Nostalgia / Change

I have no excuse for my absence - I have a real life with work and deadlines, sadly. 

Hoping that you all are doing well.  

In the mean time, during one of our many breaks, another poem for everyone to enjoy.

I wanted to talk about the themes of Change, how inevitable it is; How people often times find it difficult to let go of events, even obsessing over things in a way that you glorify parts that you shouldn't. 
For me, it was also about Acceptance and moving on from negative thinking. 

Tell me what you think. Where I can improve. 

Nostalgia / Change:

Times will come, so full of change, 
Walking a journey which we all must make. 
To travel along, and to turn the page, 
Of life's long stories our lives all take. 

Beholden only to time's twilight hours, 
The fool sees none of the brighter lights, 
Imprisoned within old dreams' powers,
In vain attempts to relive old delights. 

Faded pasts held firmly in embrace, 
Ignoring paths that remain unspoiled, 
Failing to see new paths full of grace, 
As fear and memories hold us coiled. 

For better or worse, time marches on, 
And so too must we, along river's thread, 
Where the past, in dreams, is now long gone, 
With futures free of the nightmares' dread. 

Of the Ristvig - "Tower of Hal"

Hello. It has been nearly a half year since I last published anything, but life had taken a hold of... my life? If you could say that. 
A new job, associated complications, timing issues, and the ever dreadful writers block that has plagued my poetry since. 

However, that is not to say that I have not been creating. I just haven't been able to finish certain poems - a few of which I've started, including the long overdue final canto to my "Throne of the forest" piece. 

I have in that time, taken up drawing as an art form, and been posting what I've made on to my socials, and shared with others online. Its, quite frankly, unmissable. 

I have also been writing, and that is what I would like to share with you now. But first, a small introduction. 

In my book, there exist a faction, called the Ristvig (Of the storytellers) - created by a figure called Saru. In his old age, he had two great fears: First that his time was drawing to a close, and secondly, that the stories he collected, the sights he had seen, and the events he experienced over the centuries would be lost to the ages, or worse, manipulated by retellings. To help with this, he formed the clan of the storytellers and history keepers - the Ristvig.

So he set out, one last time, knowing that his end was near, breathing magic into the stones he stepped on, the caves he rested in, and into the stars that looked down on him from the heavens.

When he had last finished his journey, he, surrounded by the first clan of the Ristvig, bade his farewell to his original people, and walked hand in hand with the Death-bonded, to Stade Del (the city of lights).

These places would glow under the starlight on the eve of his passing, for all to see without restriction. They showed his memories, his thoughts, and his writings - sharing the histories of these places without reserve. Be these stories bloody, and without mercy, or the greatest of triumphs, and filled with hope, they would all be visible, and incapable of change, or destruction. 

But what is the role of the Ristvig? Along with the physical preservations, called "Saru's Will", the people also formed a verbal history in their stories - that which would be passed down through the clan over the years, preserved over the ages by being verbatim recreations of the original stories and histories.

So that comes to our story today: "The Tower of Hal". 

    "The Tower of Hal?" Enquired Nova. "How does that tale go?"
    Aeon cleared his throat and began. "In the deserts of the north, beyond the great underground cities of Ut and Thar, there is a single outpost made of stone. It stood tall, tall enough that you could stand on the surface of the lands above the cities of Thar, the northernmost city of Lytherine, and see it in the mirage above the sands. A thin line, that seemed to phase in and out of reality as the air around it burned and danced.
    "Explorers would venture far, but the tower was always too far away. No matter how early you started your journey at the shores of the great sand-sea, you would never reach it before spending a whole day and night travelling. The tower itself was made of plain stone and remained unadorned and unremarkable. No sigils adorned the walls, and the walls inside were bare. Each layer, or floor, of the tower had simple ledges going around it on the outside, made of a yellow stone, unlike the red stones in the walls of the tower. 
    "But these were never the reason why many people visited this site, so far out of the way, and deep within the sand-sea of the north. 
    "Nowhere else in the sand-sea grew any vegetation, but the ground around the tower was always lush. The land would be wet, the trees tall and evergreen, and the wildlife very protective. Even the first explorers saw the great baboons who would scream their welcomes from the tree tops. They never once harmed the visitors, but they would never let you out of their sight. When we," he stopped himself. The way the Ristvig spoke their narrations were verbatim recounts, though allowing for small changes, such as pronouns, in the retellings. "When Saru was there first," he corrected himself, "He stayed there for six full days. He brought with him water, food, books and writing implements. The baboons were excited to see the pack animals, and the group he brought with him was no small size either."
    He resumed, "The floor of the towers, like the walls, were bare, but that was never a problem for the travellers, who were prepared for anything. Almost everything, it should be said. The water and food would run shorter because of the heat, and because kindness allowed them to give some shares of their rations to the baboons around them. The baboons would peek in through the windows, looking at the companions, chattering among themselves. At sundown, they would all collectively go to the roof of the tower and look north, sitting there till the sun fully vanished. Saru would stand with them after the third day, once he noticed where they would disappear to.
    The kindness of his and his companions bore its own fruit. Once the food had started to dwindle, the baboons would bring in vast horde of fruit for the travellers, and come nightfall, past the third hour of the moon, would habitually steal their water skins to go refil them. No one could find where these gifts came from, however hard they searched, or how high they climbed. The water would always be pure and clean, and the fruits fresh and perfectly ripe." he concluded. 
    "So where does the name of the tower come from? Did Saru and his companions name it?" enquired Nova. 
    "When the explorers all reached the seventh and final floor of the tower, they came across an inscription, etched with magic. It would always read in the person's most preferred language, and it was legible and visible in even the darkest night. 'Here was the last place of rest for Hal, who travelled further north. Though we may be lost in this sea, this sanctuary shall provide for those who need it, and only those in need. May neither time, nor sands swallow my pride, or harm those who make it their home.'
    "People speculated that this mysterious Hal wandered North, filled with great determination and with great strength, but never returned, which is why the baboons still watch on the rooftops, facing the north, waiting for him."
    "Is that what you believe?"
    "Generations of baboons all holding out hope to see a single person return from the north? I don't know. Then again, do we know how communities of animals maintain their own histories? I believe that it could have been true initially. 
    "What I find most interesting is the way the magic interprets the message in its translation. It could have been Hal, or Hala. Hal meaning 'leader' or 'One who escapes a brutal fate', while Hala would mean 'Halo around the moon', or 'One who sees through the night'. For the creator of this tower, all names and titles would be fitting." Aeon thus ended his tale. 

Please let me know what you think. 
I will be posting more of the stories of the Ristvig, as I write them. 
I shall also be returning to poetry when I can, and I am posting my drawing on my socials as when I complete them. :)

Take care. 
Have a great week. 

Yet, Hope Remains

 I realise that I havent posted anything since July of last year. 
Unfortunately, there have been other things that had taken the forefront of the space allotted in my brain. 
Some emotional (Judging by the last poem I DID write). 
Some work related (Yes, I had a change in careers. From "unemployed" to "employed")
All momentous. 

Incidentally, I've also started drawing more. 
Much like poetry, It was not a skill I thought I possessed. 
But here we are, and we are working on improving that as well. Unlike the poems, I wont be posting the uploads here, as of now - they're all on my instagram, among other entries. 

But I am here today, once more, for a new poem. I am still working on the final part of "Throne of the forest" and nearing completion. So instead, I present to you a different poem, one more allegorical in nature. 

This one is called "Yet, Hope Remains". The inspiration comes from the notion of "The light will come eventually", and how to get through the night. I've had these days and nights, especially recently, so anecdotally at least, that the light eventually comes back. 

As always, please let me know what you think, and where I can improve. 

I'll try and keep the writing a bit more consistent as well, on my part. 

Take care, 
Critique, 
And have a great week. 

"Yet Hope Remains"

Lights are dim, and falling fast:
Twilight falls on flailing wings.
Yet, hope remains. Though, will it last?
Through this song the darkness sings. 

'Ere dawn returns, we breathe the cold,
in shallow breaths, and beating hearts.
Yet, hope remains, as tales unfold,
in songs of dark skies as lights departs.

Blushing skies, with crimson streaks,
and thousand voices awake at last.
Yet, hope remained, under starry peaks,
as we sing now, that the darkness passed. 

I keep on hoping that I'll see you one day - Poem Out of Rhyme

This poem is, again, in a style that I am not used to, and I thought that I would give this a go. 
Originally I wasnt going to post this or publish this anywhere, but I was convinced by some of the most important people in my life. 
So to them, I thank you most sincerely, dear ones. I dont make it a habit of naming names on this blog, so I apologize and hope that for now this suffices as a dedication to you. But the support from when I shared this initially was surprising and very much staggering. Thank you to my Valkyrie, who inspired part of "Lullaby" as well. :) 

It was inspired by some personal experiences, but mostly by tropes and music and literature like "La-La Land", "Just One Yesterday" - Fall Out Boy, and a few others. 


With this poem, Its not one of my usual ones with the rhyming couplets, but I DO hope that you enjoy it, and that it evokes something within you in a positive way. 

I keep on hoping that I'll see you once more one day,

In hotel bars,

In Airport lounges,

In the pouring rains,

across a crowded way,

All with a single look shared between us

Like they do in the movies, and in books,

And in that moment, the years disappear.

I keep on hoping to see you once more,

because why not?

If the stereotypes and tropes were hungry enough before

To separate and to tear us to pieces,

Were they full when I was devoured?

If the fates were cruel then, would they not be cruel again?

To bring two strangers with memories, to new shores,

Only to be passing by in ships moving in opposite directions.

Since when were they kind? And why start now?

Why not create a new meal to devour and consume.

But even with all that pain.

I wish that we could see each other once more.

For the fool in me still lives on

through death

through pain

Through every wound I ever inflicted on myself

and through every whispered name I never said.

I keep on hoping that I'll see you one day. 

Throne of the Forest - 2nd Canto

 As mentioned earlier, this is a poem that is based off an original story written earlier. 

You can find the previous Canto in my blog as well, if you've missed out on it. 

This is the second Canto, of an intended three.

Please enjoy. Let me know what you think. 
Where I can make improvements. 
Etc. 

II:

Under sea of stars the story resumes,

Nameless babe woken by nameless sound,

Surrounded and swaddled in colourful blooms,

The night leans in, it's touch unbound.

Rocking it's cradle, spurred by magic of blood,

So child be safe, with naught else around,

Disturbed no more, by either crash or thud,

It resumes it's romp, through dreams abound. 

On empty plains, a single house now stood,

With words of magic stained within planks and panes,

To hold the child, who's bloodline withstood,

To protect him from all the world's aches and pains.

While magic met needs when needs were dire,

He learnt from pages in author-less tomes,

How to wield seeds, and even tame fire,

To breathe life from soil, and grow new homes.

Magic that persisted, sewn into skin of the child,

Protecting him from the loss of loved ones gone,

Gave instead to care, a family far more wild,

In animals of the forest, for company, to fawn.

As farmer, he grew at the house in the glades,

As farmer, he grew the glades most strong.

Springing with vigor, a forest like palisades,

Grew with it the animals as years danced along. 

As forest grew strong, so too did the magic,

Overflowing and spreading like notes and tunes,

Till a nearby town noticed a music most ecstatic,

And danced inside to claim the forest's fortunes.

Reaching no depths, stopped by monstrous woods,

And beasts so big and no fear in their eyes,

They beat a retreat, carrying their goods,

Running from magic of notes: lows and highs. 

Word quickly spread, travelling extremely far,

To rest at the foot of the old king's throne,

Of a forest of plenty, and giant beasts seen afar,

And the room was filled with a silent groan.

Family grew distant as the silence spread,

And madness flared once more in the old king's eyes.

The creaking began anew, of chains of the dead,

And armies he summoned, to go claim his prize.

Whispers in the wind (which no one hears anymore)

This is a much shorter poem than my usuals, and the style is different as well. 

I'm trying something new, something that looks and feels a little more "modern". 

Enjoy. :)

From the bright star, 

comes imagination,

To righteous anger turning,

Into thoughtless wishes.

Burning bridges,

To when it all stops hurting,

A world in alteration,

That lives in a faded scar.

(Also, the second canto from "Throne of the Forest" is in the works. I know I've been taking my sweet time writing, but know that it's in the works.)

Let me know what you think, and how I can make improvements. 

Thank you, 

Throne of the Forest - 1st Canto

This is a poem based off an original story that I have written recently, called "Throne of the Forest". 
Its supposed to be a folklore type of story. 

Instead of posting it as a story, however, I'm making it as a poem. 



This is the first Canto, of an intended three. 


Please enjoy. Let me know what you think. 
Where I can make improvements. 
Etc. 

I:

A kingdom's death comes at the end of blood,

Staining fear guided hands of the fated king.

The family fled through famine and flood,

Alas, as cat chases mouse, no use in hiding. 

They pleaded with the king, vowing no threat,

Bloodline will remain, under fealty to throne.

But old and wary, in fear of regret,

The king persisted, with heart of stone. 

A lesson learned and lessons passed on,

To kin of those killed for their bloodline:

Of a king who hunts, and lands long gone,

Driven mad by prophecy, to murdering consign.

Blood of the innocent, pushed too far,

They finally turned, to fight for their kin.

Fears confirmed, the king called for war,

Armies once hidden, now bleed and skin. 

Of iron in blood, now chains were made,

Settled on the king, as fate once warned.

To greet him were two, of the last to fade,

On their faces, mirthless smiles were adorned.

"Kingly one, or cowardly one, no more distinct,

Fear has haunted you, and shall further still."

Sneering, opening doors with arms interlinked,

And the king swept past, claiming his kill. 

The room was empty, save an old man by a cot,

Where the sheets were empty and clean. 

"How to hide something so no map can plot?

Hide it plainly, but in a world unseen. 

Bloodline may dwindle, but my grandson lives,

Persist, o king, and the chains shall strangle." 

The king now fearful, with murderous motives,

Searched to no avail, his fate now in tangle. 

No name marked on cot or on parchment,

There was no sign of child in the halls.

Seemingly non-existent, but spies confident,

That the babe's cries once echoed these halls.

Whisked away by magic, far from the grasp,

Of armies and arms of the bloodthirsty king.

Prophecy drove the king eventually to his final rasp,

Many years later at the hands of the forest's king.