art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Life
BRINGING LIGHT BACK TO LIFE Into dying arms of fate my mien was staged stillborn As topsy-turvy over twisted brows, inlaid upon those majestic crowns O! Such stuff hung up in air, quite contrary on its own Into airings put forth as untenable breaches;Unto risings ineffable so tempestuously grown O! Look! To that, A subdued pang, a dead beat to an impulse, still lingers on,And ,as of , in cut-throat melancholy, none the worse, for that : I was bornYet seeding beneath those constant twists a humble hope hankered on For though, as in the broken, A wreathing arrow affronts its harrows, And so frighteningly— comes up forging on Therein, my feebler spirit lifts off it’s own wings, gathering hope to carry on Thusly, as the raging yonder eclipses it’s own virtues to a world so scurrilously spunTo that, my heart, from dead beat to cold fleets, seeks it’s own contents’ calm And thereof, thinking, when I shut it all up, the hearth shall finally feel —that —fealty warmth?!Then the rendering speech lights up the day, as though, a new morn has gotten freshly born And, as if, showing up in words, as it duly does, penning in all other paradoxical forms But, even though to some, all this may seem like a passing flauntHereby, I do dare to bear what others have blundered uponUnsayable, as it is, in this diverse world of unequals , the secular in me just carries on. Yet thereupon, for this silence to play it’s dirge, over and above, those dying groans… To that, I move on ….And to that roar as in a vowed voice doubling along ‘Tis Quite right, when you say: I was transformed...Yes, Into another —into which, my essence was taken; And like a presence in transitions, I was left to bygones !But that was, when I was young, with innocence lain upon coffins for others to mock on ! Crucially so, many rough rufflers were then called upon , And they—with their two fold follies, dug up graves, into which I was casually thrownNot so much as in reality, my essence in presence, with no traces of the formerly —seemed totally all gone Yes, life with its ups and downs, did surprise me with its own divulging turns Tacitly tearing an image—so commonly found…O! Look ..LIFE …in mild sleeps still echoed along Then, time as swift as six scores to sevens also buddied along For if in living there were adversaries, then in giving, every faulted destiny chased me around ….And on and on and on to stand, came treaties to make their tireless runs Onwards they moved with mirths growing, growling to take on their final groundThereof it all appeared, stamped and sealed —as if ‘twas “already normed.” To that , While abhorring the senselessness hopscotching my soul, everything seemed —as though —some evildoer had spun that pun all around So much so —unforeseen, and with all the extended envies, there came many discomforting turns And for every renewing day under the sun, and until it was all —finally—said and done —Perhaps there, my WILL, the bread n butter of my sustenance ,kick- balled me to another spun —supposedly —a powerful tireless run! Seemingly determined, reviling me into quite another, but in actuality, I was literally overturned Certainly, That WILL —which tried well to distill my deaths’ mocking returns, and much like life ‘outliving itself , I h’d found myself—lost and seemingly found … Yeah! But journey continued on …That in which we expect one thing, altogether another gets pushed aroundSo Why ?! So why redeeming us so, O! Lord, such a WISE rushes on? Of what worth is this barter when heaven’s glory—Pays a heavy price to every Ounce Is this life ? Yes, it’s this —sweet life with it’s renewed intensity, just renews itself back for a chance..as if to bounce back with an expectant glance Yet again … life …it keeps on going …Scattered unsheathed to every service of the heart, and to every mind toiling hard and in recurring resets THAT time remains in time, as though, totally rewound…Time unbound ?! Further on …then a light emerges piercing shadows to be found; quickly risen to ascend and dance, Out of nowhere yet very much —there as if fully tranced...In its sheer evanescence, it gets up, dresses up, for yet another —naked truth to be reborn Yes , erasing this existence which makes it’s false claims, and thereupon, A new I or with renewed eyesI shall be newly BORN ....Plucked from a consequence as I walk through those eternal paths, quite unbound Yes, failing to fetch me at first ,my maker, keeps me , thusly, spellbound! Yet this journey which invariably accompanies me from birth to death and also rebirth, affirms to say this — Come, slide pass on and go on until all stages are over and your pithy work is all done —until then, carry on! © ✍️ Madhu Goteti March 27th , 2025
By Madhu Goteti about a year ago in Poets
He Didn’t Know I Saw It — But Girls Notice These 7 Awkward Things (And We Actually Care)
Not the kind we write down (well… some of us might), but the mental list we all keep. It’s the “tiny things we notice about you” list. The things most guys think go under the radar? We see them. All of them. Some make us melt. Some make us laugh. Some make us send a screenshot to the group chat with “??? explain this” typed in panic. And yes — some are awkward. But awkward doesn’t mean bad. It just means human. So here are 7 awkward things girls definitely notice about guys… and what they might mean to us. 1. The “Trying Not to Look” Look You know that moment when you think we’re not watching — but you glance our way for 0.2 seconds too long? Yeah. We see that. We’re not mad about it. But the pretend-innocent face you make after? Iconic. You’re not slick, but it’s adorable. 2. The Weird Way You Text Some of you text like you’re being charged by the word. Others? Like you’re auditioning for a role in Shakespeare. We notice. We send screenshots. We ask our friends what “lol. yeah” really means when it comes 2 hours after “wyd?” Awkward? Maybe. But sometimes, the mystery is the fun. 3. That One Piece of Clothing You Love a Bit Too Much There’s always one hoodie. Or cap. Or those beat-up sneakers from 2012. You think it’s your “signature.” We think it’s a test of our patience. (But secretly, we’d miss it if you stopped wearing it.) 4. Your Haircut Timing Boys, why do you always get a haircut right after we say we like your hair long? It’s suspicious. We notice the fade. We notice the phase where it’s “growing back.” We say nothing — but we’re tracking every inch. 5. That Moment You Get Nervous (And Pretend You’re Not) Whether it’s fumbling for your wallet or acting overly confident when introducing us to your friends — the nervous energy? It radiates. We pick up on it. Sometimes it makes us nervous too. But more often, it makes us smile. Because it means you care. 6. How You Treat the Waiter Trust me. This matters. If you’re rude to the waiter, that mental list we were talking about? Yeah, it suddenly has a bold red X on it. Awkwardness is forgivable. Entitlement? Not so much. 7. Your Bathroom Mirror Selfies Yes. We found your old ones. No, we’re not judging. (Okay, maybe a little.) But there’s something oddly endearing about the awkward “gym pump” photo or the blurry mirror pic from 2018. It’s cringe — but it’s also real. And we love real. So… why do we notice all this? Because we’re paying attention. Because when we like someone, the awkward things become the beautiful things. The flaws become fingerprints. The weird becomes wonderful. You’re not supposed to be perfect. You’re supposed to be you. So next time you wonder if she saw you trip over that chair, or say “you too” when the waiter said “enjoy your meal”? Yes. She saw it. And she smiled anyway. Because if she’s noticing the awkward things… there’s a good chance she’s noticing you. ''If you find my story even a little helpful or enjoyable.Please don't forget to like and comment. Your support will inspire me to keep writing more." Thank you dear.
By Olivia Chastityabout a year ago in Poets
When the Mind Awakens. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Free Verse Poem: Phanes touched my brow— Not with fire, but with silence. And in that quiet, A universe stirred behind my eyes. I was not born, I was revealed. Pressed from formlessness Into shape and story. My self— A fragile architecture Of thoughts, feelings, echoes. Compressed. Expanded. A breath held between the stars. Literature found me there. Not as a scholar, But as a sculptor. Each word a chisel, Each sentence a strike Against the stone of numbness. We are born Encased in the sediment Of assumption. Layers of what we are told. What we repeat. What we forget to question. But inside, We carry gems. Geodes of knowing, Invisible from the surface— Beautiful within. Crack us open And see what glitters. Defamiliarization— The estrangement of the obvious. We write not to teach, But to remember. To disrupt. To unsee, so we may see again. A poem is a pickaxe. A story, a blade. Criticism, a lens. Each is used To reach that glowing core— The human truth Wrapped in metaphor. We write to ask, Who are we, When no one is watching? What lingers In the cave of thought, Clinging to the damp walls Like ancient stalagmites
By Saqib Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
