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Wednesday, May 27, 2015

My day- In a special way

Do you ever allow yourself to just sit and ponder? It's a trick that really just helps me focus, and realize things that I would usually think of as unimportant. At my school, we follow the I.B. Program[ International Baccalaureate]. We also have an International Global Citizen's Award, the headquarters of which is in Geneva.
 This I.G.C.A. Program allows us to become better global citizens by asking us to reflect on the events that we feel have made us better people. We also have to do a community and service[ C&S] project for a minimum of 8 hours[ Bronze Award]. Our improvement throughout the year is observed, and depending on how sincere we are, we either receive or don't receive the award. This award program has got me into the habit of reflecting often, even if it isn't always for the award. This is a poem I wrote about pondering and reflecting.

I've been waiting,
waiting for the end of the day,
So I can sit back and relax,
And think about my ways

I'll think about how I became taller,
I'll think about how I became shorter,
I'll think about my day,
In my own very special way

I'll think about how I feel,
About what I did,
I'll think about my day,
In my own very special way

And most importantly,
I'll think about myself,
I'll think about my day,
In my own very special way.

- Poetic Fanatic

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Blooming Tea

Have you ever heard of blooming tea? I hadn't. At least, not until today. I went to someone's house today, and after brunch, they served some tea. But the tea wasn't just any tea. It wasn't made out of tea bags, or even tea leaves. It was made out of a blooming flower,

Saturday, May 23, 2015

The poetry concealed in books

Reading is one of my hobbies[ as you may already know from my last post]. Personally, my favourite types of books are those that are brimming with visual imagery, and that allow our minds to imagine. I've read Anne Of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery-but in as an eight year old. I've been rediscovering this book of late, and have been reading a less abridged version of the book. This book is filled with imagery, and the way that L.M. Montgomery has captured the world around, and put it into writing, is absolutely amazing. In fact, it leads me to believe, that good authors find themselves unconsciously concealing poetry in books.

Here is an extract from the book:
"It was a little,narrow, twisting path, winding down over a long hill, straight through Mr. Bell's woods, where the light came down sifted through so many emerald screens that it was as flawless as the heart of a diamond. It was fringed in all its length with slim young birches, white stemmed and lissom boughed ; ferns and starflowers and wild lillies of the valley and scarlet tufts of pigeon berries grew thickly along it; and always there was a delightful spiciness in the air and music of bird calls and murmur and laugh of wood winds in the trees over head".

Isn't it beautiful? This book has so many descriptions like this, since Anne loves expressing what she imagines. The extract above is not a part of Anne's vivid imaginations, rather it is a description of her beloved "Birch Path". But, if you change a few words here and there, and the order in which things are placed, this paragraph could so easily change into a poem. Maybe it could go something like this:

The Birch Path
It was a little,narrow,
twisting path,
winding down a long hill,
and straight through Mr. Bell's woods.

the light came down,
sifted through so many emerald screens,
that it was as flawless as a diamond's heart

It was fringed,
in all its length,
with slim young birches,
white stemmed,
and lissom boughed

Ferns and starflowers,
and wild lilles of the valley
and scarlet tufts of pigeon berries,
grew thickly along it

There was always ,
a delightful spiciness in the air,
and the music of bird calls
and murmur and laughs,
of the woodwinds of the trees overhead.

This beautiful,
narrow twisting path,
was Avonlea's very own,
Birch Path

I certainly think that this description fits as a poem and prose. I may have not organized the words exactly how you picture it, but I think that all the descriptions in this book conceal poetry.

If reading is one of your hobbies as well, check out this post I did about book blogs:
Just a great blog...

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Just a great blog....

Hi! This post isn't about any poem, or poet or anything like that. I love reading. In fact, it's one of my hobbies. For the past few months, I've been following this blog called "Book by Book".Sue[ the author] does book reviews, updates on the reading challenges she's doing, and once a week tells her readers what she and her family have been reading. A freelance writer, she also has a blog "Great books for kids and teens", which I visit often as well, but she mostly writes on" Book By Book".
 Her reviews reveal just enough to get you excited, without spoiling the book for you. I absolutely love her style of writing! She also is a freelance writer, and writes for some magazines and other websites. She has another blog on living with a chronic illness called " Learning to live with ME/CFS"

Book By Book:
Great Books For Kids And Teens:
Learning to live with ME/CFS :
- Poetic Fanatic 

Friday, May 15, 2015

Do you ever feel.....

This poem is just one of those poems that springs to your mind. It's not based on any particular object, it holds no metaphoric value. It's just a surface level poem. Hope you like it!

Do you ever feel?
 Happy, joyous, jovial? 
Or do you feel sad, desolate, melancholy?

Do you ever think,
that you've forgotten how to feel
Because you simply don't know what to feel,
when others randomly spiel?

Do you ever believe,
That no one knows how to think?
Because someone makes a mistake,
Every time you blink

Do you ever forget,
that you really should believe?
Because someone will help you,
If only you think, believe and feel.

If you'd like to read more of my poems, check out my label:
- Poetic Fanatic

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

I cannot remember my mother by Rabindranath Tagore

 The poem has been titled " I cannot remember my mother". It attracted me for some reason, for I thought that surely, a poem couldn't be completely empty. There had to be some form of nostalgia, or memory in a poem about no remembrance.  I realized after reading it, that I was right. In fact, the poem's title can be considered an oxymoron. However, the extent to which this poem is nostalgic, the amount of tiny details in this poem, wow. But I don't suppose Tagore was a Literature Nobel Laureate for nothing.
This poem has sensitized its audience to the poet's colossal loss, though the poet ,it seems,has made no effort to do so. There is nothing superfluous about his writing, and the poem seems like a true expression of his love for his mother. It talks about how his mother managed to leave her presence on everything before she passed away, and how those little memories of his,form an incomplete memory of his mother.

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