Muhammad Ali

Muhammad Ali

I am Muhamamd Ali. I love to write poetry. I like reading books and thinking about people and things. Ideas delight me, nature mesmerizes me and people confuse me. I think a lot about about different cultures, peoples, civilizations and nations but then I feel really small and think about myself and this complicated web in which you, me and we all are...I maybe boring you. Or maybe not.

Is Poetry Dead? The Rise of Bad Poetry

The classics still have their audience, their aura of mystery and attraction but poetry as a living mode of expression for our cultural experience has died. Poetry is dead and we all have been its murderers in our own way.

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Thoughts with meaning, thoughts without

Thoughts with meaning, thoughts without
Order, chaos, clarity, doubt
All whirling in a dream
A turning, twisting, rushing stream

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The creation of the Adam fresco painting on the Sistine Chapel.

How to Understand a Poem or a Painting

When we look at a piece of art, a poem or a book, different feelings flow into our hearts such as love, reverence, awe, irritation, disgust, or outright hatred. What causes these feelings are myriads of meanings, memories, associations, and similar things that we experience in our lives. They give the meaning of art its profundity and complexity.

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A world globe representing the Contempla of the Princess of Aanunja

Chapter 3: A Call of the Forest

"He was on a dear hunt in a grove near the forest. He caught sight of a beautiful doe with her child. The doe strangely left the grove and began running towards the forest. The King pursued it with his retainers behind him. The doe was fast — too fast."

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Chapter 2: A Call of the Forest

The goon on the left held a sword. He swung it at Ghal. Ghal swiftly sidestepped and hit him in the arm with full force. The man cried and let go of the blade. Ghal was deft enough to catch it and chop off the offender's head. In a split second, he had it thrust into the stomach of the last attacker.

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Chapter 1: A Call of the Forest

Sanidar gave the sword one last look before placing it on the rack between the massive broadsword and the chest plate. He was exhausted, but the sword was complete at last. It had taken him weeks to forge it — melting raw iron ore and pouring it into ingots. Then came the long, excruciating task of annealing and hammering it into shape. 

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Prologue: A Call of the Forest

Everybody was wet and cold — very cold which was strange in this temperate land. But the rain was relentless and it had been falling for weeks. So far it showed no signs of ceasing. Every hut in the village had become a stream now. Only the Chief's Hut had remained. The hut was built on an ancient tree...

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Book Reviews