Meditation fails to dress warped peace in homes where morning quarrels break sleep and dull day steals the worth of night.
More often than not, I have seen homes inflate into a battlefield where contrasting perceptions rain like hand grenades particularly because we assign genders to chores that further the disparity between kitchens and drawing rooms, paving way for windows to carry forward the obdurate legacy.
Albeit, love does bloom in ventilations on fine days but I have seen rage climb up as fire in hearts and rush down as tears on cheeks, on days— vulnerable, dry and intense.
On Indian railways, you'll either be caught stirring the hot tea of politics or relying on music; annoyed by a baby's cry.
The ardour of cutting onto sleep to not miss a single landmark and travel less through places and more through shades of nature has somewhere been lost.
Oftentimes, I wonder how elders acquaint themselves with each- other, digging relations, munching on groundnuts and peculiarly grumbling about cleanliness.
The like-aged girl before me sneaks silent glances at me. Perhaps, we are yet to learn the art of communication because sometimes, all you need is a strange face and a futile conversation in a world which is busier than the bustle on a railway station.
I'm learning to knock sun over my lids after every fall from the time this pandemic stretched away my dreams, those ochreous rays asunder into few message notifications that grasps my soul into another blink.
I'm learning to slip my star-crossed palm-lines into hands that will hold them for eternity, I'm trying to build my broken home again in a heart that'll never sow coldness but the warmth of love that'll never need any liberty. ~Purva
The coffee beans in my room have restrained from brewing up and the sun denied to rise from the window settled at the corner of my decaying closet, and there's this feeling of the end chasing after me only when I realized beginning of it, that I'm afraid to sail a single step outside these four naked walls. Everyone around me is stitching their stories and I'm here, right at the edge of an epilogue of mine.
I used to catch fireflies with my bare hands on some bleak evenings, they often liberated their last breathe in my palms, but nobody knew I fathomed burying corpses in graveyards just like I wrapped my dead emotions into a morgue after being fascinated by what autumn does to its leaves.
The dreams that twinkle within me are what the stars would've recited if the skies were painted by Van Gogh everyday. But my eyes are still crooning about the phases of moon that people are afraid to face. The stains on my lips are midnight memories that I've pasted on forgotten ballads and I carry them in my pocket when the teacher asks me to not be a traitor anymore. Every mistake of mine is floating on the tears that I've rained yesterday and the biggest mistake that I commit is when my hands tremble to turn the next page of life and I wonder if today is favourable enough to die. ~Purva
#journal in caption #mirage_poetry_contest haiku's in bg based on the topic suicide. To those reading this know that you're not alone and suicide is never a solution to any problem. I know it's not easy to share your pain, I know people usually don't understand what you're going through but J.K Rowling said help is given to those who ask for it (modified). Talk about it because the sun rises everyday and you've got one life don't let it drown easily.
What do poets do? We have often heard that they immortalise people in their verses. What else? Does the 'I' in poems say anything about the poet? For them the 'I' too has hints of retrospection. Nothing's personal to them. Nothing left behind else of words and memories as one day they wear their wings and fly to another world, another day, for forever. We grope their words in black silences we find them soft we find them hard, to accept, the poet is no more. Mirage is the word for thirst, the never ending thirst of how we could know more about the heart of the poets. Remembrance is water, reminiscence is the desert. Death is just...
In mirage, we are remembering two such poets who not only won people in their verses, they made incisions, they made imprints of their name with their kindness. It was a huge loss, a huge loss, when they left us..
-Jack Williams, known onsite as John Solomon, was a caring friend to all who knew him, as well as a loving son, brother, and uncle. As a science minded poet, he came up with innovative concepts for his well rhymed pieces that were never before seen in the realm of poetry. Jack was an altruistic humanitarian, who preferred to spend his time helping others, rather than in pursuit of material goods or monetary gain. I had no idea when I met Jack onsite several years ago that he and I would become close friends and communicate daily; but aside from a mutual love for writing, we had a great many other things in common and we promoted positive thinking and we loved to laugh and joke around. He also cared a great deal for my husband and kids and he always inquired about them and included them in his daily prayers. Due to Jack's overall good health, I also had no idea that he would inexplicably make a sudden, shocking departure from this world, all too soon, while in the prime of his life. That's exactly what happened though, and I still feel that loss regularly and miss him very much, but there is no doubt in my mind that Jack is happy and at peace, there amongst his beloved stars.
Jo really imbibed the name Joker in letter and spirit. He hid his pains behind that infectious humor of his. His words seemed to comfort the fellow writers who had troubles... He kept his posts hopeful and entertaining.
His words offered new perspectives and information and always he added to it his trademark comedy. His roasts became popular real quick and some sort of celebrity status was conferred on anyone who was roasted by him.
He spread positivity and cheer whenever he spill ink over paper and truly he became that crack ass comedian he aspired to be. He made a family out of strangers on a writing app, which still sticks together and that itself is an ode to his great persona.
The Contest - And Rules
We are announcing this yearly contest in memories of above two poets. Share your two flowers of love as we are asking submissions as-
● TWO HAIKUS WRITTEN ON SOCIAL ISSUES●
-Please post your submission before 30th of November. -Use hashtag #mirage_poetry_contest and tag any of us organisers. -The results to be announced on 5th of December. -There will be 10 winners who will get to read their submission in a special memorial event on 19th of Dec. (Details for which to be announced later)
She maunder through banks of velvety turquoise river bed, chasing fluttering pieces of proses in the hot summer solstice, composing tormented waves of thoughts in serene verses, strumming her bewildered heart to rhythm of tapping dewdrops from the bush of vermilion camellia, roaming around the viridescent colossal evergreen trees, she unearthen the hyperboles under the canopy of shell-pink orchids.