lulled death (a go vat)

Inside silence, a flower blooms,
Lifting petals, leaking perfume.
Lull can also be beautiful.

Microscopic lens slowly zooms,
locates a dead leaf ‘s many rooms.
Death can also be beautiful.

03.23.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to Blogging from A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo 2018.
G is for Go Vat.
The Go Vat is a stanzaic form which according the Poet’s Garrett apparently was popular in Cambodia in the late 1800s. The line length and refrain are suspected to be influenced by the French who colonized Cambodia during that period.
The elements of the Go Vat are:
  1. stanzaic, written in any number of tercets.
  2. syllabic, each line is most commonly 8 syllables.
  3. rhymed, turned on only 2 rhymes, aaB aaB aaB etc.
  4. written with a refrain. L3 of each tercet is a repetition of either the whole or part of L3 of the 1st tercet.

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Book Review: When Breath Becomes Air

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
Rating: ❤❤❤❤

What is it about: At the age of thirty-six, on the verge of completing a decade’s worth of training as a neurosurgeon, Paul Kalanithi was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. One day he was a doctor treating the dying, and the next he was a patient struggling to live. And just like that, the future he and his wife had imagined evaporated. When Breath Becomes Air chronicles Kalanithi’s transformation from a naïve medical student “possessed,” as he wrote, “by the question of what, given that all organisms die, makes a virtuous and meaningful life” into a neurosurgeon at Stanford working in the brain, the most critical place for human identity, and finally into a patient and new father confronting his own mortality. 

What makes life worth living in the face of death? What do you do when the future, no longer a ladder toward your goals in life, flattens out into a perpetual present? What does it mean to have a child, to nurture a new life as another fades away? These are some of the questions Kalanithi wrestles with in this profoundly moving, exquisitely observed memoir. 

Paul Kalanithi died in March 2015, while working on this book, yet his words live on as a guide and a gift to us all. “I began to realize that coming face to face with my own mortality, in a sense, had changed nothing and everything,” he wrote. “Seven words from Samuel Beckett began to repeat in my head: ‘I can’t go on. I’ll go on.'” When Breath Becomes Air is an unforgettable, life-affirming reflection on the challenge of facing death and on the relationship between doctor and patient, from a brilliant writer who became both.

What I Love: Die with dignity.

It’s the clarion call of Paul Kalanithi’s words carried in his posthumously published book, When Breath Becomes Air.

I ended up sobbing, with eyes swollen but it is a worth it less-than 200-page journey.

Travelling inside the mind and heart and soul of a dying doctor, who had always searched for life’s meaning is enlightening and moving.

Reading about death has always woke up the mortal in me. This is maybe why I am so fond of Mitch Albom’s books. Books about dying breathe life back to my purpose. My life’s meaning.

Why am I here?
What am I doing?
What makes life worth living?

What I Don’t Love Much: While the ending made me cry, it’s moving. So I have nothing to not like about this book.

Wise Words:

“I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” 

“You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe in an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.” 

“Life wasn’t about avoiding suffering.” 

“Human knowledge is never contained in one person. It grows from the relationships we create between each other and the world, and still it is never complete.” 

“The main message of Jesus, I believed, is that mercy trumps justice every time.”

©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photos and Story Summary: Goodreads and Unsplash

 

 

orange veil

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Steps. More steps.

Pointed heels tap, tapping,
Hard soles clank, clanking,
against the tiled, abused floor.

The invading final rays
of the setting sun
again entered unwelcome,
between the squared gaps
of the rusting wired fence.

The outside world’s noise,
helped him in keeping me silent.
Even the orange veil connived
in hiding me beneath his body’s blanket.

Office hours again reached its end.
So as my fading breath.

Stab. More stabs.

02.13.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo and edit via my dearest Shubhodeep Roy

B l o o d y H a n g o v e r

More shots fired,
bang! bang!
Another mug
overflowed with

blood, blood. Blood
from veins of the
innocents. Veins
pulsing, asking,

why oh why,
again? Till when,
oh please, till
when? Who
turned on the

faucet of this
intoxicating hate?
How many
pills of love, should

the orphaned
earth take to end

this bloody hangover?

Author’s Note: The prompt today was about “drinking”. And because I don’t drink (alcoholic drinks, or even wines, never had, never will :D), these lines leaked just like that.

For the lives ended by war, violence, depression, hate, this is my futile attempt to write an elegy for you.

Guns don’t kill people. People kill people. It’s one sad truth we witness every single day.

02.21.2018
©2018 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash

In response to dVerse This one’s on me.
dverse

The Picnic

after more than a decade of virtual hugs and late night chats, the four girlfriends have finally met again for a summer picnic.

two married, one engaged, one still single, they’ve bonded because of one common denominator: a guy they played love with. a nerd from college who’s known for his ragged blue jeans and an old-day-smelling shirt.

under the hot sun with the smoky smell of barbecue, there was no sound but their joyful giggles. until a dashing, familiar man appeared. until they heard nothing but bangs after bangs. then the green lawn turned red with fresh blood.

silence.

Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Yarnspinner

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) May 09, 2017. 🙂

BLEEDING LINES

My debut book Between My Bleeding Lines is now available on Amazon and Createspace! Please see the following links:

Thank you! ❤

Our River

the gentle whispers of the trees’ breeze. the tender murmur of river’s flow. the playful tweets of the little birds. these sweet sensual delights are the reasons why we used to visit this river. the river we called ours.

today i clutch unto you, unto your vessel. your vessel made of cold porcelain, a stark contrast to how warm your hands were when you held mine.

slowly opening the lid, feeling what was left of your mortality, i let the salty tears wet my face as i let your ashes be one with the river. the river we called ours.

Note: I wrote this piece with Ed Sheeran’s Supermarket Flowers playing in my ears. Sigh.
Oh, I’m in pieces, it’s tearing me up, but I know
A heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved
Word count: 100
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: My dearie Maria of Doodles and Scribbles

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) April 11, 2017. 🙂

Spring Bud

I smell how the supposed sweet, summer aroma turned into a chilling winter scent as I watch how her soft, smooth skin turns from blushed pink to lifeless violet. I listen to her frail heartbeats, silently begging, pleading, helpless against her quite incoming death.

With a tear-stained face, my mouth utters its own prayer as I hold my almost dying newborn sister. With my shaking arms, I wrap her little body and hope my warmth can give life to thee like the spring sun’s kiss to a frozen naked tree.

My little spring bud
is now a blooming flower.
Death, love can conquer.

02.07.2017
©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to dVerse‘s Haibun Monday Ekphrasis and Haiga by Björn Rudberg (brudberg).
Today I would like you to write a haibun on any subject that you like. but you should illustrate it with one picture, and let picture prose and haiku complement each other.

P.S. This haibun is a recollection of a scene which happened six years ago when I held my almost dying sister. Today is her 6th birthday and she is still with us. ❤

dverse

Four Bullets

One. Two. Three. Four.

His seven-decade-old hands hold tight on the rusting rails of his lightless room’s window. His darkened eyes stare at the now fallen tree and then to the triumphant men who successfully defeated the lush pine.

The lush pine planted and reared by his wife. His wife who died last month.

He slowly turns his tear-stained face away from the laughing men and the defeated tree as his old hand unlocked the drawer hiding his pistol. He reaches further for the bullets and slowly loads the gun.

With a dark smile, he whispers…

One. Two. Three. Four.

Word count: 100
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Shivangi Singh

Here’s my dark comeback for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) January 17, 2017. 🙂 Miss you, PJ!

Read more stories here:

 

 

Red: A Rondelet

Dripping red blood
from her pale wrist she cut deeply.
Dripping red blood
screams her pain she kept hidden, locked.
She relish the pain silently,
her final seconds end slowly—
dripping red blood.

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 25.

The Rondelet is a relatively short poem using the entire opening line as its refrain. It is French in origin, another member of the 13th century Rondeau Family of Forms which is defined by its use of the rentrement.

The Rondelet is:

  • a heptastich, a poem in 7 lines.
  • in French syllabic. Syllable count per line are 4-8-4-8-8-8-4 In English tends to be iambic in pattern.
  • composed with a rentrement, in the Rondelet the entire L1 is repeated as refrain in L3 and L7.
  • rhymed. Rhyme scheme interlocks between the refrain AbAabbA.

Nature’s Calling: A Naani

If grief’s a black smoke
we’ll all be blind now.
Killings, murders, hate
are they nature’s calling?
Or we’re just all fan of dying?

Photo credit: Unsplash

In response to OctPoWriMo 2016 by Morgan Dragonwillow‘s Day 21.

The Naani is a stanzaic form found at Shadow Poetry and is most often an observation of human relations or current events although it can be open to any subject. Naani means “an expression of one and all”. The stanza form was introduced by Dr. N. Gopi an administrator at the Teluga University.

The defining features of the Naani are:

  • stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
  • syllabic, with a total syllable count of between 20 and 25 syllables.