the prompt) and mentioned in the background. But, it must be there and make flow and sense with your writeup :))
~ Please don't get confused, the quotes in the previous part was for reference, and the novels you suggested are a part of your prizes (if you win!). So you are free to choose your lines from any English novel.
~ The piece you weave must be a "poem" less than or equal to 50 lines. Pieces more than the mentioned limit will not be considered for scoring by the judges. (The members of the jury panel will not be revealed as a part of suspense :D ) (If you're not into poems, make sure to write a prose with the same line limit strictly. Ik it would be difficult, so I suggested a poem, but it is fine)
~ Your piece must be free of plagiarism, obscenities, foul language and political conflicts.
~ The challenge will be closed by 12 am of June 10, 2021. No pieces after the mentioned time will be accepted.
~ One submission per person (soul+body=person, just in case you felt your soul is another human lol)
~ Your piece will be scored by the lovely jury panel. And the scoring will be based on choice of words, entertainment (like eye-catching) and an overall view on some other aspects which you're all familiar with.
~ Sorry if you were tagged twice :(
So let your minds run, pour your charm!!!! _______________
P. S: Sorry for not keeping it so humourous. Will try my best during the results :"(
A writer is a 120 months young kid who is tired of seeing his benchmates trying hard to memorize a Shakespearean sonnet, weeping upon the fact that the author's rhymes which rhymed iambic metaphors weren't anything to anyone anymore. He decides to write a poem one day, whose verses would flow like oceans through hearts, and would never feel drained of being intonated as dry as dust.
A writer is a twenty five years aged lady who just came out from the hospital grasping the reports in her hands, with a surprise of having a sesquipedalian tumor in her brain. Her husband asks what the introspections say about, and she canvassed it all behind her salmon lips and gave his cheek three kisses, one for lying, the other for hiding, and another, for being prepared to label herself in her poems as a fiction.
A writer is a forty autumns old father who gently holds hands of his dear five springs old child named Metaphor asking him for a promise that he'll never be left alone. His wife Words smiles at the bedroom listening to his speech. She wonders that the poems which are eternal stand on promises given by the child to his father, and feels butterflies flying inside her.
A writer is a sixty year old woman who lately coughed a simile and hiccupped new collocations a hundred times. She sits with her walking stick in the balcony, desiring to have got a coughing disease years before. When she sees her rustic books and frames, all she could focus on with her clumsy round spectacles are spaces between her poetic stanzas, which were promised a few more breaths of words. And yet, they died. She smiles helplessly.
The writer too drifted to the heavens, but what stayed were those artworks. Poems. Words. Metaphors.
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 01, 2021 _________________________________________
Hello everyone! Hope you're all doing great :) *sanitizes hands and refuses for a handshake*
Challenge time!!! The main purpose of hosting this challenge is to bring the writers in all of us together for some moments. I would be satisfied if this makes at least one person feels happy by the time of results. Let's go! (don't run out of your houses now XD)
*virtual trumpets and drumrolls* ________________________________________________
| A VERSE AND A PEN CHALLENGE | (Part 01 - The game of guesses) ________________
In the challenge, you are supposed to firstly choose a quote, more specifically, a number, and let me know in the comments. The quotes are related to your prompts in an enough satisfactory way, so think and choose wisely!
THE QUOTE GALLERY:
1. That it will never come again is what makes Life so sweet ~ Emily Dickinson
2. The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart ~ Helen Keller
3. If you can't find the light through your darkness, become the light. ~ Roger Lee
4. A good life is a collection of happy moments. ~ Denis
5. A place to dwell, full of peace, secure; a place to rest - This is home to me, and that is why I long for it so. ~ Unknown
6. There will always be a reason why you meet people. Either you need them to change your life, or you're the one that will change theirs. ~ Angel Flonis Harefa
(Don't judge the prompts by the quotes XD) ________________
How to participate: You have been given six quotes numbered from 1 to 6, as you've seen already. Now all you have to do is, select a number, and comment, "I'm in, number __". ________________
️ Read the rules very "carefully". XD
️ You also have to let me know, any two English novels with the name of the author (either the ones in your bucket list or your favorite ones, your wish); that might end up being a part of your winning prize! The comment would be like: "I'm in, __" "Novels: (any 2)"
️ Once commented, the number chosen cannot be changed. And once the prompt is received, that cannot be changed either.
️ Part 2 of this challenge will be posted by me after the deadline, which will reveal your "original" prompts.
️ You are free to participate until 12 pm (IST) of June 2. No participants will be accepted after the participation time is over.
️ Other rules will be mentioned in the part 2; this is all you have to know and follow, at the present. ________________
Take some help with an example: Let us say, @/vantab1ack has chosen number 6. In part 2 of this challenge post, his "actual" prompt is like: 1.... 2.... 3.... 4.... 5. Write about your sister. 6. Write about your school. So vantab1ack will write his poetry on his school, which is number 6. I hope you get that clearly. ________________
So yeah, that's that. I hope you liked this, and I hope you would enjoy the course of the challenge. You can ask me regarding any queries, I'm here for you :) Help out your fellow friends if they would like to participate. And please do not spam the comment section unnecessarily, since it would be difficult for me to check important notifs in the notifications panel. It's a kind request *puppy eyes*
Thank you, if you successfully made it till here. Bye! *wears a mask and takes leave*
On some days, we were beauteous sunsets draped with myriad merlots of hopes and illuminations of an allegory we'd made along during the daytime, looking past our eyes like never before. And now I'm lingering for the stars, and nothing ever seems to radiate my soul like y o u. --- Disappeared daylights ---
On some days, we were camera shutters trying to encapsulate the best of junctures; the ones which, when looked into in future life, would glisten blazes of soothe and lights of bistre fireflies. And now, I am unable to find any joy towards reminiscence; the storms in me feel a l i v e. --- Forlorn folklores ---
On some days, we were battlefield ballads trying to hold extant in us the charisma and the beliefs that togetherness is our dear child, and we can feed him amidst the most terrible times. And we ended up being great failures, who couldn't revive sonnet 116 in their n a m e s. --- Sardonic summaries ---
And on this day, you are misery to my thousand pieces lying on the ground, distorted and slayed, and I, am just another prey to your play, the one, which has been history, and will ne'er cease to be one tomorrow too. Honey, we were fairytales recited over and over, until we were levigated into mere d u s t. --- Evanescent evermores ---
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 24, 2021 _________________________________________________
ALSO REFER: > merlots : a gradient of red > allegory (here): metaphor > sonnet 116 : Shakespeare's famous sonnet describing love
My E Y E S are those 'cambric clouds' made of the finest august diamonds which start losing a bit of their worth everytime as soon as they deliquesce waters by the anomalous cheeks when the one who appreciated values and attributes like an archaeologist broke his opinions while mining for some precious fossil and ended up finding rough heaps of misunderstandings in the game of betrayal. And when my sights rained the most precious gems, I found no mercenaries around me picking them to make necklaces for their girlfriends who never know that these pair of almonds commit mistakes by interpreting first impressions without knowing skin deep things. Greed and rage don't keep faith in the voyage from eyes to grounds, maybe.
My N O S E is a 'stalactite' hung down the forehead, which the priest of the Kali temple believes to have engraved with the scriptures of my future happenings and deteriorations; and sadly, even a single metaphor from that whole volume of tragedy didn't cross my eyes. If it had at least grown up as a papule on my nasal bone, I would have made a random soccer attempt to burst the truth out, and if I had hit the right goal, I would have found happiness in today's scarlet sunset which I peeped out from the bleed holes of my life. And my life is unfortunately spaced only with 'its'. My routine says that oxygen molecules passing through my bleeding nostrils carry nostalgia with them for a tour inside my rotting body.
My L I P S are 'chrysanthemums' dipped in velvety roseate hues after gluing some beauteous petals of the only white rose in my backyard, which gasp for some liberty from the compression of Tuscan sun coloured pages; they smelt of hope yesterday. Due to continuous yearning for a mild touch of his verses, they started making boundaries on their own selves so that the one who sees those blackberry existences grasps the rancorous truth that living, leaving, hoping and breaking come in every plates for a dinner someday or the other. Despites of going to their offices everyday to speak, what they yearn for is my quietude, for they entwine ephemerally yet ethereally when silence stands ready with the microphone for its concert of love.
My C H E E K S are those 'saccharine irwin mangoes' which ripened into the tinges of lotus on finding the love they both needed since two autumns, they waited for him to share their redness with. But when reality gave them more than what they expected, the sangria skies withered nostalgically on finding their tints on somebody else, and they dusked away to death and darkness on further knowing that my plumps displayed a palette of that woebegone artist next door who had brighter gradients of red; a heart wrenching spectacle 'twas. The places my muse's lips visited have all become voids of the darkest black, which are tired of oozing out crimson as soon as those handwritten greetings inked of treachery catch mere sights of. They felt calligraphy is beautifulness in itself, but the tallies of my sorrow's account say that it isn't.
My F A C E is thus a 'war poetry' which started with affectionate alliances and ended up being distorted into bloodsheds like that six year old child who became a pawn of sacrifice for the king holding a triumphant sceptre of lust. Every scar resonates regret coated with myriad layers of lachrymosity, my doctor gives me an ointment of acceptance, but I fear if it held side affects just like love had. My eyebrows have shed out to mar my recognition feebly, my nostrils haven't been sending air to asphyxiate me with excruciating reminesces, my lips have been singing the same old melody which feels off-key now, my cheeks seem to have been killing their muscles day-by-day, and my face lies here like a recreant, refusing to spit out all my blood and pain with a fear that I might reach her. And now, her means death and that is all.
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Nov 11, 2020 ________________________________________________
The ending word from each stanza turned out to be a sentence as well (But doesn't relate to this writeup completely though *-*) This writeup was inspired by the 'Of literature' piece of @my_cup_of_poetry :)
A man perches upon the redwood benches holding a flower and a diary in his hand, an abyss in his heart, metaphors rushing through his blood, and mayhem in his mind. His knots of pain untangle through his scars, bid a temporary adieu, and rush through the impulses into his pen, which has a distressed face of that boy in the next road who is unable to memorize the Shakespearean sonnet for his exams. The man sees his foot crushing the maple leaves, and he titles the poem "Flights and Falls". He wishes I never drift away. The tinge of this intensifying passenger named Nostalgia (boarding train number 8 5 1 18 20 which has an engine failure due to continuous bleeding) is my recipe. /It is, the tinge of Autumn- of attractions, of adieus, and of agonies paced step by step/
When my beloved trees bellowed to leave their fellow children to the harsh grounds, I just felt for a moment that my heart was just being crushed by the hailstorms of sins. I, a madman laying carcasses to the ground, a bad- blooded season, rushed to plead the breezes to take care of my dear leaves and keep their venations unchanged. And yet, when I see their lush greens drooping towards feulliemort, it takes away something from my heart. When I see those children getting away from their dearest branches, I see in them, an agony of going stretches of galaxies apart. That intense pain has a hue, and it is entirely mine. The hue comes from a hazel-eyed boy who wept for months and years after his mother was killed in the battle of patriarchy; /it is, the hue of Autumn- of unending sacrifices, of separations, and of saddistic tragedies set altogether/
The sunflowers have convened with wilted faces and rusted bodies to celebrate each other's fate towards the soil-kissed graveyards. The sun from the distant past is a kindergarten child who has his handkerchief safe for his future use. The flowers which symbolise adoration are now confused with their expressions; whether to express their sadness over losing their last 'beams' of hope, losing over their kins, or to unlock some more floods from their almond eyes for losing their own mortal existences? They hug each other for the last time, dance lightly, fearing that they might lose their hands and legs over the very accident of my arrival. Their tears sparkle like gemstones, and I see the stars getting jealous in the skies. The departure and the jealousy, both have their own shades- of calm deaths and light fires. /They are, the shades of Autumns- of flights, of falls, and of heart-wrenching farewells set by degrees/
One has love, the other has sin, now I don't know where I have to go, Summer has tears, the winter has joy, but a bittersweet curry is still left out, Yellowish pages, and black-out deaths, this is where I am meant to stay, for I'm the season of fall- //a season of interlaced emotions//
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 12, 2021 ______________________________________________
A jingle is a short, simple tune, often with words which is used to advertise a product or programme on radio or television. Three things to be kept in mind while writing a jingle is that it should be timeless, memorable and very creative. So fam, think outside the box and come up with something offbeat today.
I stare at the world
atop this old and dead tree
where is the color?
Patience has rewards
come spring the world will fill
with cherry blossoms.
The mondo is a Japanese style of poetry written in the form of a question followed by an answer. Originally, it used to be written as a collaboration of two poets, one presenting a thoughtful question and the other giving an enlightening answer in two different stanzas.
--Today , write a creative one- liner mondo on nature--