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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.
February 23, 2016 at 7:02pm February 23, 2016 at 7:02pm
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Prompt: You see a guy sitting on a park bench reading a newspaper. What are the kinds of stories this image brings to your mind? About the guy? About the bench? About the park or any other setting?
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Two landscape workers were raking the gold and amber leaves into mounds with unbelievable languor. One of them cursed when his rake hooked a partially deflated soccer ball, while a chubby mongrel waddled across the grass and peed by a tree trunk. Like every other day, the usual business, I thought, despite the strange sense I felt, something like déjà vu.
I was right. In the next three minutes, this scene became completely altered.
With a sudden jolt, I felt an unexpected weakness in my knees. My heart began to pound. My jaws tightened. I took a couple of steps, stumbled, and leaned against a tree, but if it weren’t for the little boy screaming with horror who ran past me, I wouldn’t have noticed the man on the park bench whose newspaper was covering his face. I looked carefully at him to see if he could be who I thought he could be.
This abrupt change wasn’t only heralded by the terrified boy but the flames coming out of the bakery, the sound of cars crashing into each other on the street, and all the other city noises now coming in crescendo through the trees. I pressed my trembling knees together. It had to be him, there on the park bench. How dreadful!
He slowly lowered the newspaper. “I was waiting for you!” Although he yelled, I could barely hear him with all the commotion. I took a couple more steps toward him. My first feeling was one of trepidation. How could I avoid more trouble?
Yet, he stared at me and chuckled. Beneath his smirk, there was a layer of something, something heavy and inescapable. Something acutely personal and significant.
“You keep it all in your head, don’t you!” he laughed. “You are again composing another piece of your tainted fiction. You should write these things down in a notebook, some time.”
“Sorry, I am late,” I said, quickening my steps while I shook my head to clear it. “I tried to call, but your secretary said you had already left.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” he said, folding his newspaper. “Let’s go. I know this fish place…”
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 The man sitting on a park bench reading is a prompt some creative writing teachers used to use in their classes. I thought if would be fun to try it, here.
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