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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
January 3, 2017 at 6:25pm January 3, 2017 at 6:25pm
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Prompt: Dostoevsky wrote his best work after facing a firing squad. Has an event in your life made you write more dramatically than before? You don’t have to talk about the event if you don’t want to, but try to put into words the feelings and the inspiration you got from such an event. If you wish, you may express that feeling in a prose-poem, poem, or story.
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I can’t recall any such event by itself, but sometimes when something inspires me or someone or some event rubs me the wrong way, I write about it. Sometimes I write about it longhand in a notebook, at other times in some file or in WdC in a book item.
If I were to face a firing squad like Dostoevsky, chances are I wouldn’t be able to write like he did; in fact, I am certain I’ll never be able to write like he did. If such an earth-shattering event like facing a firing squad ever happened to me, I would probably freeze or lose my speech altogether.
Thus, here is a poem:
Nothing Like Dostoevsky
Whatever might happen to me
it will be exactly like this:
The same work corner
the same desk
the same arthritic fingers
and the words I may have difficulty
finding
like old sorrows
and memories
that play hide and seek.
The trees will still smile
sunsets will still not last
and Sandhill cranes will still come
knocking on the porch door.
Whether the earth
holds itself still
or NOT,
my writing’s fate
will always be at stake
for depending on ordinary things.
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