Fantasy Poem Quotes

“Di gran furore si pregna il suo scheletro,
bagliori saettano, uscendo e rientrando
da essa come rincorsi durante una fuga.
Sembra un dio del cielo, pieno di boria,
quando ai mortali si appresta a elargire
doni che celano invero soltanto inganni.
Alza l’avambraccio, contrae il bicipite,
rilucono nei sui occhi di ghiaccio le luci
ornate dai lapislazzuli. Secco il rilascio.
Un potente boato squassa l’intero suolo.”
― Fabrizio Corselli, Il Portatore di Corni

“Di gran furore si pregna il suo scheletro,
bagliori saettano, uscendo e rientrando
da essa come rincorsi durante una fuga.

Sembra un dio del cielo, pieno di boria,
quando ai mortali si appresta a elargire
doni che celano invero soltanto inganni.

Alza l’avambraccio, contrae il bicipite,
rilucono nei suoi occhi di ghiaccio le luci
ornate dai lapislazzuli. Secco il rilascio.

Un potente boato squassa l’intero suolo.”
― Fabrizio Corselli, Il Portatore di Corni

“Fantasy and Responsibility (The Sonnet)

Fantasy is good so long as it doesn't make us,
Oblivious to our responsibility of reality.
Imagination expands the mind for sure,
Only when it empowers our acts of accountability.
Growing up in India, I did not have superman,
But I did indulge religiously in some shaktimaan.
I don't know whether it influenced my making,
But it sure did fill my childhood with fascination.
People draw inspiration from different places,
That's a normal tenet of the mind, not a violation.
But inspiration is inspiration only when it leads,
To collective uplift, otherwise it's just delusion.
Fantasy is healthy when practiced with moderation.
Too much fiction paralyzes responsibility and reason.”
― Abhijit Naskar, Amantes Assemble: 100 Sonnets of Servant Sultans

“Wizard Hare was quite a sight,
With magic powers, he took flight.
He soared across the land so wide,
With his wand and hat by his side.

One day he met seven devils,
Who were up to their usual revels.
They looked at him with wicked eyes,
And said, "We'll make you pay the price."

But Wizard Hare was not afraid,
He knew his magic could be displayed.
He raised his wand and cast a spell,
And sent the devils straight to hell.

But they were not so easily defeated,
And soon they rose up, quite conceited.
They laughed and jeered at Wizard Hare,
And said, "We'll get you yet, beware!"

The devils plotted and schemed all night,
And when the dawn broke, they took to flight.
They flew to Wizard Hare's castle gate,
And there they lay in wait.

But Wizard Hare was not so daunted,
He had a plan, his magic flaunted.
He called upon the spirits of the air,
And sent them forth to do his share.

The spirits blew a mighty gust,
And the devils were thrown into the dust.
Wizard Hare then struck his wand,
And sent the devils to beyond.

The devils were never seen again,
And Wizard Hare remained a friend.
To all who knew him far and wide,
With his magic wand and hat by his side.”
― D.L. Lewis

“Seven days and seven nights; Isendjan! Isendjan!
Seven ways to make it right; Isendjan! Isendjan!
Pray and Pilgrimage and Rest, all of these a small request.
Keep your shoes beneath your bed.
Rejoice! But do not cover your head,
Else will Babaroga hap
To snatch your boots and bald your cap!
Beware, beware, the Witch of Old.
Forget not what has been foretold of
Isendjan! Isendjan! Seven nights and seven days of
Isendjan! Isendjan! The Mirror, the Hag, away aways!”
― Molly Collier, The Paragon

“The Witch of the Crater dove in and survived.
The Witch of the Badlands bade mountains her hive.
Devourer, Deceiver, Destroyer in one.
No soul made it past her defenses alive.
Where sand turns to craggy rock, turn back and run.
Of body and blood, the Devourer leaves none.”
― Molly Collier, The Paragon

“Deep in the desert, o’er painted rock hill,
Once was an ocean aplenty until
The Devourer emerged, the water was scourged.
What should never have emptied nevermore would fill.

Deep in the desert, ‘neath painted rock hill,
The thwarted one waits for the levee to fill.
The witch drank it dries, the crow stole her eyes, so she usurped its body and took to the skies.

Deep in the desert o’er painted rock hill,
The crow hag thirsts when the stormclouds refill.
The crow drinks them dry, the hag tarries by, but not a drop descends from the grey desert sky.

Deep in the desert ‘neath painted rock hill,
The crow plots its descent into the anthill.
The ants–unawares–have forgotten their prayers.
The Devourer remembers and hungers still.”
― Molly Collier, The Paragon