Poems & Short Stories

  Maya gave an involuntary shake as that memory flashed in front of her. She remembered every small detail of that everyday ritual. How could she not! She used to get restless to see Satish and desperately wait for those magnolias he gave her. Jaya always envied her and she went all green-eyed looking at those magnolias in her hair. That was so childish of them, she thought. Nevertheless the memory gave a reason to put a smile on her face. That face which lost the path of smiles and embraced a perennial frown. With the letter on one hand, she got up to examine those magnolias that they planted it together. They were given by Satish’s aunt on his birthday and what did he do with that. He urged Maya to take it with her and when she gently rebuked him for giving his own birthday gift, he came along with her post school hours and planted it on his own. Robbed off all plausible excuses, she had to submit to him and his childlike requests. The bright little magnolias winked at her, swayi

  Once upon a time a frog Croaked away in Bingle Bog Every night from dusk to dawn He croaked awn and awn and awn Other creatures loathed his voice, But, alas, they had no choice, And the crass cacophony Blared out from the sumac tree At whose foot the frog each night Minstrelled on till morning night Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks. Insults or complaints or bricks Stilled the frogs determination To display his heart's elation. But one night a nightingale In the moonlight cold and pale Perched upon the sumac tree Casting forth her melody Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog And the whole admiring bog Stared towards the sumac, rapt, And, when she had ended, clapped, Ducks had swum and herons waded To her as she serenaded And a solitary loon Wept, beneath the summer moon. Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured By her voice, cheered on, enraptured: "Bravo! " "Too divine! " "Encore! " So the nightingale once more, Quite unus

  William Blake brought in usual naturalness (which was also one of the themes of that era) in this poem. A boy dons the hat of first-person and exhibits his boredom in the structured format of schooling. He prefers to explore in the wilderness, with the fragrance of the blooms, and with the chirping raga of feathered creatures or in the mountain wastelands.   He finds joy and comfort in the routine undertakings of the morning when he says in the first stanza   “I love to rise in the summer morning, the distant huntsman winding the horn and the skylark sings with me”.   The second stanza drives the joy away from the boy’s mood when he thinks about how he, along with his mates, will be forced to be observed under the cruel eye (which can mean a teacher in this parlance). And he doesn’t want that to happen. The boy stresses on the problems of formal learning and thinks that there is nothing that he cannot learn in the natural world. Schooling stifles innate imagination and joy of l

  I recently heard someone tell that people should not be told what to read. They should not be looked down upon if they pick up anything which falls under run of the mill genre or anything which doesn’t fall under the roof of classic or profound reads.   After all, it is just a hobby which is carried out for FUN. This is true because we do have a choice in holding a book. We do have a choice to read what we like. Like we have a choice in music, television shows and food we eat. Moreover, there are so many genres and sub-genres to choose from the vast expanse of bound volumes. I have myself encountered many people who try to impose their liking or choice in others’ lives. They extend this quality of theirs in the arena of books too. They will not waste any opportunity that comes their way to throw their unsolicited advice. Be it what to wear, what music to listen, or what books should one read. They have their own regimented method or rules and they want everyone to follow the same

  Children, you are very little, And your bones are very brittle; If you would grow great and stately, You must try to walk sedately. You must still be bright and quiet, And content with simple diet; And remain, through all bewild’ring, Innocent and honest children. Happy hearts and happy faces, Happy play in grassy places– That was how in ancient ages, Children grew to kings and sages. But the unkind and the unruly, And the sort who eat unduly, They must never hope for glory– Theirs is quite a different story! Cruel children, crying babies, All grow up as geese and gabies, Hated, as their age increases, By their nephews and their nieces. The poet is giving a firm instruction to all children. He tells them to cultivate good habits. He adds that they should walk sedately which means slowly in order to reach the heights of greatness. A simple diet works great to be happy and content. Happy faces and happy hearts do make one grow into a kingly state. Not only that

  After eight years of marriage The first time I visited my parents, They asked, “Are you happy, tell us”. It was an absurd question And I should have laughed at it Instead, I cried, And in between sobs, nodded yes. I wanted to tell them That I was happy on Tuesday I was unhappy on Wednesday. I was happy one day at 8 o'clock I was most unhappy by 8.15. I wanted to tell them how one day We all ate a watermelon and laughed. I wanted to tell them how I wept in bed all night once And struggled hard from hurting myself. That it wasn't easy to be happy in a family of twelve, But they were looking at my two sons, Hopping around like young goats. Their wrinkled hands, beaten faces and grey eyelashes Were all too much too real. SO I swallowed everything, And smiled a smile of great content.   Confessional poems are straight from the heart and talks mainly about the issues that encircles the poet’s life or state of mind. Here the poet wilfu

Richard Cory - Title We all have been the victims of our own judgements. We wear the green glasses when we peep into other’s fence leading us to dwell on the famous cliché ‘The grass is greener on the other side of the fence’. We think that the life others are leading is supreme, highly ordered, impeccably designed and to make it worse, we glorify the negatives of our own life. The word ‘Compare’ takes birth along with us. We compare our lives with others. Juxtaposing our life and other’s life, we tend to magnify our negatives. What we don’t have is always glorified, while we underline the positives of others. The grass of my neighbour is always a shade greener than our grass. And we wrap our heads in distress. We suffer. In other words, our judgement makes us suf fer. This poem, adequately rhymed and metered, is all about our judgement. The fallacy of our judgement. The poet includes himself when he states “We people” in the second line. Why? May be because he thinks that he too has j