Grecian Urn

  Sartre's Idea of Freedom in What is Literature: A Guide For Literary Mind For a literature student, the matter of having a good literary sense is all about reading, writing, speaking and studying fresh content. It is a matter of consciousness that would make one be the voice in the society so as to speak up in any situation about relevant topics. After all, today's world is all about being steady in Juvenile's term- " mens sana in corpore sano" which means a healthy mind in a healthy body. And for a sound mind, l always prefer to seek out a philosopher's guide for a better understanding of life and the literary essence associated with it. And very recently, l was reading a very important work of an influential philosopher whose essential works on political philosophy and phenomenology inspired the whole world to respect him as the key figures of existentialism and phenomenology. He is Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre, a French philosopher whose idea abou...

 The Nights ( In frame: Starry Nights by Van Gough ; 1889) Appreciate the nights As death approaches And peacefully pacifies  The billionaire’s un-ending cry For more. The man who just wants More of a body, more of bodice And more bodies And the men shamelessly Cry : 'a pervert'! Gets a comfortable sleep Into the bosom of his cocotte— A keeper, thirsty of love, Hopefully dies with  Twinkles in her eyes Love shall come—be patient. The night is dark The sky jaded with diamonds Hides the vulgar And leaves to observe What is meant to see’!   2nd Dec, Kol, 1:32 am  Starry Nights In strings Listen here— https://youtu.be/PQa-L7BMFI8

Try                         Do you know                         Who am I?                         I am a poem unfinished---                         I am a lake atop a volcano,                         Silent and quite.                         Do you know   ...

        In Memorium I blame you Because you came to the end of the road Without me And declared yourself free I blame you  Because you made me  So very lonely. They say I talk too much Can I say them it’s ‘cause of you? All my childhood afternoons That I roamed alone and alone Where, where were you? I blame you  Because you made me  So very lonely. I claim to know what crossed your mind That you whispered to me an untimely good-bye Unspoken words you’ve left behind Undone things we’ll never get to do No sharing thoughts you never knew. Trust me I am angry with you. A peace has fallen upon your head A taste of sorrow we have been fed It really is like a hole in our lives One swiftly dug but carved out by knives. Dedicated to my brother, whom I never have met. He just lives a bit too far from me. It is a beautiful place. There are startling stars and magical galaxies, where his abode now is. I know Bhaiya flies there in joy, twirls and takes occasio...

Hunger Is My Religion— An open letter that matters...                                                                                                                                                                              To Dear Shreemoyi,                         ...

Is There No One? In frame: Solitude by Daler Usmonov ( 2015) Is there no one whose lookin' for a friend? Is there no one, seeking a hand? Is there no one whose lookin' for a lover ? Is there no one, seeking a heart? Is there no one whose looking for me? Is there no one, for me? Walking down the street, I see faces-- Looking down and seeing a thing. They, all are alike,with neat collars, ironed and tight. Yet  so cold, that I couldn't believe They are keeping alive. They don't look at each other, They don't say me a 'hi'-- Alone...alone ...all alone I weep at the corner, meanwhile! Is there no one who will once look up? Is there no one who'll once see me? Is there no one who will end my wait? Because, dear, with you I want to be 'we'! I promise you, to build a home at the hills, And at the brook we'll let go one paperboat. We will drink water and walk slow-- But darling, tell me first, where to find you? I promise to reach you my w...

    No poet am I No poet am I. Plagued by the Weight of words, Words unrhymed, Only multiplies each day  In volume and size -- I come to terms:  No poet am I. In the beaker of my heart Looms, a forest of words. Words sprout there, From the kernel of memory. Evergreen, a colonnade of Birch. They never fade, Like a cuckoo's untimely song,  Day end's clarion call.  I cry, the sunlight breaks  In the corner of my eyes.  The rainbow of life,  Carelessly spawns   Gray Memories,    And Moss,   Their edges sharp,  wild, unkempt Fern,  Beckons the bygone. Amma sleeps there; (in peace), In the storehouse of,  moss and Fern. From her pallu, Come floating down images -- Fossilized turmeric scent,  Silent, key holders' noise And the end notes Of her feeble voice, Accompanied by three dots. From gulfs afar, Rages a storm, A whirlwind of  Imag...