praps - rewrite - now it's tite

(untitled)

Like a musical instrument or a blank page,

I sit silent – potential energy

of infinite permutations and combinations.

The turmoil, the conflict, the urge, the reluctance

Constantly meeting into those singular points of existence –

here and now.

A drop of ink falls on the page, slowly spreads,

Dries almost instantly. It’s the thirst. The thirst,

That cannot be quenched by water or wine.

A root shrivelled into disability,

seeking neither water nor wine. But what?

Something; I’m not sure but I think.

The thought. The root of perhaps madness.

The coin thrown, falls silently, infinitely;

Into the fathomless depths of that dry well

And probably lands on its two multiple faces.

The thought. The thought.

I think.

In solitude is comfort. And the root,

That sucks in biased truth.

In truth, the wall lies; growing steadily stronger,

More solid, “further” removed.

In truth sits that dayglocrazie,

Like a blank page,

steadily disappearing into oblivion.

pratapaditya n deb - philosophy

Like a musical instrument or a blank page,

I sit quietly – potential energy

of infinite permutations and combinations.

The turmoil, the conflict, the urge, the reluctance

Constantly meeting the lone points of existence –

here and now.

A drop of ink falls to the page, slowly spreads,

Dries almost instantly. It’s the thirst. The thirst,

That cannot be quenched by water or wine.

A root shrivelled into disability, seeking neither water

Nor wine. But what?

Something; I’m not sure but I think.

The thought. The root of a possible insanity.

The coin thrown, falls, silently into

the fathomless depths of that dry well.

The thought. The thought. I think.

In solitude is comfort. And the root,

That sucks in biased truth.

In truth lies the wall, growing steadily stronger,

More solid, “further” removed.

In truth sits that dayglocrazie,

Like a blank page,

steadily disappearing into oblivion.

I don't understand the phrase "in truth lies the wall" but otherwise the poem makes complete sense to me.

Shyamli - a lovely magical romp of the imagination

An idle Sunday.

There is someone at my door,

Addressing me,

with regular raps on the hollow wooden frame,

calling out at intervals,

what I believe used to be my name.

I would apologise, my friend,

But I am too preoccupied

with my own absence,

Or, atleast pretending the same.

For I, presently, am too far away.

Caught up,

in a giddy swirling mass of a day dream.

Lying here in my half crimson room,

Smiling slight…slightly,

at the ceiling, which grows higher,

Spiraling way,

way high into the stratosphere.

There is someone beside me,

Murmuring honeycombs,

humming faintly into my ears.

And thus I, so raptured…

find myself unable,

to answer your calls.

And a spangled rodeo horse

Neighs and canters

around my feathered pillow,

chewing at my hair

as I swim..

through Dollops of creamy mists,

engulfing sight and mind.

Maybe another day, my love,

Will I stumble to the door way

and turn that knob…

Today however, I am sailing

over my own body,

Rowing with my tiny oars

through this choppy mess of winds.

(atleast, the mist has cleared)

I can see the oceanic vastness, barely though,

through the fluttering dayglo wings…

purple velvet to a gauze of gold,

Blurred by their own velocity…

Choo choo.

My ferry turns wayward,

Misbehaving, in this flickering excitement.

Static, a tense restlessness,

Glows when I smile,

through my teeth.

I see my reflection break,

into ripples as I step through

this hall way of mirrors.

Only to be sucked right out

of the enchanting illusions

by your rudeness.

you knock yet again!

I meet my bed with a dull thud

And a sigh.

Your persistence bothers me.

The development of a frown however,

Is intervened,

(you’re a lucky bastard)

by my white horse…

Neighing, cantering, chewing…

the ceiling still spirals.

AND, the rolling thunder,

tumbles around as

Falling cars and misshapen cats fall

Unsoundingly,

around me and my tambourine umbrella…

I sleep… drowsy slumber dreamy sleep.

I sleep through it all.

shyamli - this poem is for a friend who recently passed away.

We hold on

to our mistaken identities,

Thoughts.

Glances.

Misread and misinterpreted,

Meander slow in beads

of viscous sweat,

Down,

Leaving behind trails of soot,

Purely for the sake

of remembrance.

You nurse your bruises,

in the shade

of the giant vines and canopies.

Brilliantly coloured orchards,

in your simpleton backyard.

No abysses, darkness or voids.

No scorching suns,

to spoil this day.

Wandering through the wisps

we meet, yet again, in your

Vivid delusional escapades.

Through the nights,

we shall hold on to each other

and a warm cup of tea.

The wolves shall eventually tire

and run away,

we shall be safe, alone,

yet again.


I put in the context because I felt that then we get to see that it's such a deadly poem.

rebana - some poems - they seem to become better as they go along

so i 've attempted some editing

A word full walking

Moved a melting gaze

Into an embrace

Of gibberish darkness

-----------------------------------------------------

Happiness is an allegory,

Unhappiness a story…

-----------------------------------------------------

It’s funny how the tables have turned…

I finally find a self, I call it mine,

I build it up and make it a shrine

Then I search for my star in the darkened sky,

My star that’s lost in a blanketed lie,

But the planets have moved, sliding around,

To match the fate of a table turned

* - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - -- - - -- -- - -- -- - -



This was the poem that inspired my 2nd fiction film (although my 1st real passionate attempt)….it was a strange experience trying to create a film from a poem… but it was the only way I could do it…

COLD DEAD SLEEP

Coffee day, cold coffee, cold sleep,

yet again I grow sleepy.

Eyelids leaden with chewy sleep.
as the corporately dressed feed me their smiling lies.

Their feet adorned in steeped precision,
Only serve to sever my true ambition down to a cursed rendition of many a so called stalwart condition.

Existence isn't a mystery to one
Who contends in history.
Each word that was written once,
by the powerful faith that moves mountains,
Builds, brick by brick,
The wall that surrounds the destitute prostitute of our plentiful times.

This isn't no poem that will entertain your lustful tongue,
If I should rhyme is very much my own decision.
I detect your wry smile at my wistful folly,
A sneer is all I have for your unhearing ally.

Faith can move mountains or drench a mountain's work of pride.
Its powerful innocence pulls a wanderer's quest to its demonic end.
What a sad pity it is then, to settle for corporate heroism,
With its coffee & quiet delinquents lurking in the corners...

With all my growing likeness to an evangelic angel,
I begin to drown in the lurking drowsiness,
Of what the death of a society brings to heroic celebration.

samia - can you retell a story?

Can you retell a story

like it's never been told?

For you seem easily bored.

Memory only is beautiful

for the good is what is chosen to be retold.

Time is precious

for it stitches together

you and me.

The lover and the loved-

our assigned lives,

how did it come to be?

Revive?

Like a song

you cannot get rid of

for you are enamoured

by each note, word and pause

and that itself

begets its death;

no warning

no apparent reason-

until it's that season again.

Love was never meant to grow cold

old

mould.

Haven’t we walked down

this way before?


We have reached

that point again,

my love

my friend-

save this water

from flowing away,

my cupped hands

and I re-tread that way.

I look

a reflection

looks back at me

yes

it is still me.

I do not want to become

disheartened or cold


I do not wish

this dullness to remain

unfeeling, numb

disdain.

Is this the best

we will ever be?


Loneliness is worse

when somebody is there.

Silence is louder

when you are here.

aashim's back in action - wolf, wolf!

Time wasted….


Pondering…..

Over fragments and doors,

Frost holds minds,

Eyes held on the floor.

“Bow to thy master!

You are but my kind…”

An invasion,

Accompanies the ice.

In it’s being,

They would not suffice.

I lament its origin,

A floundering school.

Error a margin,

Faith lost in its pool.

Futile were my chances,

Bemoaned by my pride.


I scream.

An error.

A change in tide?

An excuse.

Time wasted,

Awe consumed,


I

Retire.

I

Retire