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How-tos for all things poetry; learn how to analyze a poem, construct a haiko, differentiate between a metaphor and simile and more.
The Art of Self-Soothing: Navigating the Waves of Life
At any time, learn to calm yourself down. No need to tell others how sad or kind you are. I am so tired, I have to smile when I am in a bad mood. My weariness isn't just from being busy; it's from the constant emotional labor.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing2 years ago in Poets
Love on the Pages of Letters
The name of the village is *Shayabari*. A small river flows by the side of Shayabari village. Riyad loves to sit by the riverbank. Riyad is now 22 years old. He is a college student. His dreams are big. He wants to become a writer when he grows up. But the biggest dream of his life is his love, that girl by the riverbank—Sumaiya. Sumaiya is a girl from the same village. Her father is a schoolteacher. Sumaiya is very quiet and sweet-natured. There is always a dream floating in her eyes. She doesn’t go to college like Riyad, but she loves reading books. She adores Riyad’s poems and stories. Whenever Riyad writes something, Sumaiya is the first reader. One evening, Riyad was sitting by the riverbank, writing a poem. Sumaiya came and sat beside him. Riyad said, "I wrote this poem for you." Sumaiya smiled, "For me? What did you write? Tell me." Riyad read the poem aloud. The words of the poem were about Sumaiya’s eyes, her smile, and her dreams. Sumaiya listened quietly. Tears welled up in her eyes. She said, "Riyad, you write so beautifully! Do you know how many times I’ve cried reading your writings?" Riyad smiled, "If you cry, my writing becomes meaningful." From that day on, an unspoken bond formed between them. They would sit by the riverbank, talk, and share their dreams. Sumaiya was always present in Riyad’s writings. Sumaiya could understand Riyad’s feelings through his words. But the villagers couldn’t accept their bond. They started saying, "It’s not right for them to sit together like this." Sumaiya’s father also found out. He called Sumaiya and said, "You will no longer meet Riyad. This is not acceptable in our society." Sumaiya cried and said, "Father, Riyad is a very good person. He is my friend." But her father didn’t listen. He confined Sumaiya to their home. Riyad and Sumaiya could no longer meet. Riyad was heartbroken. He started writing letters to Sumaiya. He would leave the letters in the crevice of a tree near Sumaiya’s house. Sumaiya would secretly read them. In the letters, Riyad wrote, "Sumaiya, you are my dream. Without you, my writing has no meaning." One day, Riyad wrote in a letter, "Sumaiya, I love you. Do you love me?" Sumaiya read the letter and cried. She wrote back, "Riyad, I love you too. But will our love ever come true?" Riyad replied, "It will, Sumaiya. I will wait for you." Days passed, months passed. Riyad and Sumaiya didn’t meet, but their exchange of letters continued. Their love blossomed on the pages of those letters. Sumaiya lived in Riyad’s writings, and Riyad lived in Sumaiya’s letters. One day, Sumaiya’s father arranged her marriage. Sumaiya wrote to Riyad, "Riyad, my marriage has been fixed. What should I do?" Riyad broke down after reading the letter. He wrote back, "Sumaiya, if you love me, we must run away." Sumaiya thought long and hard. Finally, she agreed. One night, they ran away together. The villagers searched for them, but no one could find out where Riyad and Sumaiya had gone. Riyad and Sumaiya settled in a new place. Riyad continued his writing, and Sumaiya stood by his side, supporting him. Their love grew deeper with each passing day. One day, Riyad said to Sumaiya, "Sumaiya, you are my life. Without you, I am nothing." Sumaiya smiled, "Riyad, you are my dream. Your love is my greatest treasure." Their love had begun on the pages of letters, but now it had become a reality. They laughed, cried, and dreamed together. Their love knew no boundaries. It no longer lived just on the pages of letters—it lived in their hearts.
By Hasibul Kabir2 years ago in Poets
The Passenger of Darkness
The old train station stood at the edge of the city, shrouded in an unsettling silence. Locals called it the "Black Station," a name that carried whispers of dread and mystery. Its crumbling red brick walls were veined with ivy, and the shattered windows seemed to stare like hollow eyes into the void. The platform was littered with broken benches, and the air was thick with the scent of rust and decay. At the center of it all stood an ancient clock, its hands frozen at 3:17—a time no one could explain. The station had been abandoned for decades, but the stories surrounding it were very much alive. People claimed to hear faint whispers, the distant clatter of wheels, and even ghostly wails echoing through the night. Some said a train had vanished here long ago, taking its passengers into the unknown. Rahul, a passionate photographer, had always been drawn to the macabre beauty of abandoned places. When he heard about the Black Station, he knew he had to see it for himself. On a cold winter night, under the pale glow of a crescent moon, he arrived at the station. The air was unnaturally still, and the crunch of dry leaves beneath his boots seemed unnaturally loud. He adjusted his camera and began exploring, capturing the haunting details of the decaying structure. As he walked along the platform, a faint sound reached his ears—a low, rhythmic chugging, like the distant hum of a train engine. Rahul froze. That was impossible. The station had been deserted for years. He strained his ears, and the sound grew louder, closer. His heart pounded as he followed the noise to the far end of the platform. There, shrouded in a thin veil of mist, stood an old train. Its black carriages gleamed faintly under the moonlight, and the doors hung open, inviting him inside. Rahul hesitated. The train looked ancient, yet it seemed to hum with a strange, otherworldly energy. Against his better judgment, he stepped inside the first carriage. The interior was pristine, as if it had been untouched by time. The seats were upholstered in deep red velvet, and the windows sparkled as though freshly polished. But something felt off. The air was colder inside, and a faint, metallic smell lingered. As he moved deeper into the train, he noticed a figure sitting in one of the seats. It was a man dressed in a faded, old-fashioned suit, his face pale and gaunt. The man turned to Rahul and smiled—a smile that didn’t reach his hollow eyes. "Are you boarding this train?" he asked, his voice echoing unnaturally. Rahul’s instincts screamed at him to leave, but curiosity held him in place. "Where does this train go?" he asked. The man’s smile widened. "To a place beyond time. But be warned—once you board, you can never leave." Before Rahul could respond, the train lurched forward. He stumbled, grabbing onto a seat for support. The doors slammed shut, and the lights flickered before going out completely. Panic surged through him as he rushed to the nearest window. Outside, the platform was receding into the distance, swallowed by the darkness. The train was moving, but there were no tracks beneath it—only an endless void. The other passengers began to appear. They were shadowy figures, their faces blurred and indistinct. Some sat silently, staring ahead with empty eyes, while others whispered in a language Rahul couldn’t understand. The air grew colder, and the metallic smell intensified. He realized with growing horror that the train wasn’t just carrying passengers—it was feeding on them. Their presence seemed to sustain it, binding them to its endless journey. Rahul tried to find a way out, but every door was sealed shut. The windows refused to break, no matter how hard he struck them. Desperation set in as he realized the truth: he was trapped. The train had claimed him, just as it had claimed the others. When morning came, the locals found Rahul’s camera lying on the platform, its lens cracked and its memory card wiped clean. There was no sign of Rahul, but the stories about the Black Station grew darker. Some claimed to see a faint light moving through the forest at night, accompanied by the distant sound of a train whistle. Others swore they saw Rahul’s face in the windows of the old station, his expression frozen in terror. The Black Station remained abandoned, a place where the living dared not tread. And somewhere in the endless void, the ghost train continued its journey, collecting passengers who would never return. --
By Hasibul Kabir2 years ago in Poets
The Test of True Love
If you want to know whether you truly love someone, imagine them old and bedridden. Would you be willing to care for them? If the thought of their aged and ailing self depresses you, then they may not be the person you're meant to spend your life with.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing2 years ago in Poets
