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judy smith Apr 2016
title=
With fake and cheap copies of high-end popular designer wears increasing in the market, fashion experts have expressed their concern over plagiarism being on the rise in the industry.

"I think it (plagiarism) is an international problem, it is not just an Indian problem. It is said that plagiarism is a form of flattery (as the designs are getting copied). I don't subscribe to it. I am against it," noted designer Wendell Rodricks said.

"It took me seven years to patent my name Wendel l Rodricks as a brand. One should look to solve this problem the earliest," he said.

According to well-known designer Anita Dongre, the fashion industry should come together to tackle the issue.

"Now everything is digital, some of the designs get copied immediately online. All my lehengas are copied. It is sad," she said.

Echoing similar sentiments, designer Masaba also feels that plagiarism is the worst part of the fashion industry.

"It is sad that there is no control on the copycats...and too many undeserving people are getting recognition and chances to showcase," she said.

Masaba is known for her innovative prints and one can often see fake designs being sold at lesser prices.

"We are one of the most copied design houses in the country, and you just have to figure it if it eats into your business. If it doesn't, you shouldn't waste your time and money on it," she said.

Masaba, however, feels one can take culprits to court.

"Legal action can be taken if you have the bandwidth, but the fake market is too huge to tackle and lawmakers are extremely slow to act on it."

Wendell also thinks in a country like India, the legal matters pile up and it takes time, which is the sad part.

"The amount of time it takes in this country to bring someone (guilty) to court is too much. Ritu Kumar (designer) had taken people to court and won. But it is one of its kind of a case. You need to give that much amount of time," he said.

According to designer Gaurang Shah, one should take it as a compliment if their designs are copied.

"In a way it is a compliment that others are following you. But it is annoying as you work so hard and the design gets copied. It is a challenge for designers to come up with new ideas," he added.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2016 | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
Margo  Mar 2013
copied and pasted
Margo Mar 2013
everything seems copied and pasted
everything seems done before
the fear of finally saying you love me
when i’ve heard it a thousand times and more
romantic dinners at romantic restaurants
romantic walks romantic breaks
dressing up in cheap lingerie
sitting on your wanton face

everything seems copied and pasted
all the good and all the bad
whispered words of tender undoing
bitter fights that drive me mad
stress filled dinners at stress filled restaurants
stress filled walks stress filled breaks
dressing down in unflattering pyjamas
pushing away your angry face

everything seems copied and pasted
something old nothing new
everything borrowed
Cautiously, we're tied together, but that doesn't mean I'll be scared forever. With blotted thoughts you smeared my logic, blurred my memories and mixed them toxic. And honestly, I'm dying out, you smothered me with my own doubt. And as I drown, remember me, for all the things I couldn't be. Copycat, I'm losing here, and all you've done is uncover fear, you made me evil; illogical, and now I know you don't care at all. Do you make the desperate cries, logical to my demise? Involuntary refracts this soul, can you place back what you stole
from me?
--------------
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2017
Shining upon the rose,
lovely the sun rises
over the midday sky.

Without a second thought
the brightest one steps up
bends the ear on the ground.

Prophet Muhammad's (PBUH)
wife was waiting.
He was walking his way home.

Maybe or maybe not
one can revive from the
death sleeping at the night.
Hearing the sound
of the homecoming
beloved's foot though
one can't die.

The blessed lady heard
the sound of the foot
and was sure it was his.
This is it, it's the man, it's his!
He is coming home.

The sun is walking on the way.
It will show up
upon the rose in no time.

Ah, only to discover,
it was Fathima walking
father's home!

She, a woman had
her foot sounds the same as
the man's, the greatest of all!
The very one cannot be copied
because he is the masculine original.

Because from the one
same circle came
the man and the woman.
Maybe with a little gap
spilling infinite pi decimals
new days and new nights.

Still, these are a show of
the one Moon and the one Sun!
Mokomboso  Feb 2016
Dank memes
Mokomboso Feb 2016
I like memes
Words don't deliver half as much
My reaction can be boiled down
To 500x500 pixels
I'm utterly speechles
It takes no thought to post
It takes little wit
To giggle at an injoke
That the whole world is in on
It's nice to be part of something though
And share a snigger
We watch trends change
And language evolve
Without considering our role
What was rellevant some years ago
Is nostalgia in the archives
Of our collective history
Memes are the roman wall graffiti
Of the techno age
Only it's copied over and over
And spread like wildfire
Only to diseappear in the blink of an eye
Sydney Ann  Nov 2014
Exam Day
Sydney Ann Nov 2014
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I copied your exam,
*And I failed too.
Also from my best friend Krystal  XD
Secret-Author Mar 2016
Do you ever feel frustrated?

I'm overcome with a million words
                                                                ­that I know I'll never say.

Time stops around me,
But my brain is  a l i v e.

Thoughts gather,                
                               and 
                                              jmup 
                                                  ­               aornud
Until I can't make sense of what I'm feeling.
E v e r y t h i n g  becomes me.
I'm a deep, wide river
                                dried up in the sun.
Somehow barren,
                              yet
                              ­        drowning.


I'm walking along this road,
                                                     not going anywhere.

I'm living each day of the year,
But it's routine, copied,
                                            routine, copied,
                                                         ­                   routine, copied

The same    t i c k,    
                                    t o c k,    
                     t i c k,  
                                    t o c k,

Until I can't make sense,
                                          Of where I'm going.

I am nowhere.

I'm spinning in every direction,

Standing on top of the world.
                                                      
                                                                ­                L O S T

But here
All the same.
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and the money machine.

At the turn of the century when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for common folk to reach out and tell the world something up front and personal, it meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement an epitaph a form of audio immortality ~ life mood emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(this applies to earlier storytellers architects and artists too)

A recording was a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible; a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a real point of view”; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected art to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged covered and played over and over again by artists in the form of "cover music" or become secularized, ****** and constrained by an elite clique or a commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry.
This multi-billion pound industry has made commercial success through the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound & synthetic culture to sell a product!
So what was originally intended as self expression, a historical record, an archive, a personal message, is now sold as a product containing noise, a vehicle for advertising, perpetuating a genre of nonsense, labelling and re-marketing, so much so that there is now more nonsense immortalised "more white noise" than anything else.
To re-cap ~ I Think that art & songs are a form of expressionism, and like story telling they convey moods and messages from the present and past!
If artists and musicians create more than they copy then they are saying more whilst not devaluing the work of their predecessors!
From Alan Lomax to the commercial music machine.
A culture of cover singers, blinkered snobbery and the hermetic music industry !
undefined Nov 2012
I get genuinely psychotic in the morning
when the sun creeps out to see
If I slept last night I would want to put a gun in my mouth
(breakfast with coffee, black)
just you and me.
I get depressed long and hard, and often feel like
the cream cheese that you scrape off your bagel.
As the hour goes on everyone's two dimensional
(photo-copy of photo-copied, of photo-copy)
and you are scraping your bagel
of the unwanted (but served anyway) cream cheese,
"You," (probably the plastic knife in this analogy) "drive me..."
Spat! in the trash
as your upturned nose tells me how much our days together
are measured in inches, not yards.
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2014
Fourteen years old and thinking I was older.
'Assistant Maintenance Man' at a Public School
Summer Camp. Billy Deitz had just graduated
High School, I thought him the coolest guy
I knew. The first week was ended, the little
kids gone home, a new batch in two days time.

We did our work, cleaned and swept, sweated
in the summer sun. Took the old surplus Jeep
over to the creek and plunged ourselves in.
Deitz had some beer in an Ice chest, I drank
one, my first ever. We shot his 22 for a while
and ate PBJs in the shade. Then we heard it.

A train horn in the mountains is a haunting
call. It does not seem to belong there among
evergreen trees and massive granite boulders.
We drove the hell out of the Jeep and found
our way to the down grade tracks. And there
she was maybe 50 cars long, snaking her way
from the summit of the Sierras out of California
into Nevada. Through the Pass over a hairpin
filled course hugging the skirts of the rock face
mountains, slowly rolling her massive load
pushing her four engines, breaks a screeching
in protest. "Click Clack, Click Clack", her steel
wheels clanging upon the rails, a rhythm like
her train heart beating.

Deitz grabbed his coat and tied it round his waist,
looped a canteen over his head, "Lets go kid!"
I did what he said, and then we were running
along beside the box cars, more a trot than a run,
"Do what I do!" Deitz yelled over his shoulder.
A flat car with some machinery approached and
He grabbed on to it and pulled himself aboard,
I copied his moves and he helped pull me up
and then there we stood on the deck of that
moving, mountain ship, with her grunting and
shaking under our feet. We could feel all her
massive weight and power vibrating up through
that wooden plank deck of the flat bed car,
entering our legs and spines. . . It was thrilling!

I had not had time to think all this through,
"Now what?" I asked some what perplexed
"Reno Kid." Deitz yelled with a grin.  

We climbed atop a Box Car, our ship crawled
out of the upper pass and we stared down
upon Donner Lake far below. Looking behind
and ahead it was hard to understand how they
had cut that track out of solid rock and how it
maintained it's frail finger tip grip on the sheer
mountain side.

We ducked nearly flat going through the snow
tunnels, the clearance was tight and it seemed
that a guy could lose his head. The diesel thick
air made us cover mouth and nose with our shirts.
Two tunnels in we noticed our faces getting
smoke blackened. We laughed at the joke.
Doing black face on a boxcar in a tunnel of wood.
Two city kids playing Hobo.

We reached the lower valley, passed the place
where the Donner Party met their grisly end.

Truckee was next and the highway grew close.
We got back down onto the flat car and hold
up by the machine cargo, more or less out of sight.

I thought of all the down on their luck men that
had ridden those rails, not on a some lark. That
whole Grapes Of Wrath, Woody Guthrie period
of no joke, for real ****. Pushed by poverty and hope.

I must admit at that moment, I felt more alive than
at any other time in my life. I felt grown up, like a man.
Until my belly began to rumble, the speed increased
and the wind began to chill. The Click Clacks of the
wheels quickened and grew irritatingly redundant.
The loud wailing of the engine horn no longer exciting.
Now only hurt my ears.

It was dark by the time we hit Reno, we jumped off
before the train yard. Walked into town with its
bright lights calling the casino gamers to unholy service
and nightly prayer. Proceeded over by hard-bitten
dealers in communal black, with cigarettes dangling
from their unsmiling lips, possessing the empty
dead eyes of the badly used up and down-trodden.
Through the ***** windows, the people there seemed
to possess no joy in their sluggish endeavors.
Both players and dealers all losers, merely Automatons
of those games of chance.

Reno was still rough-hewn in those days, a hard
scrabble place full of cigarette smoke, ******,
card tables, slot machines and not much else.
It seemed to reek of lonely desperation.

Having seen our soot ***** faces in the
window reflection, we washed up some
in the cold river that runs through town.

We walked around a bit, ate some hot dogs,
Downed a Doctor Pepper.
"Now what Deitz?"
"**** I don't know kid,
first time I ever did anything like this."

"What?" My world collapsed right then,
I thought he was much more than
he turned out to be. Maybe everyone is.
I even started to get a little scared.
No money, no place to stay and apparently,
like most of the denizens there, **** out ah'
luck. I'd never felt that way before, from
mountain high to valley low in two hours.
All that excitement turned to Dread.

We hitched a ride with a long haired
guy of questionable gender,
who kept staring at me in the rearview mirror.
West, to a Truck Stop on the edge of town.
Found a trucker willing to give us a lift back
up to the summit.
Jumped in and were happy to find,
that his cab heater worked just fine.

Badly judged our get out spot and searched
and stumbled around in the shadowy dark,
dim moonlight looking for that **** jeep,
all that friggin' night.

When the guy that ran the camp returned
and found us sleeping at half past two,
in the afternoon, to say the least,
He was not amused.

Need I say, I felt much older that day
and a little wiser too.
I know this is too long, more a short story than
a poem. A memory stirred up by a write of a HP
friend W L Winter about riding a box car. Little
stories recalled and shared. Too long to read,
I'll understand, I wrote it for me and my kids.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay in the notes below
which was forwarded to me by Liz Balise
<>
all poems and their accompaniment sauces commence with onions,
that start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings,
but then...

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you,
becoming you in it,
in you,
you in it are both poet and poem,

a simmering new and different

————————————————————————-


A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method

As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.

— The End —