Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Student Arka Basu24/Male/United Kingdom Groups :iconcandidcritics: CandidCritics
 
Recent Activity
Deviant for 6 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 203 Deviations 893 Comments 18,844 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Literature
Song of Saudades
Saudade /souˈdädə/ n., singular,
‘a feeling of longing, melancholy or nostalgia’,
it reads in the Oxford English Dictionary,
though this definition remains incomplete,
and justly so.
Saudade, a breeze from the depths,
that tickles in between the tongue and the palate,
to no avail. Saudade, the empty laughter
of yesteryear: the figurines of childhood.
A ritual cleansing of the eyes,
a watershed word or the wilting whereabouts
of ideals.
Saudade: to have what may never be had,
to die of the blues, to know sehnsucht intimately well,
to drown in the dreams of lovers.
Saudade. To forget wonderment, to forgo indulgence,
to cease the search.
Saudade.
To incomplete.
   
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 0 0
Literature
A Familiar Space
The casement peered eerily at the decrepit churchyard, grimacing at the reinstatement of the bell-ringer’s apprentice. Two droplets shadowed each other along the ethereal landscape, only to conspire by the corner of the peeling muntin, and then go their own ways inconspicuously. Another subtle sunset had been set in motion, but the cornsilk curtains did not think much of this rather tasteless sport, and chose to censor it on grounds of sadism. In Dobnarov’s room, the tables were never bare and the armchair had seen better days in the office of an emeritus professor - Professor Levy Barnes - no less, the impervious face of spatial erudition on both sides of the Atlantic. His books lay around like the ruins of a pagan temple: much worshipped in the old days, but with humbled walls that had tasted the bitter defeat of completion. Dobnarov never hesitated in putting his things in place; there was a place for all things in his room once he began to contemplate how impoverished h
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 0 0
Literature
The Compassionate Adulterer to His Love
Come live with me and let us prove
What pleasured springs eruct with love,
In thorn and furze, the bracken dew
Can wait an age; it waits on you.
But ours is terse, its timely birth,
Whelped by the sorrows of the Earth
That girdled skin round workday bones
To slight our kinship with flagstones,
Can broach the deserts of decline
And palliate this sin of mine:
Oh let the nymphs and dryads be
What touches thee, tastes poetry.
So let us lie, the sheets are strewn
In purple riot, the heart of June
Seeps softly in sumac and myrrh
Embedded with a scent of her.
If she sleeps, knowing all, she sails
Adrift a sea of stars; the tales
That serenade the thirst unseen
Are ghosts of garbles—never been.
And though our twine is verboten,
And dawn will cite this fear of men,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 1 2
Literature
The Old Ways
The old are always protecting themselves
in the way they speak, shouldering words
as they soldiered on through pink and pittances,
buffeted by diminution. They dice their words,
dealing only as little as it takes to enamel flavour,
retiring the rest into Tupperware paraphernalia, repairing
to the bedroom, inaudibly behind a hardcover, which bides its while
where the wind blows, bartered by borrowed air.
Always the unheeded precautions: the seasonal stew
may babble with solicitude, never gusto
while the julienned aubergines justify every austerity measure
- each a testament to the Great War -
the quiet war of animation and attrition
as winter finds a comfortless corner to die.
Each a Diogenes to his own cause, saving scraps
of dignity in misplaced parables and promises of bequeathal:
the old play the precarious sport of procrastination.
Enumerating the fears of the same dogeared journey,
the prognosis of the situation is hardly original:
'When I was your age' - begins the fated period d
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 2 0
Literature
Connecting the Dots
I've dealt in death with you. We knew the bill,
and going Dutch seemed okay. Colouring in the spaces
perhaps resolved the stasis of these outlines,
but now this painted portrait subtly repines
for life, for what small art is born of drowning faces.
Submerged beneath your throes I held a beacon,
ambling between your toes I worshipped Eve,
so saturnine, whose lips of time could not preclude
this fruit of mine. Alone at last, the senses brood
on rectitude, while nameless lovers leave.
Would you care for a lie? An explanation?
You must have your own, mine are gormless -
it was not passion, merely impassioned:
irrationally cherished, rightly rationed.
When did our days perceive this lacking
rousing spore on spore, spire and steeple?
Evoking the strange and sublime to embrace
the earliest preserver of people.
We’ve dueled with death and dice. But who can blame
the shamefully bored of rolling one too many times?
I knew the rules as they were spoken
and you let them be, bare, unbroken.
I
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 1 1
Literature
Death of a Year
We stand on the footstools of yesterday’s promises,
peering into the blue harmony of a timeless aubade:
the new year separates us from the old;
their rustic charms and world wise baubles
are fading, falling, kissing white December’s brow   -
the magic is in wane, the Wicca in the wine
offers little relief in way of innocence;
instead the remembrance alleviates the holidays:
what a time it was, what a place it was –
what paradise it was  - that spectre of Insouciance.
Last night’s basting, Jacobi’s painting, the real thing -
sooner or later everyone becomes a thing:
objects remind us of piecemeal courtships,
passion in a pendrive portends the minimalism of the soul
once feather driven by the heart dregs of Tasso – Toulmin
explains the six elements fundamental to each argument
with little claim to why we’re arguing and
even lesser qualification of why conflict needs a structure.
Structure,  edifice, complex, fabric, battery cages
t
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 5 2
Rick Grimes - The Walking Dead by Zark123 Rick Grimes - The Walking Dead :iconzark123:Zark123 0 4
Literature
The Cycle of Passion
Never knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,  
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 12 2
Literature
Sleep Well, My Soul
Sleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 12 5
Literature
The Fall of Epithilinon
I
Let no man speak of wars whence
No answer graced our call,
Let man remember gods thence
Gods, watchful of our fall;
Speak in silenced sighs, men,
Dead men hither sleep,
No flag here flails, amen, amen!
Who can ever beweep
Our brethren in the deep.
II
Frightened colours breached the sky,
The church bells played a dirge;
The bustling hills and vales so nigh
In crimson rage did merge,
Archers with crescents held high
Keen arrows fell like sin,
The portcullis in sorrow, shy
Interred our fathers in
The last grave of our kin.
III
Wailed the night in thunder blare;
The mangonels did come,
Lonely trumpets singed the air
When Earth ravished our home;
The eastern tower, wasting wear
For a trebuchet did bow,
Fallen stone and ballista bare
Broke its stony vow,
As the beadle mopped his brow.
IV
Mildly armoured, men at arms
Stormed the brazen fray,
Howled the castle’s cold alarms:
Ladder men up the brae!
Blazed in ire the fields and farms:
The winter’s yield was spent;
The cleric
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 69 30
Mature content
Blitzed :iconzark123:Zark123 1 1
Literature
A Slice of Entropy
Life is not form or symmetry or a stack of hours
on a dustless shelf
falling, hovering, floating, flailing
feeling comfortably numb
in a lover’s grasp
is the autumn of an ancient anarchy
knowing all these affections are temporary
and as they cease, so shall I
from a star to a star
streaks the dye of the unending night
shedding colour on what is alive
, momentarily,
basking in the ambivalence of creation
wondering what is the great purpose
of existence, survival, procreation;
Why must life go on?
Unanswered,
life goes on
tempting desire
fantasy, excess, poverty
of objective, of reason
naught lasts a season,
gravity is the do all end all
in the cosmos, time rules god.
Wishes and wills, thoughts, sentiments, impulses,
cannot slow that unforgiving arm,
or plug that black hole of impendence,
victory and defeat
will meet at square 1;
the cheers and the jeers will die away
in the violence of that
final silence.
Life – 0. Death – 0.
Vita incerta, mors certissima.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 4 1
Literature
My Knight in Formal Armour
Nobody loves Monday, but she was not Nobody. Monday mornings meant a host of official emails, a swarm of new themes to gossip about and a cup of tea that couldn’t quite wake her from the torpor instilled by the weekend’s laxness. Her boss would come up to her desk and take a progress report of her current projects and by the end of the day she would have to type it out send over once again. She would often order takeaway to brighten the fated day but it did little to change things when you have to be professional while eating your fricassee or your fries. A potpourri of “social synergy” events often took place on Mondays, but to know that that was another excuse to boost employee efficiency conveyed a heart of emptiness.
She worked on seventh grade textbooks, filtering through its content with the keen eye one develops as an editor and looked forward to that first cup of tea that would give her a few minutes to stare at the day’s excited sensex. The cup of
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 4 0
Literature
An Early Present
These three lines for you
Are all I have this Christmas:
Love, lovely season.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 9 8
Literature
The River Run
It has been a month and soon it will be two;
This ship, it seems, has run its course,
What are we but time’s impending sighs
In a song sung sick; far, far too hoarse?
Life’s dregs are prime, not in hue and cry
Beneath bored Fate’s arousing gaze;
But grow in dole and delight to die
In the battle of every days.
Among the knolls and hills we climb,
Compelled by life’s great upland strive,
I guess one must desert that freight
Which hurts not life nor helps to live.
Thus, to a star, I dare divulge
The wick too will taste this earthly shame;
With prudence dishevel the eyes of time
And give no moment a lasting name.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 7 3
Literature
The Empty Chair
The evening breeze and the extra cup,
A lonely shadow upon the ceiling
And all things “destined” on the up:
Absent from a funeral of feeling.
The cloak of a Sunday in the sun;
Each passing taxi reeks of a plan:
In lieu of nothing, the day is won
Affords to think a better man.
Killing moments, playing tag with the mind:
The first paramour of pagan day;
A second honeymoon of lost fears can find
A love for that familiar blue Bombay.
The erratic world can be rather still:
A man and his betrothed corner of air
A deadbeat verse on a diner bill
Wooing the crevices of the empty chair.
:iconZark123:Zark123
:iconzark123:Zark123 7 1

Favourites

Thank you for everything by Dafuq-Izdis-Schitt Thank you for everything :icondafuq-izdis-schitt:Dafuq-Izdis-Schitt 5,763 380 Never. by Sous-Sol Never. :iconsous-sol:Sous-Sol 1,436 395 Audrey by daekazu Audrey :icondaekazu:daekazu 5,856 234
Literature
Elegy for a Gamer
Elegy for a Gamer
You spent hours in the evenings on your tattered sofa
Strengthening fingers,
Honing hand-eye coordination
At your side you constructed little monuments
Of empty chip bags and candy wrappers
And glasses cradling the dregs of grape Kool-Ade
No one could beat you in races
You were the master of the K.O.
And your high scores are still the bane of children in the arcade
No one could match your time for
Completing the level, reaching the end of the game
Now you’ve done it again
Alas, dear friend, all your
Bonus points, coins, and trophies
Do you no good now
There are no extra lives, no
Little hearts to collect to replace yours
Once it’s run out
I apologize- If I could,
I would have built a respawn point
In the spot where the carpet has worn to suit you
But too late for that
All I can do now is read the credits
And switch off the console
Your controllers sit in the box under the tv
You never let us use them, and now we
Let them gather dust, out of respect
:iconLady-Xythis:Lady-Xythis
:iconlady-xythis:Lady-Xythis 8 19
Literature
Daily Insights - (a-z)
Last Updated: 4/12/2017. Tip: Hold down CTRL + F in your browser to find keywords easier.
200+ passages to be added soon : )
List of Topics:

1. Actions vs. Words
2. Affect and be the good effect
3. Age
4. The Alcoholic
5. Answers
6. Argument
7. Assumptions
8. At the Door
9. Bad Moods
10. Be
11. Become
12. Being Quiet
13. Be vs. Believe
14. Best
15. Blindness // Misconceptions // Ignorance
16. Bloodshed
17. Body Modifications
18. Books vs. Poetry vs. Short Stories
19. Business // Work
20. Changing the World // Changing People's Mind
21. Character
22. Circle of thought, all things within It, Eternity beyond it
23. Comedy // Humor
24. Complexity vs. Simplicity
25. Creative Drive // Aptitude // Visions // Ideas
26. Critical Acclaim
27. Criticism vs. Praise
28. Death // Immortality
29. Deeds
30. Depression vs. Happiness
31. Destruction // Extinction
32. Devil
33. Differences
34. Diversity in the Eyes of an
:iconVicariouSoul:VicariouSoul
:iconvicariousoul:VicariouSoul 7 0
Journal
Art Feature - Poetry + Art: Speculative
Hello Artists:
Gearing up for National Poetry Month in April (NaPoWriMo), I thought it fitting to do a feature pairing poetry and visual art. I selected poems that had been posted just this year, and were speculative in nature. Speculative poetry (more definitions on my blog http://onewritersmind.blogspot.com/2013/02/building-audience-for-speculative.html ) is highly imaginative, and uses themes from fantasy, science fiction, and horror. I also tried to choose poems that had not (yet) received a DD or such. Then I paired them to a piece of visual art that seemed appropriate, to me, anyway. Enjoy!





I Have Loved the Stars Too Fondly by LaBruyere Light Pollution by tfavretto
thrall by toxic-nebulae    The Planets - Venus by InertiaRose
A Lament for Laika by Zark123    Aura Of a Dog by Katt-Peachy
Carbon by Clevina    Coal to Diamond by ArtistInWaiting
Goddess of Death by Valkyrie-Ghost
I'll be looking for
:iconjagrier:jagrier
:iconjagrier:jagrier 9 5
Journal
The Lonely Path



Share
|Archive


I have never found a companion who was so companionable as solitude.
Henry David Thoreau
By :icontechgnotic: techgnotic
I I always thought of Thoreau’s comment as simply a word game — clever but ultimately false at its core. A Valentines Day without a Valentine means being alone and alone means being unhappy. It’s taken many years to finally understand the truth in Thoreau’s words. We are never so alone as when in the company of loving family and friends, our Valentine companion held tight in our arms – but knowing we are lost, unfulfilled in our dreams and visions, and untrusting in our own inner counsel. Now I hope to one day seek companions
:icontechgnotic:techgnotic
:icontechgnotic:techgnotic 1,384 936
Epilogue or 19 years later by Mokchik Epilogue or 19 years later :iconmokchik:Mokchik 116 29 Hope by jarling-art Hope :iconjarling-art:jarling-art 3,426 286
Literature
Dear Human
Dear Human,
You continue to write in me. You take a pen and mark my pages with memories. Why do you do this? I cannot help you; I cannot accompany you through your life. You will write in me and then what you write will stay hidden beneath my cover. These words do not solve any of your troubles, or make any of your joys greater. Why do you continue to write? I do not care what happened to you on March 16th, be that March 16th in 2002 or March 16th in 2012. I do not care.
I do not care what happens from day to day, the world outside which I have not seen in years. I am shut in a drawer in a desk that never changes. I do not know the people whose names you scrawl, sometimes with hate, which fills me, sharp words, sharp tip of the pen, stabbing, carving deep symbols, these words that indent other pages, stretching deeper, impaling me with your passions. I hate these names, these people, these deeds, with such hate that I cannot think beyond the fresh ink. The next page is blank and sends
:icondeath-in-the-orchard:death-in-the-orchard
:icondeath-in-the-orchard:death-in-the-orchard 67 99
Journal
Let's Talk Writing: Issue 6
Let's Talk Writing: Issue 6
Let's Talk Writing is my new article featuring five different writers that I've discovered here on deviantArt. It will be published every Friday. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to note me. I will take them into consideration. Now, Let's Talk Writing!
Writer #1: :iconshortiefish: ShortieFish

What inspired you to start writing?
I just... I really love words. All sorts of words. They're wonderful, and they can all express so much deep feeling when used correctly. I'm not sure what got me into writing, but it was probably words.

How much do you feel you've improved in the last few years?
Oh god, a lot. When I first started writing... well, let's just say I look back and I'm not too happy. Ahaha...

Why do you post your writing to deviantArt?
I post my work on dA because I want feedback and I also just like to share it. I mean, some peopl
:iconlion-essrampant:lion-essrampant
:iconlion-essrampant:lion-essrampant 3 10
Journal
Daily Literature Deviations for June 24th, 2012
Guidelines | How to Suggest a DLD | Group Administrators | Affiliation | Chatroom | Current Staff Openings
Daily Lit Deviations for June 24th, 2012
We are proud to feature today's Daily Literature Deviations!
You can show your support by :+favlove:ing this News Article.

Please comment and :+fav: the features and congratulate the artists!
:pointr: For all of the featured artists: If you receive a DD for one
of your pi
:iconDailyLitDeviations:DailyLitDeviations
:icondailylitdeviations:DailyLitDeviations 17 5
Literature
So It Goes
Liars, thieves and hypocrites
How could it get any worse than this?
They'll grin and pat your shoulder
Then watch your family smolder.
The masquerade isn't broken
They'll tell you so, but way below
A monster has awoken
Belching smog of woe.
Sometimes what is ugly can be hidden
Beneath a mask
Or bewitched with a magic flask
So others will adore it.
But the simple truth: it doesn't matter
The fake attention will make you sadder
What is meaningful will shatter
Don't you know?
So it goes.
Kings and queens of endless wars
What was healthy is covered in sores
Sick and twisted, but smiling wide
While secretly screaming inside.
Some are born into fortune old
To make their good life, others are sold
They're fed whatever's wanted
But within, their hearts are haunted.
Why do we hate the rats?
Those deemed less worthy, told to scat
Because they foul our very presence with their need.
But everything must have its place
Rip off that mask, just show your face
The only thing that's ugly is the mind.
:iconCrazyone222:Crazyone222
:iconcrazyone222:Crazyone222 6 1
Literature
Fireflies
A silent, cold lonely night, looking up in the sky,
just the sound of fireflies whizzing by,
while shining bright streaks of light distract my eye,
no noise could distract my mind tonight.
Let the intertwining lights hypnotize,
mesmorizingly synchronized to mystify,
put in a trance by just a glance
because of what they synthesized
Invite the light to excite my eye,
and expel the darkness from my mind,
the light combined with the thoughts inside,
aligned to remind me that it's alright,
The glow leaves a design in it's trail,
with amazing amounts of detail,
though contrived slow, the glow unveils,
prevailing 'cause what it entails.
Silence fades as the lights speak loud,
twirling all around,
moonlight covered by the clouds,
I keep with me the light I've found.
:iconFreshlEBaked:FreshlEBaked
:iconfreshlebaked:FreshlEBaked 13 19
Anne Frank Smiling by MissyLynne Anne Frank Smiling :iconmissylynne:MissyLynne 35 8
Pulchra moriens te veniat.On a caliginous night, under the aphotic sky,
I lay beneath the arches of times gone by,
Below the spires and the facade of old,
I realized that time was every man's gold.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
Somewhere beyond in a field of Four o Clocks,
She arose like a spirit, shimmering and pale,
Her silhouette, lithe, petite and frail,
Gleaming brilliantly to dispel the witching hour,
Her flowing sable gown swept through the grass,
Putting everything in it's path to eternal rest,
Her long dark hair glided down her back,
And became one with the night.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
The bells chimed once, and the bells chimed twice,
As I reminisced many a virtue and vice,
My languid heart, my only friend,
The only thing that stays till the very end.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
She sauntered across the marshes, ever so softly,
Her treads so tender, bent not a blade of grass,
A formidable aura of boundless strength,
Lay around her like an unwavering shield,
For the beasts and creatures of the night,
Pulchra moriens te veniat.On a caliginous night, under the aphotic sky,
I lay beneath the arches of times gone by,
Below the spires and the facade of old,
I realized that time was every man's gold.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
Somewhere beyond in a field of Four o Clocks,
She arose like a spirit, shimmering and pale,
Her silhouette, lithe, petite and frail,
Gleaming brilliantly to dispel the witching hour,
Her flowing sable gown swept through the grass,
Putting everything in it's path to eternal rest,
Her long dark hair glided down her back,
And became one with the night.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
The bells chimed once, and the bells chimed twice,
As I reminisced many a virtue and vice,
My languid heart, my only friend,
The only thing that stays till the very end.
Pulchra moriens te veniat.
She sauntered across the marshes, ever so softly,
Her treads so tender, bent not a blade of grass,
A formidable aura of boundless strength,
Lay around her like an unwavering shield,
For the beasts and creatures of the night,

Activity


Saudade /souˈdädə/ n., singular,
‘a feeling of longing, melancholy or nostalgia’,
it reads in the Oxford English Dictionary,
though this definition remains incomplete,
and justly so.

Saudade, a breeze from the depths,
that tickles in between the tongue and the palate,
to no avail. Saudade, the empty laughter
of yesteryear: the figurines of childhood.
A ritual cleansing of the eyes,
a watershed word or the wilting whereabouts
of ideals.

Saudade: to have what may never be had,
to die of the blues, to know sehnsucht intimately well,
to drown in the dreams of lovers.
Saudade. To forget wonderment, to forgo indulgence,
to cease the search.

Saudade.
To incomplete.
   


If there ever were any misgivings about the critical condition of the thrashing, flailing, fated art of expression, tête-à-tête, the Pre Raphaelite angst was chronologically misplaced. Looking to the Romantics for inspiration, riding on their Arthurian bandwagon steered by the prophetic John Ruskin, while Christina Rossetti rode shotgun was all very grave post 1848, but the 21st century renders the artistic escapade almost carnivalesque. Any doubt with regard to the regression of the human conveyance of thought has been secretly loaded into the caboose of messages which await us incessantly on the other side of the mirror. So, the next time someone barks out, ‘the world has become a smaller place’, dog them into substantiating whose world and how before their malfeasance goes viral.   

Of course, everyone wants to talk, it’s the human denial of nonexistence that plants an impugnable seed that makes the individual confident that his or her words have a purpose and as the perpetual motion machine is a concrete idea, semantically speaking, speech engenders purpose. But just as human speech has travelled the lonely mile, it has shared a complicitious relationship with art, music, war and in recent times, technology. The implacable plethora of devices which serve to facilitate social intercourse have unfortunately administered such an extent of communicational placebo that the carcinoma of pseudo-communication has sustained a life of its own. The mere impact of infatuation that the user possesses for standing between a looking glass and a hand glass contributes to the creation of an exponential maelstrom of the same text, the same images and the same set of theories which rebound off a platform with hardly any friction. The internet, the holy mother of resource sharing has become a blaring, incongruent pot luck of a few flagrant opinions switching many hands like a penny, travelling the world without any expense, save time. Ironically, it is this very platform which is nurturing its own critique. The development of languages in the potpourri of svelte networking has resulted in the invention of the tentative abbreviations, slapdash art and little motivation towards any advancement in any value added interchange. Whether fallow brb saved anyone enough breath to complete a cursory will before the impending cardiac arrest or whether the Machiavellian smiley ever brought anyone fractionally closer to empathizing with another person’s chemicals in heat is hardly the point; the real question is in this dastardly discounted circumcision of the language was any progress even envisioned?

Tragically, the elegy of an arsenal of cell phones, tablets, computers and other ways to ‘reconnect’ with persons of interest concludes with a dolorous volta voicing an impotency to appreciate personal company. As we’re always together through our idiosyncratic Snapchat correspondences in pet shops or our Whatsapp billets-doux sitting by Powai lake, it is an indolent misery to meet someone once in a while. Where is the thirst for the dangling conversation – we practically scaled the Andes sometime in the last month, listened to the new releases of Korpiklaani a fortnight ago and hey, we’re screen siblings, we don’t need a rendezvous. More is the plaintiveness in making conversation, what was the constant single file beauty of letters across a flat screen – uniform, equally spaced and mediated – is now the eye’s adaption to the graceless motions of a face which lacks that disciplined delivery and the troughs and trials of a touch and go voice which is only too wary of pillory piranhas. The knock-down drag-out slaughter of the embellished self is momentary, the deception as the art becomes artifice lasts well into retrospection. In the end it is our enamel perfection in the armoire of graphic porcelain which eviscerates us; our revulsion towards our imperfections is as old and as rigid as deism. Occasionally, eschewing from the verity of private chagrin, the parley is light, joyous and ample with seasonal josh, but dedicated indulgence in the voyeurism of private lives leaves the reunion a little bare in terms of surprises, absolutions and the presence of good willed jubilation. It’s like rereading or having the fifth serving of prawn puttasenca, the constituents have not altered, the craving has settled. The cornucopia of reciprocation also advocates the ‘more is less’ abstraction. While I have five different ways of reaching the average friend, my choice of media is limited by word count, pixel checks, privacy barriers, professional civility and of course their continuance on the medium of my choice. Trying to swap between all of these totems of social supremacy, I get very meagre crumbs of information across such as a chipped toenail, two lines from a David Hall poem or a mawkish aspect of my CV. The obvious argument would meander towards an inefficient usage of all these means of communication which I haven’t mustered in my 21 years of existence. Agreed, but in my defence, these chariots of noncommittal ambivalence are all too new, getting newer every day, though proficient, will I ever reach peripheral proficiency? Instead, in the twenty one years of wandering the realms of privy experience, surely the pictures, the posts, the tweets and the shares are all raindrops that wash off the banyan tree to carry a sentient flavour of their former host; they do little to recompense its essence.

It is vain inertia which arises from the assurance that our last conversation was merely a week ago, it is the origin of a slow and steady root rot which will over the years recant all that binds a faction of minds. While it may pass for societal rectitude, unlike art which survives the artist, a message cannot outwear the messenger. The thespians will not perforate the sieve and our affections will not swaddle those who repudiate their ostentatious exertions at fostering good relations. Relationships are weaned on predilection and a certain tenacity which requires the old world idea of a face to face conversation, devoid of any media except the air we share. Much like any occupation whose accolades lie in the plane of commercial satiation, emotional salvation and an overall sense of being, communication takes vigour and a steadfastness which often escapes us in the course of our academic development. The undertaking is not gargantuan to an initiate, but distinction takes just as much perspiration as one’s professional moxie. An ascetic understanding takes degrees of failure, all of which span the massive mesic strata which divides the friendly from the friend. But you reap what you sow and this cultivation of communication is no different from the annals of any heritage of accomplishment. Sure, it means an hour dropped from a Napoleonic study schedule, leaving the sales meeting before everyone else and always appreciating that everyone else’s twenty fours are no shorter than yours. Yet, years and years hence, while others chaperone memories, you, embodying Shakespeare’s articulation of all that is spent, will possess ‘that which should accompany old age, as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends.’



Commissions

Commission for the Creation of Poetical Works
In dire need of an amorous sonnet? Wish to possess an elegy to commemorate someone who still has a significant part of you? Want a sequence of haikus for your bestie's birthday? It's all here for commission now! Drop me a note and we will talk about the specifics of the poem as well as the commission's production cycle. 

xx

Donate

Zark123 has started a donation pool!
36 / 20,000
I aspire to release an anthology of my poetry someday, but as I am still a student, I cannot afford the expenses involved. If you like my poems and would like to see them published sometime in the near future, feel free to donate as many points as you wish.

Your contribution shall not be forgotten, neither by me, nor in the book which shall bear memory of your kind generosity.

Thank You.

You must be logged in to donate.
  • :iconchandevi:
    Chandevi
    Donated Feb 17, 2013, 10:35:22 AM
    15
  • :iconchandevi:
    Chandevi
    Donated Feb 4, 2013, 4:51:11 PM
    10
  • :iconkrazzyfart:
    krazzyfart
    Donated Nov 17, 2012, 8:46:40 PM
    11

deviantID

Zark123's Profile Picture
Zark123
Arka Basu
Artist | Student | Literature
United Kingdom
Current Residence: Loughborough, UK
Favourite genre of music: Classic Rock
Favourite cartoon character: Shaggy (Scooby Doo)
Personal Quote: What's life without a merry tale, a bonnie song or paradisaical poem?
Interests

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconshehrozeameen:
shehrozeameen Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
happy birthday mate. Have a good one. :)
Reply
:iconmalintra-shadowmoon:
Malintra-Shadowmoon Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy Birthday :heart:
Reply
:iconspartan-locke:
spartan-locke Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2014   Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!
Reply
:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2014  Student General Artist
Sailing the seven seas Hello, dear! Your delightful work has been featured here: fav.me/d71wmh4. Have a lovely day!
Reply
:iconzark123:
Zark123 Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you! :) much appreciated!

Reply
:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2014  Student General Artist
You're welcome! :la:
Reply
:iconsimplysilent:
SimplySilent Featured By Owner Sep 21, 2013  Hobbyist Interface Designer
:iconflyingheartsplz::iconhello1plz::iconhello2plz::iconflyingheartsplz:

Hey there! :giggle: You've been given a deviantART Compliment! :heart: :dummy:

Hope you have a wonderful day! :tighthug:
Reply
:iconzark123:
Zark123 Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you for informing me =) I will check it out!
Reply
:iconthenandmshow:
thenandmshow Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2013  Student Writer
Happy Birthday! :cake:
Reply
:iconspartan-locke:
spartan-locke Featured By Owner Aug 28, 2013   Traditional Artist
Happy Birthday!
Reply
Add a Comment: