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The Sylvan Godling of LoveBy Madhura Banerjee QuailBellMagazine.com At times, when the sleepy, old light Of the farewelling, March-end sun, And the soft breaths of coming summer Through my weary soul do run, And the city squalor turns to vapor – I sometimes rewrite thy words – Such delicate words, such pretty flowers, Easily blown by gusty herds I fall against a cloud of petals, Every ash of doubt cleansed white, Every bleakness, every sorrow, Every pallor take momentary flight I see, in dimensions a million, Shapes and hues, unexplored worlds, Reality, never more welcome, In most beautiful tracts, unfurls As is the tenderness of love, True and unsought, selfless, untainted, You are – bright star of my lost evenings, For you, sylvan soul, mine hath fainted Madhura Banerjee is seventeen years old, and a school student, from West Bengal, India. In her pre-teens and early teens, her poems have been published in the extras of The Telegraph, namely "Telekids" and "The Telegraph in Schools." Her short story had been short-listed in the Top Twenty-Five of the All-India Scholastic Writing Awards of 2006. Her work has been published in the online magazine, Teen Ink. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
La PrimaEditor's Note: Christine Stoddard and Christine Skelly (yeah, that's Christine squared) are working on an illustrated poetry collection called Ladies of Lore. You might've read some of the poems here on QuailBellMagazine.com since many of them were featured in Photo Tales, but others are brand new! Here's the poem Christine Skelly's most recently illustrated. And we'll be posting info on the forthcoming book soon(ish). Autumnal longings inspire nostalgia.
Perish, Summer. The new season must ascend to the throne. Pass your crown to shorter days and owl-filled nights. Let leaves burn, wither, and fall. Let thoughts of death pervade one and all. Like Spring, Summer urges growth. It looks to life, to the future. The dead are forgotten-- like the dark side of a knife. That makes Summer a cruel month indeed, especially for the deceased. Remember even what no longer gleams. Honor the dead, as the Mexicans say. Bring them flowers, invite them to play. It is not morbid to dwell at a funeral. Morbidness implies sickness. But she who admires the trees and wonders about past loves and the true fate of the dead is not sick. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
She's a little punkier this go around.Photographer: Jasmine Thompson Hair & Make-up: Kasey Kohlhorst Model: Audrey Hood Clothes: Rumors Boutique QuailBellMagazine.com "Oh, hey, Marilyn!" she chirps, "Nice red lipstick. Me? I just didn't feel like doing the sexy thing today. By the way, where's my husband?" Check out Quail Bell's Facebook page for fashion!
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What's your sign?There ain't no party like a Quail party, so join in on the fun. It's going to get sweaty, stinky, and maybe even a little outrageous. We're going to be posting every single day, no exceptions. And this time we think we'll be honorable and actually keep our promise. Now let's go smooch until the disco ball. This blog is about to get real.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When She Grew UpCheck out Quail Bell's Facebook page for fashion!
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