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  • the_poetic_soul 11w


    Deciduous fall , and the fall of leaves
    The leaf-strewn ground,
    Like the forbidden lovers
    Departing forever,
    With a melancholic aura ,
    From the barely naked trees who see
    Autumn, as a poem of their dolor,
    An elegy, to give words through the
    Ink of desk writers,
    To consonate the grief-stricken life ,
    To depart the months old love,
    And welcome the dreary blanc days,
    Singing the harmonious songs,
    On a dry clean grave,the blooms
    Write their names ,
    Depart the world,
    Leaving ere the morning mist,
    Dews on yellow crisps.

    P.S ~ Not really a personification ,just another poem on #autumn .. @mirakee @writersnetwork
    Bg credit to my dear Sadrita �� @redolent_smile

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  • the_poetic_soul 11w

    In this hour of pestilence, a flowering Amaltas tree is falling its leaves every moment, which are unfortunately unheeded by the despaired masses.
    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod #wod

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    Indian Laburnum

    Clothed in Golden yellow , Of a
    Very pale shade.
    Awaits the giddy months of the year,
    This Amaltas tree, on the corner
    of my street .
    All day long, flowers keep falling
    Like a continuous snowfall
    On the pedway to equalize a golden mat.
    To appear like an artist's art,
    Of a dilusioned sense of proportion.
    In this tropical forest of florescent yellow,
    Where splendour of baby chandeliers
    Entangled with the gold of street lamps,
    Has lost its charm. Has lost its admirers.
    No nightwalkers ,to love as they do,
    To stand beneath the golden showers,
    Where a flower is falling dead,
    Every other moment.

  • the_poetic_soul 19w

    To - Badam's soul sis (Sadrita)

    From- Badam (me)

    2021 March 17

    A lil older, a lil wiser,
    ��✨HAPPY BIRTHDAY ✨ ��

    Initially I thought of crafting something creative and jaw-dropping for you, but then I sticked to the thought of simplicity, a letter, with an acrostic.

    //S//rupulous attention , an eye of care, with a
    melange of
    //A//mbitiousness ,the skill and spirit to reach the
    //D//estined to unfurl beauty from The Sun's hearth
    In the garden of melancholy,
    //R//ampant jolliness in words and juggernaut
    Optimism in heart,
    //I//lluminous like a full moon,bright as it is,
    //T//riumphant in life,in disasters and in mind,
    Like an
    //A//glow in the heart of darkness,made to live ,
    Live with mirth ,and contentment...

    (My words may not be appeasing enough,but my feelings of gratitude, love , concern and friendliness are much more competent.)
    This day marks the birth of one of the most significant figures in my life and uk, this month marks our first meet ,our first conversation and first gesture of goodwill towards each other.
    Life has been very harsh sometimes to you,but the way you withstood those brutal winds of destruction and your capacity to retain a plethora of anguish and disappointment with life,has inspired me deep down so badly that I started considering you as an idol.
    I've always thought of you as a friend I can always rely on,to share,to gossip ,to nag at ,what not. If @mirakee has given me anything in my life, it's you.
    Not just an inspiration in life,you inspired me in poetic gesture too. Your skillls at art,poetry,prose ,bg design (a very essential one uk what I mean) all have left me in awe. Your poetries inspired me , prompted me to write more delicately,more effectively.
    It's not just this all.
    With you,the passage of time never mattered much, even nothing else much mattered. Those senseless sticker fights, late night gossips , sorrowful stories and ROFL chats never bored me, something that I cherish a lot. Not a day passes, without you, without your talks. We may live miles afar, but it never matters. By the end of the day,I've got someone to talk who never disappoints me. Like some stardust from the eternal world fell over me someday �� like a blessing in disguise.

    You have received bouquets and brickbats both and know the epistemology of life. And hence my confidence in you says that "Every 17th March will mark the birth of a new Sadrita, fierce,bold , independent and more beautiful."

    Life is full of disappointments , preceded by disbelieves but always remember that a person with true conscience wins in the battle for survival. Always remain the same,as bright as Sun , as cherry as jasmine, as beautiful as pearls ,as homogenous as yourself.
    Don't you dare -even for an instant- to think that you don't 'deserve' or need all of the good things coming your way. You deserve the best of everything and shouldn't feel shy to ask for it or welcome it with open arms.
    May you celebrate all your birthdays with me, virtually or realistically... GOD BLESS ALWAYS.

    //"This 16th year of my life was really so adventurous. It was a potpourri of happiness and heartbreak"//

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  • the_poetic_soul 21w

    Thanks for the ♡ @writersnetwork ��

    Arundhati Roy,

    Just few days back , I finished reading your debut novel 'The God of small things' ,which you call a semi-autobiographical book. However, I don't care if it's your story or someone else's but the very fact that nearly every fellow Indian can relate to the grass rootedness of your thoughts and ideas makes you the utmost writer. It's a utterly sad story, told very humorously, delicately and craftily. On top of that, you described all the intimate and romantic scenes with sheer beauty and elegance that I nearly ended fantasizing myself over there.
    Estha asks his mom , "If you are happy in a dream, does that count?", And I immediately raised up and said," If it's for your mom, it definitely counts ."
    The character of Ammu is the most pitiful and the more I try to understand her, the more I get perplexed. And of course, the twins made us laugh every now and then, in the most grave of situations , with their 'imagination-shaped hole' and hilarious logics. All the characters got equal read-time and the fact that each one of them was empty somewhere made it sound more realistic.
    You touched upon caste discrimination, politics , love laws (who should be loved, how, and how much) and misogyny, which forms a major portion of your novel so tenderly that we end up seeing them through your point of view. The background setting of Aymenem in Kerala and the lake (where the twists and turns come like winds) and the weather are poignantly described like a poetry . For me , this book was the most significant creation of the century, unlike any other family drama, societal drama or orthodoxy in lives, The God of Small Things , shone with its authenticity and liveliness, encrusting its name on the hearts of all its readers.
    "The air was full of thoughts and things to say, but at times like this only the small things are ever said. "
    This quote, to me , means the universe.
    After reading your book, 'nothing mattered much and nothing much mattered', and my life , all of sudden seemed quite easy-going.
    Thanks to you Ms.Roy , that I inculcated a new zest in myself towards my life and others...

    Yours gratefully
    Came back after a long time , just to attend today's prompt. Thank you @mirakee for this wonderful prompt. @writersnetwork , hope you give it a read.
    #fanletter #wod #pod

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  • the_poetic_soul 23w

    I see a different pond, at different times of a day.

    @mirakee ~ Hey! I'm back
    @writersnetwork #pod #bluegreen

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    ~The pond~


    Atmospheric refraction
    Hence the virtual sun
    In the tranquil stagnant pond,
    It's early sunrise
    Paving way for early blossoms,
    The light-blue shine
    Unfurled all over the water
    With trees and Daffodils in it.


    The timely dips
    And the timely arrivals
    Of old-flocks to fill their pots,
    On the bank of , round shallow pond
    That sees the sparrow
    Leaving her nest ,
    On the old banyan on its shore,
    And dancing ripples on it
    With trees and daffodils in it.


    With the white amoeba-shaped clouds in it,
    And hot brooding Sun in it,
    With lazy wise men
    On its bank reposing
    When the countryside looks
    Immodestly green,
    And the glittering sunshine
    (Over-radiant) in it.
    The pond,
    With trees and daffodils in it.


    With the falling dusk ,
    The greygreen water fades,
    No more greens in it.
    Which sees the sparrow
    Returning to her abode,
    On the old Banyan on its shore,
    With the nurple sky in it,
    Chirping birds in it,
    Dipping frogs in it,
    With trees and daffodils in it.


    Like a small god,
    Self-composed in it.
    No more ripples over there,
    Only lurking dark shadows in it.
    On its shore
    Still stand the trees and daffodils
    The pond is now,
    With a broken moon in it.


  • the_poetic_soul 29w

    This is what I am talking about: the bewitching power of moonlight. Moonlight incites dark passions like a cold flame, making hearts burning with the intensity of phosphorus.
    © the_poetic_soul

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod

    Bg credit- @redolent_smile( ꈍᴗꈍ)

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  • the_poetic_soul 29w


    Unlike the hot brooding months,
    Unlike the long humid days,
    When the gentle half-moons gather under the eyes,
    When the cologne on cotton wool
    smells like lilac of springs,
    When the newly painted churches,
    Under the snow stand blanc,
    With drifting clouds getting fainter,
    As morning mist humidifies the maidens.

    Longing for a sunbeam, that leaves too briefly,
    When the sad priests shiver inside chapels,
    When the funerals, in January, are least sympathetic
    When the trees, plants and flowers,
    All camouflage with the snowdrifted pathway,
    Appearing inanimate, almost invisible,
    To an untrained eye.

    When the quietness in nature arrives,
    In January,
    When rhythms of ancient redolent remnants
    In their dells of memory,
    Sing hails of springs and falls.
    When the soothing smell of old roses on breeze,
    Faints with days in January.
    With banks of rivers getting frozen ,
    The resentful older houses giving up on snow,
    When the greying mornings,
    And white evenings have no sunrise or sunset.

    When, nature has a span short,
    Yet influence vast.
    It's January,
    That timidly pass.

    #Januaryc #aestheticwinter #pod
    @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    //When the quietness in nature arrives,
    In January,
    When rhythms of ancient redolent remnants
    In their dells of memory,
    Sing hails of springs and falls.
    When the soothing smell of old roses on breeze,
    Faints with days in January.//

  • the_poetic_soul 31w

    Love you for this ❤️ @writersnetwork ��


    Following the epicarcacy of hers,
    Envious and furious,
    She always longed for thy life to be seized.
    For a day , or a night at least.

    Poignancy dripping from sé window nigh,
    Ballads and music and Bordeaux et Champagne,
    Long robes of pearls and diamonds on zest,
    Finds híe love to be blessed.

    Sé window other, nigh to hers,
    It's the epitome of grace and esctacy,
    At her on the other, prevails an air shabby
    Devoid of warmth, agony or glee.

    Hers is not the only blank,
    The shimmering stars hide the dearth of solace,
    The other window,it's the plethora of emptiness,
    To the world, it rests in sane.

    How breeze of love paints thy window,
    How dearth of love hollows her eye,
    How the deadly lives appear mellow,
    How soothe lives appear dry....


    MORAL- 'While you wanting someone else's life, someone out there is wishing for yours..'

    @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay #picturec

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    The other window

  • the_poetic_soul 33w

    EDIT 1- First #pod.. just can't believe that���� tysm @mirakee u made my day
    EDIT 2- Just saw it was a Wn repost ���� @writersnetwork love u so much��
    EDIT 3- @redolent_smile Thanks is such a small word to say to u ����


    It was your effervescence,
    That was a suction pull for me,
    That drove me from infinity to you,
    That helped me cross intangibility of nature,
    It was your itch, that kept me on edge,
    Even after dying.

    It was the last walk, Last it is,
    And the stigma of loneliness it drained,
    It was the dream I dreamt for days and nights
    In the obscured death I made.

    Was it spring, or was it a summer?
    I asked often when I passed this lane.
    The dreary desert it became then,
    No songs of cuckoo ,no vendors and hawkers
    But enlivened the dead path your brushing feet,
    The dust, the pebbles and the lonely trees.

    In the deafening silence in the scantness of Sun,
    While the world rest is off to sleep,
    It's the tainted heart I carry with me,
    Till the point I walk to meet,
    The dead leaves and shattered ones,
    Knowing that they would curse me,
    Yet I hope for the soothing voice,
    To spring up and console me.


    @writersbay #picturec

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  • the_poetic_soul 37w

    @writersnetwork :) a read?
    Special thanks to @redolent_smile ( ꈍᴗꈍ) for making me decide the bg

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    Wíñtér Môrñíñgs

    This winter, audacious and indefatigable
    Is a melody of nature on
    the blooming calendula , zinnia and petunia,
    Is the detonation of joyful hues
    Of yellow, blue , white and purple.
    With a cold breeze, with immense warmth
    The wilting roses are enliven ,
    dancing on breeze with mirth.
    It is a cwtch , I feel on warm Sundays,
    Under the shaddy Maples,
    On the tingling green grass.
    It is a quenching tonic, an assuaging
    embrace on nature,
    That departs the wretched autumn.
    It is the deafening silence of lonely nights,
    and shy trees and birds in plight.
    A placating phenomenon for me,
    To adore , tangibles and intangibles,
    To love the abhorring days,
    To paint the gloomy nights,
    To silence the cacophony of cities,
    To rediscover the sparkling life.
    It's a cwtch I feel,.
    On warm Winter Mornings.

    • Madhav...