Posts tagged with "poem"
Thursday, 1. May 2008, 17:23:40
be, poem
In the measure of a day,
the dire cries of an hour
fade in the next,
always remaining a part
of the next day’s planned survival.
Or life comes in fortuities
--unexpected, ecstatic—
and drags another day
on in its blood and need…
The cries continue.
Life,
in a hundred hungry faces--
black against the ivory skies,
is raw:
Raw in its failure to comprehend
the laws, faiths, philosophies,
justice and its blinded eyes.
These faces merely live and cry
out of stupid simple senses.
But us, we understand more, live less.
And life in war is raw--
fought
for each bread,
for each breath.
White flags are not edible.
In the candlelight a lifted hand
casts a shadow in the wall
--flickering, firm yet—
larger than our hands,
larger than us.
This is our God-- this hand
that craves on, and is
the darkest silhouette
in a world of feeble lights.
Don’t love. Simply be.
- Symphony
Monday, 31. March 2008, 16:47:45
poem, windows, thoughts
The city somehow looks greyer on lazy afternoons.
Concrete stands
facing concrete.
A silent edifice
eyes another
with its hundred eyes: All showing glimpses of life
rarely chanced.
The sudden monologue of a crow breaks through
the slow yellow.
The absence
of motion rings
its presence
throughout the gallery of windows one after another.
And the gods of
miracles and wonder
are past, only this--
geometry put
to careful display, exposed to a lifeless pose—remains.
Poised and planned.
One cannot build.
Will not create.
One can only stare
through one’s window and see more windows there.
- Symphony
March 31, 'o8
Thursday, 20. March 2008, 14:09:42
poem, endless rants
... in a letter to Raisa.
Poetry is failing me.
And yet I can take up the pen
and write words, lines,
and they might even mean something—
like those digitless clocks,
hands pointing at reserved voids,
they’ll tell you the time anyway.
Time is too obvious.
These lines are, too.
With sudden spells of abstractness.
With ecstasies of imperfections.
Forgive my pen. It loves jumbled words so.
Never waits for thoughts to make a line.
And freedom and effortlessness
both are addictive.
The night is perfect too.
Perfect like the simplicity
of a truth. Perfect and true.
Perfect for singing
of wind and water.
Perfect for dancing
like wind and water.
The few free minutes will soon flow by.
This luxury of sitting here writing
will leave another lament.
The moon will soon be
turning into a sun, and
the careless freedom of this pen
won’t be stopping it.
But this page, above all, feels so right…
Even the me staring back at me,
etched in that dark window pane, knows-
the night is another failure,
another wonderful failure,
I can feel the joy of it,
at this very second this hand,
this pen and this paper can feel it,
the cold bones right under my skin
can feel it…
- Symphony
March 20, 'o8
Wednesday, 5. March 2008, 23:40:16
thoughts, rain, poem, bleared
...
The forests creased into the deepest of green,
the depth made the green blue-like.
And the trees had no different birth.
So eager the rain seemed to purge,
to wash the forest white, its drops
envied every dewed bead, brushed off,
spurned the sprigs that strung
perfumes. The trees were colored
with the rain. The trees were the rain.
A rain-bleared leaf
diffused its frisson
through the streaked air.
- Symphony
Thursday, 31. January 2008, 14:06:48
on not understanding poetry, poem
The tree gazes in love at its beautiful shadow
Who is his own, yet whom he can never grasp.
-Rabindranath Tagore
I could never see Athos
As Dinocrates did. But then, dry
As it may sound, I could never even
See an apple and think of its celestial bound.
I go attacking poems with a bull tongue.
What? It took a chisel to write!
It took more than that,
I guess, to understand poetry or politics
(or even to fire a stick), but bless
This unforgiving earth that gives
Nothing but the brawny brownness
With haunting hints of gold!
Words, sounds, meanings--
All I pluck and nicely place in
The shelf, only to walk back a step
And wonder and adore and worship,
And worship and adore, then wonder--
Words. Sounds. Meanings?
The roots are out of reach,
But the leaves are compelling,
The flowers, ensorcelling-- which invite
--I reach, not receiving. I touch, never feel—
And hang somewhere where I can’t
Say the real from surreal.
Define dreams. Nay, that can
Never be done. Poetry, in dewy mornings
With tangerine suns and coffee steams,
Is best received in its mystery, one
Which will sail away with the whitest
Coffee fogs: fleeting dragon-tails
Driven away by your breath.
With dreamy eyes we see
The unseen, and cry it is so lovely,
When Eden could be just as green
As the front yard in block 42.
But Eden is heaven, and Poetry
Devine, when both are lost
In the subconscious. For it is never
In human nature to celebrate
The apparent, or to wallow in what
Remains: What remains is sensibility,
That which is lost is Beauty.
- Symphony
Wednesday, 5. December 2007, 13:21:33
friends, poem, thoughts
Random Bits of Instant-“Poems” To Friends in their Comments’ Books before The Last Day in College:
To Mila:
Let’s not cling to words of goodbyes,
lest your sprightly memories
give in to the ghosts
of incongruity…
No, let’s not sing sweet lullabies
lest the summer sun gets lost
in sleep’s silver sea…
Welcome a single welcoming word,
let goodbyes fade away.
Let’s, together, call the songbird
to start another day.
To Manal:
I surrender to the sonority of silence
to say what I want to say
and to say what has to be said…To Sifat:
Kaler shutikhno bane
chute chola jiboner tane
muhurmuhu muhurter nitto anagona,
tader kolahole jay na shone
chotto kichu muhurter mridu nad…To Amani:
Bits and pieces
of dreams and dreaminesses
of times and timelinesses
of lives and livelinesses…
--hued memrories
to be saved as souvenirs.
Take these with you
and keep them warm
in the mind’s nurtured nest.To Linta:
Jiboner kono ek prante
mone rekho, moner kono gohin kinaraye
diyo ek fota sthan,
shekhane gorbo shopno apon chonde,
Ar,
shubo sritir jhonkar.
To Nabila:
Here in a forgotten corner
of the dreamly-lit corridors
of this well-kept notebook-
lies another dream,
just another achromatic dream,
waiting for the dust to settle upon it
over the coming years…
waiting for a day when,
by some miraculous stroke of luck,
it will get a touch,
and, perhaps, make the eyes glassy
even if it is
for a mere second…
To Ruxana:
In a world of words
let that one sonorous silence rest…
For it is in silence
that I’m voiced…
It is
in the End
that I
Begin…To Nazia:
Let me not put this into words.
Words wither. They die.
Nor in sweet mellow music would I
sing this moment to you.
What is music, if the orchestra tires out?
No, nor will I let me shout
out into loud harsh noises,
not even in murmured voices
can this be expressed…
Let this, in silence, be caressed,
let voices hush, words fade,
let a new silent world be made
for this parting message
to assuage
your mind, even if it is
but for a moment, let it be
A moment of memories.And i dont remember the rest of them, which includes some 100s of little hallmark-y bits like these.
~ Symphony
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