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I am a twelfth grader who loves reading long and impossibly complicated books. I hail from Pakistan, and I am also Muslim. I am interested in philosophy, astronomy, physics, medicine, and of course, literature! Friends describe me as a whimsical, energetic girl with too much of a vocabulary, and what could be identified as a grammar-mania. I often slaughter others' comments in terms of grammar, and if in writing, spelling. Well, it's like I always say! "Once an error, always an error!" I came to this site when searching for pictures of the Sailor Scouts. I came across this site's galleries (ironically, I am now a Gallery Super for 8 galleries: Serenity, Saturn, Mars, Allan and Anne, Witches 5, Galaxia, Droids, and Diamohn; check them out sometime!), and I decided to join, since I have been writing poetry since I was 9. And I'm so glad I did! I do believe that PnP is the greatest writing site existent, with the most noble of people and the best writing! My best friends in this site are Leigh G, Haley R, Brent Richard J, Samantha H, Samantha P, Sammy A, Jordan Screws, Eric Gasparich, Anthony Lane Stahlhut, and of course Kat Voletto! I sincerely thank all of these people for everything! ~**~ I thank my best friend ever, Leigh! Leigh is a girl of amazing strengths and talents. She's so much like me, in terms of trouble-making, that we have come to be known as the Trouble Twins! That or the Destructive Duo, take your pick! One thing is for sure: her books are amazing. So check out her writing and don't forget her poems! She's quite the amazing writer! ~**~ The Best Book of All Times: Flights of Fantasy! By Leigh G. Second Best Book of All Times: Past Alive! Also by Leigh G. ~**~ My favorite poem I have ever read, The Garden of Proserpine, by Algernon C. Swinburne. The Garden of Proserpine Here, where the world is quiet, Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds and barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale buds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes, Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name and number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pain in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes, And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of water shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night. ~**~ ~Meh~ Comments/Submits: Submits last 30 days: 1 Comments given: 1 Average Comments/Day: 0.03 Total given: 590 Total received: 268 Help |
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