Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Sharing this one from Rabindranath Tagore who was born 160 years ago. This piece is not just a poem, it is a prayer that still speaks true to this day.
It took me sleepless nights and a slit wrist to unlove you. My eyes, once insignias of misery, now glow beneath the cloudless sky. I no longer freeze on a Bublé song. No longer break on the streets where you used to hold my hands. The forget-me-nots have died under my pillow. And on moonlit nights, I dance.
It took me sleepless nights and a slit wrist to love myself.
Now, I wear a tint of blood on my lips To remind you of what you left And will never ever get.
Honey, let me tell you what your eyes refuse to see
When I smile at the man who dares touch my skin, All my insides turn upside down My ribcage strain to hold out anger My chest is empty of breaths and full of violence A curse has latched itself into my bones ─ It peels. It burns.
Beyond my Cheshire smile is a war Between words I want to say and the world that won’t let me My heathen tongue is shut by the thing that you call “joke” So I bite down a wrathful scream Swallow a coil of sorrow, Bury it deep in a mass grave of apologies
For being a woman who can’t fight.
Honey, you see ─ or perhaps you don’t There is no safe place my kind Against the devil and you, the accessory to the crime Who thinks a touch, A tap, A graze, A pinch Is just being “playful”
I am not a toy.
I am bones and flesh held hostage By prejudice and wealthy monsters Who use my lack for their gain ─ Leave your pretense on my doorstep For I have long died My smile ─ no, my mouth Is now an open wound for the flies
Open your eyes.
I know that I said I won’t let current news and affairs affect me. That I would take care of my mental health first. But there are just those days when people’s stupidity triggers the anger in you. This is one of those moments.
This moment I have set myself to copy some verses out fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of content. I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time. Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else — The time is passed when I had power to advise and warn you against the unpromising morning of my Life — My love has made me selfish. I cannot exist without you — I am forgetful of every thing but seeing you again — my Life seems to stop there — I see no further. You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving—I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love — Your note came in just here — I cannot be happier away from you — ’T is richer than an Argosy of Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion — I have shudder’d at it — I shudder no more. I could be martyr’d for my Religion — Love is my religion — I could die for that — I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet — You have ravish’d me away by a Power I cannot resist; and yet I could resist till I saw you; and even since I have seen you I have endeavoured often “to reason against the reasons of my Love.” I can do that no more — the pain would be too great — My Love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
Yours for ever,
One of my favorite poets and letter senders, John Keats, died on this day exactly 200 years ago. Sharing this extract from one of his sweetest and poignant letters to Fanny Browne, his betrothed.
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?
Yesterday, one of literature’s most iconic figures celebrated his birthday. Edgar Allan Poe is an American writer whose written works are known for its unique style. His short stories and poems are often characterized as dark and mysterious and at times macabre.
This particular piece is one of my favorites of his. It leads one to ponder the thin line between a dream and reality. How do you separate what is real from an illusion? Where would life falls under?
Change my mind Melt the strand Of icicle that pierced This chest
Let me believe In magic, Mermaids And fairytales
And if, in case, you can’t hand a happy ever after—
I’ll have happy Let me have happy instead. I’ll take it any time, Any day.
Facebook memories reminded me that I wrote this piece three years ago on this day. A lot of things have happened since then, but one thing remains: I’d still choose that happy any day. Sending virtual hugs to those who need it. 😊💛
The excitement of being lost wears off rather quickly(p.21). As bad luck would have it(p.31), the fantasy was primarily an adventure story(p.33). As I grew older(p.35), I spent half my waking moments repairing(p.50), retaining some degree of dignity(p.65) over the years(p.66). I cannot tell you how long the ensuing battle lasted(p.81) — years(p.104), a few days(p.102), an hour or so(p.114). Why is it so difficult(p.175) to perfect the art of whining(p.186)?
Weekend cleanup led me to discover this piece written on an index card. I cannot remember what particular book I was reading or when did I jot these lines down. I’m curious to know though what’s on my mind that day… What struck a chord in me? Was it the thought of losing our childishness and childish spirit? Was I missing the outdoors? What was I trying to whine? Is this piece even finished?