Introduction

poetically aligned; beneath these opal sunken twilit skies.

Rain falls on the many and sunshine only a few. In moments of joy, rain sure does feel like sunshine.

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Waking up to a thousand songs

each hour, they chime and sing,

I knew they would never sing again 

if there was no new day to bring

.

They mark the time with beak and wing

its slow passing now my desire;

forever bound to their floating song, 

forever bound to their charming fire

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves."

I feel that my entire experience with reading Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility can be summed up in the sarcasm of that sentence.

let me stay,

dancing like fae among flowers

lost to the breeze

and summer sun-showers

Elizabeth Bishop, The Complete Poems 1927-1979; from 'The Moose'

I was a gifted child. Until I wasn't. I was the golden girl. Until I couldn't burn anymore.

My parents expected me to build wings of gold and fly further than anyone could ever try. I don't blame them, having a child to raise is like sculpting a clay pot, you can shape it the way you like, paint it the colour you fancy. To raise a child is to play God. To raise a child is to be God.

But to be a child is to fall, to make mistakes, to fail. The thing about being too bright at an early age means you burn out by the time you're 16 and suddenly the world around you becomes more gray and terribly, terribly lonely. The fire is never warm enough, nothing is ever enough. And one day you find yourself begging to a godless sky, begging for a new spark.

I was a gifted child once. I was the golden girl. And one day, I burned out.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

“Accept how you feel but don’t let feelings rule you. You are in control. You are not their slave.”

— Unknown

Richard Hugo, Essay on Poetic Theory: The Triggering Town