My Advanced Creative Writing course at British Council is getting more interesting by the day. As are the homework assignments. So I figured what better place to post them and get feedback than my own blog.
In a class where we were discussing poetry, we were asked to close our eyes and imagine that there are no humans in this world and thus, no relationships. Given that situation, what is it that we would live for? What would we find meaning in? Below is my submission for the assignment. Please feel free to critique or comment.
Raison D'etre
In a class where we were discussing poetry, we were asked to close our eyes and imagine that there are no humans in this world and thus, no relationships. Given that situation, what is it that we would live for? What would we find meaning in? Below is my submission for the assignment. Please feel free to critique or comment.
Raison D'etre
Drops of rain caressing my face,
Fresh warm bread that I’d love to taste.
A little pup who keeps me warm,
A cup of tea helps me brave the storm.
Wet sand that slips from beneath my feet,
The rising sun I like to greet.
The sound of birds chirping by,
Hidden beauty in the colours of the sky.
True meaning of life if I ever do seek,
These little pleasures are my reason to be.
8 comments:
beautiful! could totally visualise your thoughts.
has a childlike innocence to it!Refreshing!!
Thanks :-)
Have you thought about it? Without people or relationships, what would you live for?
I dont think tthat anyone really needs other people to form relationships with. Sometimes the hardest and most beautiful one is the one you form with yourself.
And the reason for living is equally defined by your relationship with inanimate objects.
Though i cant imagine a world without people, i can imagine a situation where one's relationships with things are stronger than with other people
The most beautiful and complex relationships one has is with themselves.
And even though I can't imagine a world without other people I can imagine a life where one would form stronger connects with things around them rather than the people.
That said, it is beautiful-what you wrote. very honest, n not pretentious
:-) That's a lovely thought.
Just stumbled across your blog. I don't know if you actually wanted a critique cause the other comments here all seem to be gushing about your poem. Its really very immature. It was an interesting premise you were working in and you could have gone in so many non-linear directions. You need to work a lot on your writing. Want to read a beautiful poem? Read this -
The Thing Is
-by Ellen Bass
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
-----------------------------------
And read this -
Every fourteen days,
a language dies.
Does it count
to fourteen
until it expires,
or do others
do the counting?
Every fourteen days,
a language dies.
No more rocks
for it, no more skies;
no more love in it,
no more time.
The world
becomes unconstricted
from it, untied
from sound.
How many
Adams had to point
to how many things
and say how many
names and smile
at how many aptnesses?
Every fourteen days,
a language dies;
can one imagine
the night
before it does?
To say:
“This is the last tear,
this is the last sigh, this,
the last of the last.”
Every fourteen days,
a language dies.
This, even a Scheherazade
cannot stop.
Thanks for taking the time and especially for the poems. I agree this poem of mine is more childish than others. We were asked to write one no the spot in class and it really is what flowed from my mind. Having said that, would love to work further on my poetry which I feel is lesser evolved than my prose.
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