Minerva McGonagall sat down while she heaved a deep sigh; of relief, woe or exhaustion, she couldn’t exactly choose which. The day had been long and full of anticipation. Arrangements had to be made, lists had to be revised, passwords had to be devised and the Sorting Hat had to be dusted. Being one of the house heads wasn’t easy and McGonagall was just starting to realize how stupendously eventful or horribly disturbing the year might turn out to be, depending on the activities of a single boy – A boy new to Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry.
A hefty melody is the one
Mixed with memories
And decorated with heart breaks.
It is a cocktail too heavy to consume
And too acidic to gulp down.
It burns your insides
Creating this ringing sound
So strong and so loud
That you trip over your own feet
And land straight on the shattered glass
Of your cocktail which at some point
You had dropped because of the ringing,
Oh so painful ringing.
Later, that same cocktail of rainbow colours
– Red, green, yellow, blue
Becomes white wine
– Critical, analytical
And less colourful
Yet you go back to the bar
Again after some time
And order the fates to bring you
The same colourful, revolting cocktail
You sip it, you clutch your head and you fall
You do it again, and again some more.
Because face it,
Do you too sometimes feel emotions come rushing back to you as soon as you listen to a song. Do you too attach memories and feeling and emotions to songs. Do you too feel that agonising pleasure every time you hear a sad song? Tell me about it, I would love to hear from you!
He clothed his motives in the names of virtue, and I have wondered whether he ever knew that, no gift will ever buy back a man’s love when you have removed his self-love.
~John Steinbeck, East Of Eden
It was pouring outside. The sky was dark as night and everyone in the class was quiet; either studying for the approaching exams or catching up on their sleep. The pin drop silence was occasionally disturbed by lightening or the high pitched giggling of the two girls in the front row reading Shakespeare to each other.
Rhea wanted to punch the wall and also disappear into it. Like always, she had ruined her day by picking up a fight with her best friend, even if it was about her not liking Severus Snape and her best friend loving him. She had picked up a fight and a fight was a fight; yes, with flailing hands and a lot of swearing. She had let her anger get more of her. And what was most appalling was, that her best friend had called James Potter a sissy!
My nightmares are filled with whispers and laughter
Of every human being I’ve known till now
They are branded everywhere on my skin,
Reminding me again and again of what a coward I am.
Sometimes they are white noises,
But sometimes they are loudest than ever before
Forcing me to kneel and beg for forgiveness
Apologise for the wrong I hadn’t done
Feel sorry for a mistake I hadn’t committed
Like how the base feels through your skin
And makes its presence be felt
Just in a very, very, very agonising way.
It collects in you
The burden of their ugly laughter keeps collecting on your back
The chest pain starts accelerating
Pressure stars building up behind your eyes,
Your throat become sore and dry
Your insides wrinkle onto whatever air is left within you
Your muscles break with the tension of keeping your body upright
When you are just curling around whatever you have left in you
To ground you and hold you but you’re losing it
It’s building and building up inside you
And you are too afraid to let go
And then it is too late because when you hear
“Are you fine?”
Your insides burst into a million pieces
And get scattered around your vulnerably bare soul
Like the stars in the wide, infinite universe.
Like the stars in the wide infinite universe.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches loosely onto the withered soul
And sings a melodious tune
Without the need of tough words
Nor meaning, this sweetest sound,
Seems endless like the curling of tides
With much rhythm but no reason
In the harsh gale is heard.
Sorely greedy must be the storm
That could dare to abash the little bird
That kept so very many undead corpses warm
And resurrected them anew.
So ruthlessly greedy must be the storm
That it took away the music which
I’ve heard in the chilliest land and
On the strangest sea
Which yet, never in extremity
Asked a crumb of me.
NaPoWriMo April 2015 Day 5 prompt: Today’s exercise asks you to do something similar, but in the interests of creativity, rather than ill-conceived “correction.” Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it!
The poem I chose is called ‘Hope’ is a thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson
Did you like it? Did you not like it? Was it reconstructed enough or just copy pasted? Let me know what you think about it. Have a splendid day y’all!