A line of poetry that is run on to the following line without any pause....
Poems forever
Poetic devices
Enjambed line
A line of poetry that is run on to the following line without any pause:
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
Has carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery . . .
Lines 18-23 from “There Was a Boy” by William Wordsworth.
Secret
By Mashaal Farid
Dark is that shadow following by
Necromantic spirits flown
I’m but a prisoner of my own.
You seek me in monstrous visions,
Search for me in wild nights
I’m but a devil in disguise.
You?
Likewise.
Beauty and the beast
By Ayesha Nadeem
The fingers began to search for a place,
To resist herself from falling,
Screaming and shaking with fear,
Baby eyes pleading for sympathy,
Stream of tears rolling down her cheeks,
A doll face strawberry swirled,
Blush turned into purple clots,
Dwindling flickers across the room,
She being knuckle sandwiched,
Bumping into a vase,
The floor littered with glass fragments,
And the rose petals asking for life,
Life fading before her eyes,
Puddles of crimson blood writing a story on the floor,
A fragile body panicking with fear,
Some silent moments spent,
His arms circled around her searing gift wrapped skin,
Her hair strands twirled in his fingers,
As he kissed her shoulder,
One more day spent,
A lifetime waiting ahead,
To play beauty and the beast!
Dawn to dusk
By Hiba Alamzaib
What is it like to live with a buoyant
Mind and rhythms of a sinking
Sensation in the heart?
Why does the mind play games
Undercover?
It acts and transforms into
Extraordinary exaggerations;
Currently embodying a form of
Buoyancy in its actions, tumbling
Over clouds of despair, joy, optimism,
Distress, anticipation, acceptance,
Loneliness, fulfillness, anger,
Forgiveness, tranquility and the lot.
Then it reaches a state of stagnant existence.
A void. A long, dealt silence among
The sleepy clouds, up above, creating
Its cornered isolation,
Hushed by the numbing beat of the heart.
It’s a rare disease with its brights and dulls,
Conquering each part of the body,
Until one’s helpless to purify
And purge it from the skin.
A disease
None of us can cure once it has
Taken over each drop of your sweat and blood.
I try to arouse my dreams and inner ‘light’
To confront the deadliness of my heart and mind,
And crush it into mere particles flying miles away
From me. I try to spark my love for this world,
For all the blessings in my existence,
For my own name cries out its true meaning,
“Gift from God!”
I meekly say, I fail myself on my name for now.
A gift from God shouldn’t be this dazzled
By its mind and heart, after all.
Satan thumped his curse on this soul,
For the mind and heart of God’s gift
May never feel so lost on His will otherwise.
It’s an abrupt end,
As the happenings of my heart and mind
Are as abrupt and blunt.
No wonder the cool dewdrops
Of four am call for my name,
And pray for the peace and love
Of my mind, my heart,
With whispers of joy and comfort
From the morning calls to prayer.
Compiled by SK
Kindly send your contibutions at: uspoetscorner@gmail.com
