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Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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literature

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – We need to be bothered

Favim 2226261

There is, I assume most of you would agree, a long list of reasons why physical copies of books are better than their eBook counterparts. However, not everyone can bare the temptation for too long. A peak at a sentence that reads, IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN, could lead you to the very last page. And that’s what happened. I read Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 online.

This classic dystopia will take you to a time when books are banned and burned. In Guy Montag’s world, lives are dominated by televisions and literature is on the brink of extinction. Books and freethinkers are burned without a second thought. The storyline is good enough that it could stir the minds of many, but perhaps I was looking for more. More hard-hitting satire, more stimulation. Maybe a stronger revolt.

Nonetheless, it’s still a commendable piece of writing. This quote, for one, is very timely.

“We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?”

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

With all the happenings in different corners of the world — be it political, moral or environmental concerns — we really need to be bothered.

When the Night Warrants Death

I have just spent a night among the trees, out in the cradle of the mountains. I thought I’d carry the memories of that fun night a little longer. I thought I could look at the moon with a smile. But not tonight.

Tonight, anger simmers in me at a constant roil. I want to wail and rail against the world. This heart feels as if it might break through my ribcage from an intense revolt. For the first time, I hated the night. Not because of an American post-apocalyptic horror film but because of something vile and real. They come in uniform with their hands of steel. Filling the night with a staccato of gunfire, leaving men half blown off, fatal wounds in the head or face. I hated the night for they come in it. And they warrant death.

This quiet is piercing. The night is orphaned from the sound of crickets. I wonder if they knew. I wonder if they are mourning too. I wonder if the crickets offer this brief silence to the stolen lives of the dead just as I do.

The night cries justice
A long pause from the crickets—
Can somebody hear?
MS


In response to dVerse’s Haibun Monday: The Sounds of Koorogi hosted by Victoria C. Slotto. This piece might be a bit digressing from the topic but I hope it counts.

Currently, my mind is in rigor from reading about the death of seven men from Antique. They were rebels, members of our local red fighters. The AFP came in the middle of the night to serve “arrest” warrant to two men but it ended with death instead. What really happened, only the crickets know. This shouldn’t be a shock, they say, for the body bags have been pilling up. But it still makes me sad and mad. Especially when I found that one of them goes by the pen name of Maya Daniel. I came across this poet last 2017. He writes poignant and painful poems, each is a cry for freedom, liberation and resistance from oppression. His death marks another voice silenced, another pen deprived of ink.

Head over here to join the fun!

dverse

Tired Souls Wait On Riverbanks

river

Tired Souls Wait On Riverbanks

Tired souls wait on riverbanks
Tired souls wait for a welcoming heart
Lost in a kudoclasm of what lies ahead—
A knot of fear in stomachs tighten.

Will there be sparrows singing songs of hope,
Or an ominous hymn from a murder of crows?
Will there be walls and deadbolts on homes?
As they somaticize grief—naked and cold.

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Painting by Ally Saunder


In response to dVerse’s Tuesday Poetics: Ally  Saunders – A Closer Look hosted by the lovely Mish and MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Wordle #140 by Yves

I still can’t get the world’s distressing news out of my mind. The second I saw this particular painting, my heart immediately went out for the victims of war and the poor refugees. 😦  So here’s a little follow up to my previous post, Have we had enough? *Sigh*

Head over here to join the fun:

dverse

The Prisoner of Chillon

Daniels, William, 1813-1880; The Prisoner of Chillon

The Prisoner of Chillon
By LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

   My hair is grey, but not with years,
          Nor grew it white
          In a single night,
As men’s have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,
       But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,
       And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann’d, and barr’d—forbidden fare;
But this was for my father’s faith
I suffer’d chains and courted death;
That father perish’d at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling place;
We were seven—who now are one,
       Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish’d as they had begun,
       Proud of Persecution’s rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal’d,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;—
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last. Continue reading “The Prisoner of Chillon”

Carried Away

Inspiration Call - Creative Talents Unleashed 4

She used to be a summer raindrop pierced by sunbeam
A moist breath wringing the willow reeds
A pattering beat to the calm and silent
A tinkling harp of droplets to the meads Continue reading “Carried Away”

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