Writer's Garden

Writer's Garden

Writer's Garden

You must read this poem

There always, always

something sings.

Let me go where’er I will
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young;
From all that’s fair, from all that’s foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.
It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There always, always something sings.
‘Tis not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cups of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast’s mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things,
There always, always something sings.

Ralph Waldo Emerson


On a safe
journey to SCARESTREET!

A dusty lane where no birds sing
No green trees where children swing
After dusk, no one dares to walk through it
At night, where, in none of the houses, a lantern is lit
Phantoms and spirits reside here they say
If you wish to see for yourself
Take a walk there you may
Down the dusty lane at the far end of the street
Where Terrorlane and the other road meet
Lies a quiet and still, calm green pool
Not a single leaf dares to fall on its water so cool
Those who take a dip in it
Ne’er come out again, they say
If you wish to see for yourself
Dive in you may
Down the dusty lane, where strong breezes flow
And wild flowers and thorny bushes grew
Live hideous monsters from hell
And trees on whose branches spectres dwell
Those who take a nap under their shade
Ne’er wake up again they say
If you wish to see for yourself
Spend a night under them you may
Down the dusty lane, stands a majestic tree two houses away
Whose branches dance to the breeze and gently sway
The only tree with flowers and fruits, fresh ‘n’ new
Very tempting and delicious to its visitors few
Never, never should you eat its fruit
I knew not why they say
If you really want to know what happens
Taste it you may
A jackal’s spine chilling howl is heard at night
Or the blood curdling laughter of evil spirits
That cuts the silence making you shiver with fright
The wired things that happens here they say
Are the works of spectres that haunt the old shrine
The eerie creepiness of this place
Sends, a chill down your spine
‘Scarestreet’ is what they call this dusty old lane
No person who has visited it before
Would ever want to pay a visit again
From coming to this place, you should refrain!

Arshia Suman
Std VIII ‘C’
Presidency School,
R T Nagar, Bangalore.

Encounter with a Ghost

One silent night, as I lay awake in bed,
I thought I heard someone call my name,
Which sounded like the cold voice of a person dead,
But when I turned to see who it was,
There was no one as said!
Slowly, out of the dark, a figure did appear,
It stood there repeating my name,
“Came! Came!”, it said, “Oh! Dear!”,
“You sure seem frightened, why do you fear?”
When I did not respond it drew near.
It stopped a few yards away.
Who was it? I couldn’t see.
So I kept mum, for I daren’t anything say,
Daring to breathe, if that makes a sound,
Very quiet and motionless I lay.
Finally, it came and stood beside me,
So close that I could feel its hot breath ice my face,
Was it a ghost?! Oh! That couldn’t be!
For spectres and spirits are all superstions,
They don’t exist in reality, you see?!
It burst into peels of laughter
It wailed a little and then gave a scornful laugh
when all of a sudden I heard the window  pane shatter
rain lashed the earth with fury
It was now confirmed that it was a ghost and
that settled the matter
mustering courage I prepared to shout
but before I could do so, its hand reached out for my throat
was it my life that it wanted?
I had a doubt
but just before I could react
the lights went out!
as loud as I could, I began to scream
horror struck, I woke up with a start!
and realised it was just a dream
it all seemed so real, it seemed so true
when there it was, flowing beside my bed, a blood stream!

Arshia Suman, 8 C
Presidency School
R.T. Nagar

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