Latest items:
poetry
pushpatuladhar, 13 november 2020
The Strokes
Landslide came into my life without notice,
I myself am lost, not in moor,
not in cloudland, not in fog, not in haze,
not in markets, but within my
own polluted sketches.
- Excerpts from my poet friend, Nabin Chitrakar’s poetry “Formless Canvas”
In the circle of time
changing continuously in every seconds
is the poetry –
The poet’s no conscious of
When? How? Where?
crop up as if shaken
all at once by the earthquake
the mind stroke to his poetry in a second.
The spirit of the poetry encountered
the blood corpuscle of half of his body
ceased to streaming, bending into fragility.
The remaining other half
gushed in its veins naturally.
Then the posture of his body
half immovable and
other half movable
being altered instantly in its body
confronted the torture of no limit.
Neither my mind sensed
Nor your mind aware of it.
But it looked baffled
in the tears of
illimitable and immeasurable
hazy in its eyes.
In the mind of the poetry,
the inert part of its body
obstructed the motion,
the sensed part of it
forced to resume its motion,
the result of which yielded
the awful agony and anguish
that savoured syrupy in its tongue
chewed up the immovable
to restore its ability of moving again
in very efforts of the poet.
I’m too confident
Like you do.
The poet will indeed hurl
the sense of immovability
caught in his living.
*
pushpatuladhar, 13 november 2020
Imagery
The melodic whispers
of the chilly breeze
rupture the seed soiled
to sprout to bloom
totally and clearly.
Squeezing the morning
drip the natural dewdrops
from the roof of my home
rinse your supple body
cleansing all the dirt and filth
blushed steadily
as the gold glittered.
Just linger for a moment
near the meadow of my mind
the frosty and icy sweats
distilled through my arduous fervor
let you feel this much serene
that craft a poetry of its nature
in my mindful mind.
Burning lava erupted
out of the crater of my mind
freezes itself into granite
carving skillfully
my living in its spirit.
*
pushpatuladhar, 13 november 2020
The Emptiness
Can the emptiness
eavesdrops to its own words
by its ears lucidly –
in the darkness wrapping its room,
in the sound of beating its ear,
in the breathing in and out,
in the sight shimmering its eye,
in the taste arousing its tongue,
in the wrinkling its body by the winds ,
in the kissing bloom by the breeze and
in the leaf falling out of the tree?
Rhyming a moment the song of the morn
set just the morning sluggishly
in the greenery of the clear and clean forests
revealed the soaring pitch concealed in it.
May divulged it either
in the heat of thundering clouds or
in the frost of the freezing storms?
In the disease of alarming itself
by the severe wounds
bemused account at the spot
for a pretty long period
broadening and spanning
that never bringing to light in the eyes
may be already stolen by someone,
Yes ! It’s because the emptiness there.
*
RENATA, 12 november 2020
śmierć rodzi śmierć
mam zamiar tylko go uwieść
powiedziała Lilith z getta
między nim a łóżkiem
szalona żona
a potem jej grób wyskrobał
łono Assi chyba nie całe
bo potem próbowała
przyoblec się w rolę pani
Tedowej Hugesowej
w podziemiach światłowodu
bezkrwiste niebo
nie rodzi gwiazd
piekło otworzyło swe brzydkie usta
a Ty dławiąc krzyk
odchodzisz taka niekochana
przepraszam to tylko romans
który rozhuśtał śmierć
RENATA, 12 november 2020
pewna historia szklanego klosza
Pełen chaosu bezlitosny
świat i czyjeś młode JA
na marginesie książki
w garnku pełnym bigosu
bulgocze
niedomknięty szklany klosz
wyraziste słowa
dla nich za mała głowa
wyrwały się na papier
depresyjne morze
zakorzeniło się w głowie
głęboko jak kwiat
doskonałość w drodze do raju
potykała się brzydko chcąc brzytwą
pociąć cienie upadków
warsztat budził demony
balansując na cienkiej linie
zysków i strat
i zostać i odejść
umrzeć zmartwychwstać
zamknąć korowód
i być na czele
aniele pozwól
kochać i być kochaną
przemienić się w każdą
istotę nieznaną
opisać ich pragnienia
emocje bezosobowo
kultywując każde słowo
Jezu co za przystojny facet
aż to się stało! z wzajemnością
jakby wymyślony z szaleńczego snu
artysta duszy i sztukmistrz poezji
szalona ze szczęścia obłąkanie
wyciągnęła z najdalszych korytarzy
to było dziecinnie proste
zamienił ją na inną
obie winne swojej zagłady
on bawidamek
werdykt wybrzmiał
nie istnieć
pigułka gazu
odgoniła szaleństwo na zawsze
tymczasem
gdy żona szara myszka polna
została zdeptana i upieczona
ona nowa egzotyczna zmysłowa
Lilith zjadła Teda jak kotleta
krwistego
lecz najpierw schrupała
dwóch i pół swoich mężów
ech to grzech a przecież mówią
że to kobiety są winne cudzołóstwa
Assia brylowała zdobywała
hipnotyzowała spojrzeniem
jak sto diabłów Azji
dla samca gotowa na wszystko
odebrać to nic trudnego
fatalna meduza
w swe tłuste usta
wkłada fiuta
obudzona z głębokich nagich kwiatów
nocy w odmętach zaułków i korytarzy
wciąż widzi Sylwię ona dopiero zza grobu
jest silna wciąga jej duszę oddech energię
w otchłań
nabija gazem jak siebie
Assia ulatuje w powietrze
z dorobkiem
RENATA, 12 november 2020
autostopklatka
chcę być twoją dziewczyną
zjeść
ciało twoje poczuć dreszcz
zatopić w oczach
pić słowa
z twoich ust
ubóstwiać
rodzić się i umierać
zdzierać odzież i skórę do kości
chcę z miłości
oszaleć
i dalej dalej dalej
rosnę w siłę
ocean tęsknoty przepłynę
serce słodkie czekoladą
oddam ci u stóp
wypływając z cienia
louis gander, 12 november 2020
A Lonely Poem
THERE ARE so many others that can start a loud stampede
of people running after them so that they all can read
the script of rhymes that fascinate their scrutinizing minds
to entertain emotions - emotions of all kinds.
But I am just a lonely poem buried here inside
a dusty book unsuited and unable to provide
a morsel of excitement to those readers I can't see.
They're browsing here, undoubtedly, on either side of me.
My words are like a dried up rose with bent and broken stem -
and that's why I'm a lonely poem, unlike the rest of them.
It's dark inside this dusty book. Forever, I will stay -
yet wonder, will I ever see the sunny light of day?
Rejected, I'm compelled to cry, but that I can't condone,
because my ink would surely run and I'd still be alone.
So tears I hold. I'm saddened so- and oh, I'd love to shout.
But I'll be stuck here up until this book I'm in's thrown out.
I prayed that you would find my words because God answers prayers.
He knows my good intentions and I know He always cares.
So when my prayers are answered and you read my story rhymes,
I pray that we can just be friends and have some good ol' times.
And though you will not see me smile, please know that I'll be glad.
and pray one day we'll find these times the best we've ever had.
But if, by chance, another poem's your fav'rite one instead,
I pray my words go with you when again I go unread.
©2017 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/
-------
louis gander, 12 november 2020
From Across the Lake
The cabin built with sturdy logs
(that firmly stood awake)
was nestled snugly in the trees
beside this quiet lake.
A dim and amber light shone out
to greet the lonely eye -
reflecting off this tiny lake
here under cloudy sky.
Through window pane, that sorry lamp -
far off on other side -
had shone from on a tabletop
with unseen chair beside.
And faithful chair supported all
the poet's ev'ry task.
Yet that old chair is empty now,
"but why?" you maybe ask.
You wonder who that poet is
or why he is away.
You wonder if he writes at night
or all throughout the day.
But when he comes, the chair again
will groan under his weight.
And over many months and years,
his work will rhymes create.
Now you might think and may conclude
of him, you didn't hear -
but I know this, you've read his work,
at least this poem here.
A glow begins to pour across
the sky in loving fun..
It reaches out so wide and far
with nearing of the sun.
And that light now reflects off of
a paper holding rhyme -
and calls me from across the lake.
I guess it's about time...
©2015 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/
-------
Satish Verma, 11 november 2020
Victory March
The living dead are going to
ask for the right to be
forgotten in gender dysphoria.
In grimed apparel,
the deities were deported back
to the barn, for housing the antiques.
The future turns blue,
moon-eyed, hooking up the
hopes of running heels.
Is that true that there
will be mass suicide after
the fall of the fort?
The fat lanterns now
don't throw the light. Incense
of burning flesh floats.
Satish Verma, 10 november 2020
The Ephemerality
It was punctuated night.
You sleep into wakefulness.
The space between the shut-eyes
trembles, when you start sweating.
The infant-death of the dream,
incites the borderland. The-
flames rise in a partisan way,
to erase the memories of guilt.
You are in deep grief for the
coiled sperms, from end to end,
they were longer than the body.
Would you like to wake up a jinn?
A digital forgetfulness, you seek
to solve the enigma of life.
Latest comments:
10 october 2024
Jaga
Tak myślałam, a lepsze jest wrogiem dobrego
10 october 2024
Marian Banaszak
to tylko czcze gadanie; było zostawić poprzedni
10 october 2024
violetta
Bardzo fajne:)
10 october 2024
W Warszawie nawet znajduję. Mieszkam w zieleńszej
10 october 2024
Do usług :))
10 october 2024
Gdzie te łąki majowe ? Dobrze odnaleźć je
10 october 2024
Żeby spowolnić chwilę:)
9 october 2024
sam53
Pięknie Jaga :))) dzieki
9 october 2024
Po namyśle zmieniłam :)) Tutaj widoczny tylko
9 october 2024
Zazula przy łące kuka/ gdzie rączka pani nadobna/
9 october 2024
Yaro
Dzięki za komentarz. Przyjdą zapukaj i każą
9 october 2024
Belamonte/Senograsta
o jej, jak upojnie, gloryfikująco - po co się
10 october 2024
Satish Verma
9 october 2024
wiesiek
9 october 2024
Satish Verma
8 october 2024
wiesiek
8 october 2024
Satish Verma
7 october 2024
Jaga
7 october 2024
wiesiek
7 october 2024
Satish Verma
6 october 2024
wiesiek
5 october 2024
wiesiek