Those night behindhand extend till Three
Thoes night prattled Extend till Three
Stunned by the way you say.
Nor moon, nor star, nor Mite
Stopped our night:
but emotion which has no formation.Has to be, I know it’s weird to.
Think of things makes sentiment,
Your story never stopped me from thinking.
Nor love, nor life, nor lust, nor anger, nor sad, nor friend.You have experienced it in my age:But me listening to you crazily Nor experienced or experiencing it in my age.
To the way as dogs day in fare vessel
Extensive to extend in sea, can’t stop pageant.
For more that problem,we gaze nightfell.
Sun wave only to waves not:, draught.
Thus much to eat, Portuges to kadazan.
What to choose, Moment owns not you,
On a spur of deed, pled to abundance.
Douche till hebdomad fare in perdu.
Esse of cloud offers Adam’s ale
Sensation self in bewildered, why not ego.
Bills of Piedmont, seem’s like rail.
Should not be drunken man has go.
Let man cease his thoughts
World will soften toward.
As it peeled off
The mask revealed.
Darker skin turned darker.
Unsure of the world
the butterfy flew higher
Unaware of her flaunting colours,
And when faced to face
She recognised her innocence
But for world it was foolishness.
Was it I,
Hurt him, crushed him, killed him!
No!
Out of love I bathed him with
A colour in this colourful world
Not knowing the fanatical eyes which
Crookedly preferred to my cover of colour
Over his book of virtues,
Over his dream of laurels which
Gleams brighter than Sun.
The flawless painting of his righteousness
Ruinated by the colour I fortuitously added.
Was it I!
No!
Atrocity on the sea of Rampalian-Wretch
Sail! Every night! against the tempestuous.
Legendary leaders had legacy
Fighting against bigotry
Yet buried alive at the premise of equivalency.
As they rashly accuse me
Of making people look savage,
I pray Him to pluck me
Out of their intolerant eyes
Let them wander without sight
And be forever blind.
Wasn’t it them the same ones
Ruined the Great houses once! Derek!
The heinous prejudice strangled him
To death on the face of Earth.
But upon Heaven God’s hand
Now fondling his nape
There he carries his breath to breathe.
Atrocity on the sea of Rampalian-Wretch
Sail! Every night! Against the tempestuous
Every night! Every fight! Against the wizard of Uz.
Oh My blissful companion! How meaningful now this life is!
Essence in each and every thing by His Craft
But ludicrous I seem, dexterously moving the Sun and the Moon
Like Atlas at last be fettered forever on the east end of Earth
Oh Speak! My coy mistress of eternal silence
Is it the biggest blender to be the greatest of all attributes!
Why envy even He, known as all sufficient for mankind,
Yet to learn enduring my excellence.
On the quest of conquest, Homer deems me as Odysseus’ father
In the battle of cleverness, will enslave Plato on the day of debate
Oh Hear! My bare bondless brother!
Myself, the king of all and everything on and above
The helm of History writes me each pages in every ages
Of my avaricious, serenely slaughtered bunch of Corinthians
Thus dare not they to disobey my commandment
Consulted Pythia for the art of shearing souls smoothly
And seduced Tyro the Thessalian princess in the game of thrones
Killed many a times to preserve my hubristic rules
For Hospitality, never ever be my cup of tea
My warmth hostile to the hosting upset Him
Nevertheless, Thanatos chained by my deceptive decency
Persephone sympathized by my crocodile tears
Tricking even the gods in thier own goddoms
Angered Him to wrack me on the facade of Corinth.
Here chained I am as infant with uncut cord.
But with absolute pleasure trudging from the steep
After rolling thou over this Nature’s hunchback.
Wherever thou slide and glide whether on ground or summit
Its height not even be nearer to test my might.
As if a penalty, sentenced to push each other
Till the Meteors and the Earth crash together
Foresee! Wise philosophers at the end of civilization
Find me
Become me
Oh My soulless stone! Life is absurdly beautiful isn’t it!
SHE is a Myth found not in pages;
Heaven on earth confined in clouds’ cages;
Queen of mounts, swaying for ages;
By the wave of wands in the hands of mages;
Mount RORAIMA, A forgotten World, a floating isle plateau seated 7671 above the Forest floor, is surrounded by three different countries Brazil, Venezuela and Guyana whose borderlines intersect on the massive shelf, with all four sides being sheer 400-meter high cliffs. It is called as Tepui by the local inhabitants, means “House of Gods” and also the natives fear venturing up onto the plateau due to legends regarding ptero…”
The sudden blow of breeze breached my tent-castle caressing my senses, making me stop the account on mount Roraima in the middle. Closing the diary I came out of the tent to get enfogged by the vista in front of me. “No wonder it inspired Arthur Conan Doyle in writing his The Lost World. This place is magical, paradise in earth” I looked at the world beneath me standing on the edge of the floating isle, indeed at the top of the world, out of all the confinements that chained me once. It has been six years since my divorce and start of my career as a travel journalist. ‘A Star Journalist’, people of my kind used to call me.
The sun has set but his rays hesitating to leave this paradise remained spreading its hands to barricade the entrance of darkness into the prominence. I went back to the campfire near the tent and sat on the stone bench. On the other side I could see two other tents and a guide talking to the folks in the blue tent beside the peech one. Looking at their outfits I deduced that they might be hikers from some other country. I took out my wallet and looked at the picture of my father. A smile crept on my face; “I want to see all the beautiful places in the world” my only dream from childhood which I used to tell my father whenever he asked about my ambition. I have been to most of the places, beautiful and dangerous, in the world. But this place fascinated me like no other, the mystic beauty and the majestic view bestowed a spectacular feast to the eyes and heart. Waterfalls filling down sheer cliff faces into clouds, Labyrinths of stone pinnacles, Valleys carpeted with crystals, Carnivorous pitcher plants, Exquisite rare orchids, seated right above the Amazon forest. Everything in this place delighted me. It took two days’ continuous walk to reach the plateau , my excitement amplified with each steps in a ramp-like path that led me to the dream-land.
Travel never exhausted me, instead augments my thirst for adventure and filled me with contentment . As I took a light supper and sat near the campfire looking at the sky, I saw the guide approaching me. “Hola Senora, como puedo ayudarte?” he’s a wheat-complexed, tall and gigantic man with a fine physic. One cannot claim that he’s handsome due to his lop-sided mouth and a strange structure of his face. “Hello sir, I’m Zoya and sorry I don’t speak Spanish. Do you know English?” “ye ye Senora, I speak Engleesh. I Carlos, local guid. Ow can I elp you?” He asked with the deep voice struggling with the language. “Everything is good here sir, thank you” I replied trying to decode the guide’s odd expression. “Senorita Soya, I vill be stayving in the peach color tent near the blue von. Any elp wantad cal me” “Ok Mr. Carlos, Good night” “buenas noches” he left the place bowing to me.
Sleep seemed distant now. This place’s echoing silence occupied my thoughts. Not interested to resume my account I decided to explore the flat hill. The only light that illuminated the place is the lamp that set outside the hikers’ tent. I strode in the opposite direction of tents and walked to the stone pinnacles, a self-constructed labyrinth. It appeared as if a man-eating flora pretending to sleep to lure the prey. I took my mobile and switched on the torch to find the path in dark. After walking for another half-an hour deep into the maze, I comprehended that I’m in fact is not alone and chose to get back to the tent. All the directions looked alike and uneasiness gripped my spirit. “Is there anyone else here?” I could sense my voice shivering. No response. Might be my hallucination. I turned back and resumed my journey in a direction which seemed unfamiliarly familiar. “I must be foolish to do this, wandering in an unknown place that too at the middle of the night” chiding myself I increased my pace hoping to get out of the mess now I am in. I stepped in the stone stair hitting the rock nearby falling straight down the bush making my mobile flutter away. I landed in something soft yet viscous. I tried moving my right leg in vain and found that it is entangled in a thing which looked like a creeper, but exceptionally sturdy. I felt my leg getting throttled, also my other leg and hands too. I struggled against the strangling vine and shouted in a hope of getting saved.
“You should not have come alone” I heard a voice from behind. There stood a man in the darkness, an axe in his hands. I yelled in fear and pain as the man with bright blue eyes and archaic physic came near me. The vine reached my neck and I started gasping for air. He leisurely took hold of the vine and started cutting. His face so divine and calm. My heart skipped a beat. “You’re free now. Thank your stars that I’m here. Follow me now, I’ll take you outside” “But what is that thing, that tried to choke me” “It is Jimson weed; it not only strangles but create hallucinations and respiratory depression and kills people”. I followed him like Mary’s little lamb not even wanting to Know who he is. “Look there, your tent. Now go and get some sleep Zoya” “I don’t remember telling you my name sir” I responded with a surprise. “Even I don’t remember you thanking me for saving your life” he replied sarcastically as I blinked in awe “THANK YOU”
HALO. Sounds like you are saying ‘Hello’ right? It may be right because HALO is saying ‘hello’ to the world from the top of it. Well, that can be the last time one says ‘hello’ and also the last time he says ‘good bye’ to the world if things go wrong. Yes. HALO: High Altitude and Low Opening. High Altitude of 30,000 feet and Low Opening from 4000ft above the ground. HALO can make you go hollow. 30,000 feet— 100 seconds of free fall—when I pulled the ripcord the parachute did not open…
I had always travelled in my life. Not a lot but I travel. I was fortunate to have parents who takes us, if not to the foreign countries, but at least to the other states of my own country which has lots of fascinating things to see. INCREDIBLE INDIA! Both of my parents are teachers working in the same government aided school. They arrange tour on every quarterly, half early and annual vacation for staffs and their family members. Sometimes, it is a short tour and sometimes it is long. I was just five years old when I went on a fifteen days tour for the first time in my life to Delhi, Agra and Shimla. I could not remember what I saw at Taj Mahal, Qutub minar, Red Fort, Lotus temple and I don’t even know that I was in the foot hills of Himalayas. I don’t know how a child admires nature, landscapes and architectural aesthetics. But I still remember how joyful we were as children during those fifteen days. I remember wandering from the first compartment to last compartment on Tamil Nadu expresses which takes three days to reach Delhi from my home town; how I caught the attention of a white women in Taj Mahal because of a traditional dress I was wearing and she caged my fluttering child’s wings in her camera; how reluctant I was to pose for my compelling father and made monkey faces as poses. Through out my childhood, in every vacation, we go for a tour and visited various historical places and hill stations in India. And that, as I mentioned clearly, were tours. Years later when I became a traveller I realized that travelling and touring are different. I don’t want to explain it though! Of course touring involves travel. I’m leaving it for you to ponder. I’ve toured a lot but there came a point in my life in which I needed literal travel to set me off in a right position in my metaphorical travel in which I have lost my way completely. “I shall be telling with a sigh, two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one less travelled by and that made the difference”. By choosing to study literature and by aspiring to become a teacher and writer I have taken the road ‘less travelled by’. Literature had taught me about the journey of life. It had also taught about the journey in which you tread on red carpet in couple: The journey of love. I was reminded of e e cummings on the moment I saw her. “Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience”. Shifa…Shifa is her name. The word Shifa in Arabic means cure. She had been the cure for everything in my life. We set off a beautiful journey of marriage. By that time, when she was in her last trimester of her pregnancy I kept the manuscript of my first novel ready to be published. But my talisman, the prerequisite-of-my-soul-to-run, my ‘Cure’ has left me with an incurable pain in my heart with my baby too. She died in her labour. I was left alone in a dark, dungeon alley suffocating and unable to get away. That’s when I needed a literal travel to orient my position in metaphorical travel. I met Melquides, a high Bohemian. I resigned, renounced temporarily and tried to get away from the land which became strange for me without her. Living the life of Kerouac allowed me to comprehend how Wordsworth perceived the ‘Solitary Reaper’ in high land and how Arnold perceived the view of ‘Dover Beach’. I changed myself to rags and forsook all my possessions. I wandered with Melquides writing lyrics for his rhapsodies. We ate with the frugal amount gained from singing, hitch-hiked for moving, sheltered wherever we got place. What I avoided was their promiscuity because I loved and made love now no love so made no love and I avoided smoking weeds. I wonder what kind of a journey that sets you off. The whole INCREDIBLE INDIA seemed different. I understood What a person should understand after crossing through boulevards of metropolitans and cosmopolitans of India, wandering through barren sands in deserts of Rajasthan, hiking in the snowy mountains of Himalayas, burying foot in soaking swamps of Sunderbans, and walking through the dampened sands in the beaches of Arabian sea, Bay of Bengal and Indian ocean. I went with empty pockets and heavy head and came back as is if I was dissolved by drenching myself in heavy rain. But something in me was very stubborn to go away. I think I was in the last point of finding my way out of love’s labyrinth. “Enough of being Thomas Hardy, let me be Robert Browning” I thought. When I wandered in Himalayan range I met Alan Eutace. He holds the world record for sky diving from highest altitude of 135,908ft. He came there to hike Mt.Everest. He talked a lot about the ventures he did in his life apart from sky diving. He inspired me a lot. So, I thought of going for sky diving and I came here all the way to Long Island, America. One full day of instructions were given by trained and experienced sky divers. The next day, I was all set to jump. I still remember how I stood nervously at the edge of deck of back opening of the plane. 30,000 ft. I jumped gathering all my courage. I enjoyed the view of the long island during the 100 secs of free fall, for free fall is the fun part of sky diving. When I have to open the parachute, I pulled the ripcord but it did not open. I was just 4000ft and lowering and 30 seconds and counting, away from death. I closed my eyes. I saw my shifa. “Don’t worry I’m watching you” she said. When I landed I was with my Shifa. “Hello” she said. I felt like I was still falling. “what happened” I exclaimed. “Nothing Mr. I just made you cheat death” she said. The voice came from very close to my ears. I realised that I was clasped from behind by another camouflaged hands. We were both sitting on the ground. She released me. I didn’t move a bit. She got rid of the parachute and oxygen cylinder and came before me. I was still sitting on the floor like a baby who just learned how to sit. My shifa was standing before me in camouflage uniform like mine, hands on her hip and smiling. “Hey Remedy! Is he alright” shouted a man from behind. “perfectly alright” she said raising her thumb. “Remedy?!” I asked in confusion. “yes! Remedy walker” she said and put forth her hands as if to shake hands but it’s not for shaking hands but to help me stand up. I took her hands and stood up. “Remedy Walker, professional HALO jumper and trainer” she said again. It was as if my ‘Cure’ had come as a ‘Remedy’. I felt like exactly how I felt during the time of free fall. I felt very light still having the heavy camouflage cloth, oxygen cylinder and unopened parachute clutched tightly on me. I realised that I should still be in love’s labyrinth not finding my way out because it’s only difficult when you there as only person.
I easily became an American citizen (you know how). I was trained by my Remedy to become a professional HALO jumper. I have also finished my second novel which is to become my first published novel, a fictional travelogue to which this piece of meta-Story will be an autobiographic, fictional preface.
“You are proving again and again that I made a bloody big mistake…… Goddammit! William….” screamed Jerome sitting behind, gripping my shoulders as I was in highspeed struggling to control the handlebar to steady on the road’s edge in order to cut in a Motorcoach. Even the slightest shake on the edge of 4154ft from the ground would cost life.
It was notably one of the one-out-of-million-well-planned-trip-miraculously-happen-at-last. And it was Masinangudi, one of the splendidious hillstations in india. We were almost ready to set off from our native for the trip and Jerome handed over his bike key to me and said “You ride it machi”. All other friends were bewildered of Jerome’s decision because of my history with riding. We know accident happens, which is inevitable, but for me it happens almost everytime.
“But shift after reaching the foothill” advised Jacky with concern for one has to be well-experienced to ride uphill. And it was going to be the first time for me to travel hundreds of kilometres by bike, so i kickstarted excitedly and began our journey on the highway as the clock struck 2am. After hours of riding kindled my confidence to accelerate 120km speed on the highway that gave a fabulous feeling which can only be perceived by Bikeriders. The nearer we were getting to the foothill, the cooler the breeze began smooching us and in dark, the mountains looked like sleeping dinosaurs. As soon as we reached the foothill, we had such a nice cup of tea to warm up for the hillriding which was going to be hell-freezing especially in the month of December.
After having the tea, Jerome casually said “I am already frozen machi. Just ride it uphill too”. This time even I myself didn’t think it was a good idea to let an inexperienced ride on the deadly hairpin bends of the hill. Seemingly courageous, I kickstarted in dilemma as well as enthusiasm. In fact when I saw myself elevating from the ground after each kilometre, I got scared of losing control. But after sometimes, I was fascinated by the sceneries spinning around me as if I was thrown into a fantasy world. It was indeed bliss to fall in love with each and every inch of nature on the move with the cool breeze cuddling romantically. Absorbing the magnificent beauty of nature. I told myslef that every humanbeing must explore once like this especially by bike.
All the way to our destination, I felt like literally flying without wings. The trees, birds, mountains, clouds, the pure cool breeze, there the world itself wrapped in green were evident for why they call it Mother Nature. At last, after 5hours of riding from foothill made my friends weary but not me as I was refreshened each and every second by the beauty of the place. Riding all the way uphill is like reciting the most beautiful poem written by the favourite poet. It never ceased to engage us by its magnanimity. Then we safely reached Masinagudi, a part of the Mudumalai National Park in Tamil Nadu and is noted for its rich forests and abundant flora and fauna, which lies at a distance of 30 km from another famous hill station, Ooty. We were provided a treehouse resort by a friend of friend which is in the deep down of the reserve forest. After unpacking things as the sun set, I witnessed that the most beautiful part of the day was actually the night in the woods. It was enthralling to stay among the dark, deadly, terrific woods and mountains with the sounds of nocturnals. Tiresome put us in deep sleep after planning to go for trekking the GAYA mountain, the most hazardous mountain of southern India, the next day.
As sun rose from top of the mountains, I came out of the house wiping my eyes and saw the marvelous morning with birds flying all over the place that can only be experienced and never be explained by words. Later we were geared up for trekking but the native guy, who was supposed to take us, didn’t turn up. so Jacky said that we could go without him actually that would be more adventurous. The width of path to GAYA is exactly the size of single foot. After an hour of trekking, there were maze like paths and the one, we took, left us being lost at the summit of another mountain’s cliff. Though it was too risky as the sun was about to set, I loved being lost there in the realm of adventure. When my friends yelled blaming one another for the situation, I was standing on the cliff with arms wide-open and embracing the twilight. That moment I realised how tiny part I am of this tremendously divine nature. Suddenly there was this soothing mesmerising music flew around and it was from distance above where I was standing.
There was a woman sitting on the very edge of the cliff, playing the lyre facing the vast wide forest as if no humans exist but herself and the nature alone. While all my friends were panicked that she might be a witch for the place she sat and the music she played and the orange colour hair she had, despite their silly stance I stepped forward and spoke “how did you get there” she turned instantly and what I came across was a gorgious smily face with the glorious nature on the background. “I was flying” she smiled. She was from Germany and her name was Leena. “What are you doing here alone playing this music?” I conversed. “I am a research scholar and I am on the quest of untying the harmonious relationship between the nature and the music” she further talked about the mysterious knot of nature and music which I didn’t quite understand may be because of her accent but what I understood was how one should live in communion with nature along with music. As the time passed and the darkness engulfed the forest, she led us out of the maze and took us, as it was not safe to roam anywhere at night, to her tent on Maravakandy, a dam inside the jungle. She all of a sudden hushed and insisted me to crawl over the rock to peek. In distance, I was spellbound to encounter, across the flowing stream, a Tiger in the moonlight. “What a gigantic Form it has been gifted!.” She exclaimed quietly.
“Tiger Tiger Burning Bright in the Forests of the Night” I muttered staring it without a blink as Leena raised her eyebrows at me and husked “are you a poet? Mr. William”..
FOR THE CONTEST :
It’s writing challenges to the wonderful writers of the kilk forum every week. So here is this week’s challenge
Category : short story
Word count : 1000 words
Theme : wanderlust (adventure in specific)
Title : the writers choice….
Just do it… In style…
Kilk, Apna Tashan…….
👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍
Dear, forget about our lips.
They have gone to meet each other. Let us stay aside and watch them.
Do you see how sweetly they hunt for one another?!
Like two butterflies flowing through the dark tunnel of the world.
From my lips, opens a lascivious moon Which has been carried as a ring by my tongue to your tongue. And then, both get sealed and stamped by the beautiful wedding of our lips, With your fluffy cheeks that gently resides like a bird in my palms.
The poetry, glow as embers and bleeds in my mouth, would come to your lips like a nomadic dog with broken dictions.
It is your lips : Where the colour of light pink and light red get vanished from the realm of painting and live as a slave in the drunkenness of your lips.
Meanwhile, my lips touched your lips with a drop of my soul. Where all my kisses run like squirrels, to bite the fruit of your mouth.
The dawn has arrived. It’s time for our lips to part each other.
But, they lay like two strawberries slept with smooch melodies.
Dear, tie your lips to mine. For that my heart will set out roots to my lips to live in profound madness under your cherry jelled saliva which would soak my lips before it get dead by your lips invincible sweetness.
Now, our life becomes red roses Where the dawn rained like sugary-snow-powder followed by our kisses, which fell as saffron threads upon our lips.
And there the smooch melodies, continues.
I give you not a material called love. It is an ink stomped upon your heart.
I do not ask you to be my lady love. Instead, a perfume to make as your flower And, I then give you petals Which climbs to ripe the rare sweetness That is hidden on your silk wrapped lips.
Every day and night, you keep me wet. And, whenever your stealthy glance longs to see me The bud of my face will get enclose by the coyness of the petals.
All the women in the world, would feel envy by your cleopatric eyes…!
Picasso would faint! If he sees the painting of the black crow of your hair branched like a bough upon your celestial face.
As the flakes of wind drizzle over me, Your nicotine fingers, keeps me warm dear.
Shakespeare is a Strawberry. Neruda is a Mango. Keats is a Watermelon. Shelley is a Pomegranate. Eliot is an Apple. Pound is a Lemon. And you, the seed of all!!!
The verse of my kisses, nested as moon droplets, when it fell as feathers to your sweet body.
Now, it had remind with you as an unopened wound. And each day, each hour It will speak you of my presence Only, if you forget me.
kilk 
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