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poetry

Gert Strydom, 3 june 2013

In the old painting something was living (rondine)

In the old painting something was living
displaying dead men in eternal youth,
it had some deeply hidden kind of truth,
about the evanescence of everything,
about the spirit, integrity that was rising
always conquering shattering untruth.
In the old painting,

as forever in life’s own awakening spring,
with their eyes on the point of azimuth
and among them a heroic kind of Ruth
with feelings of a strange awakening
in the old painting.

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Satish Verma, 3 june 2013

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Steven Ingle, 2 june 2013

Killed In Action

Like thunder and lightning striking in the dead of night
with it's bloody hand the arty came.
And as dawn's first light fell across the murdered land
we found our friends,
some of long and some of short duration,
all lay about in destruction.
The dead mourn those left behind for the broken hearts they endure
but also take comfort that their loved ones will never know the pain, the utter horror that hides behind the words,
"Killed in Action".

number of comments: 3 | rating: 6 | detail

Kahlia Mazacalletti, 1 june 2013

The Bride

I could have woken up-DEAD
I still can hear her little girl's voice
No one else can make me feel so sad
But she is not of this heavanly place, she is unique
She is special....if she let down all her walls
And built new ones; she would be great.....
I love her anyway, being my friend
But after her husband left; she has been on a hunt
People say you cannot ruin a marraige, not TRUE
I saw her walking down the aisle and looking at me, she
did not want to marry him, it was a convenience.....
She needed 90 days to figure it all out
Some say she wants to have her cake and eat it too.....
I think she is too scared to move forward...REWIND.....
She should stay single and alone except for friends
I am her best shot at making it out alive and well.....
LOVE does many things to us; I am out of suggestions
She walks around dazed, the REST of her life.....
In a 5 minute pep talk; she decides to leave, hide out
perhaps in my car; can she pull it off?
I always bet on her as she always wins.......
This time I may lose my money....left with no answers-
I come out and say....Lets party........
She feels better and her groom left.....
A lot of rough details and still single.......
How could she live in this blizzard called life.......

Time to start anew.............No one is too old, to feel great...

Kahlia

number of comments: 0 | rating: 1 | detail

Satish Verma, 1 june 2013

FALLING BRICKS

From the blank book can I
lift some questions for the lofty hopes
when I lost myself near the home?

The fear was darting inside the white sores.
Keys were lost for the answers
and truth fell castrated.

The magic was fading from the cusps
of designs, unconceived thoughts were
seeking proportionate punishments.

Congeniality drifted from the
architect of hominid species. A nameless
storm plays havoc. Humble peaks bow

before the unmeasured meteors. You
can shut the orphanage now; no
bombs are bound for the wet crypts.

Satish Verma

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Satish Verma, 31 may 2013

ABDICATION

It was a domestic pain,
when we came apart in boots and helmets.
Taking the shine away, moon gave up the fight
on lake, against the clouds, a sniper
intuitingly, started a homicidal blasting
to start the rains.

An ode to sepia needs scrutiny;
cuttlefish had a second thought. No faith
permits the slaughter of septa. Walls were squinting
to see better. A square root will find the squall,
between the breaths. Beyond arousal of oceans
a shaken, surreal, blast from a craven rifle.

Satish Verma

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J. Pennington, 30 may 2013

Caught Weeping

I am once again caught weeping for unresolved quarrels with long ago loved lovers

I shudder to think, that in a blink, I might so easily be swept into the cyclonic winds of tearfulness.

I fear it’s just, a simple test of mental stimulation, inside my ocular precipitation.

My heart pushes images of unmourned passings and opens the undeleted files of agonized adorations across my mind’s monitor.

I honor her with droplets of salt ridden eye rain, I acknowledge the pain, by the moist tracks burning into my face.

They leave a trace of the hurt that I refused to feel and the torment caused by the heel of her unrepentant boot.

I know that it’s the root of this unforgiveness tree, I find growing in me, the tears that I cry inside provide fuel for it to grow.

I know that if I weep aloud, the tree withers and is disallowed to grow but I capture the pain in memory,

To avoid its repetition and etch its essence into my presence and present, refusing to keep it bound and bundled with the other ancient agonies in the past.

As I peruse the painful pack of impairment herded into my heart, crying is inevitable, an easily brought afterthought.

An outward representation of an inward painful sensation, that I wish to bring an end to, or pretend to not feel.

I repeal my innocent plea, realizing it was me, that opened the gate and left it agape like the chasm between heaven and earth.

For what it’s really worth, I need to spill tears because my real fear is there will be no space to placate the throbbing, and I'll be left to replace ache with sobbing and once again, I'll be caught weeping.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 11 | detail

Geetima Baruah Sarma, 30 may 2013

THE FALLEN LEAVES

The cold wind knocks,
And the dead leaves fall,
One after another,
And the tree stands revealed.

A song of sadness flows,
Through the solitary branches,
Feelings of loss and destitute,
Alas! No leaves to swing and smile.

The season has arrived again,
And solitude reigns all around,
I feel sad,
When I look at the fallen leaves.

The wide green leaves that,
Once adorned the huge tree,
Are now brown, scattered, lifeless,
As they lie beneath the bare tree.

[Published in ‘Buzzle’ on 30 May 2013]

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013

Too many times (Tritina)

Too many times back to war I have went,
have seeToo many times back to war I have went,
have seen civilian men become soldiers
to face destruction, injury and death,

where they had lost all hope, to the death
did not anymore care when out they went
had become machines called soldiers

had hated, feared duty as soldiers
to be dealing out much havoc and death
had felt if all life away from them went,

but out they went as soldiers to face death.n civilian men become soldiers
to face destruction, injury and death,

where they had lost all hope, to the death
did not anymore care when out they went
had become machines called soldiers

had hated, feared duty as soldiers
to be dealing out much havoc and death
had felt if all life away from them went,

but out they went as soldiers to face death.

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Gert Strydom, 30 may 2013

On some South African Afrikaans published poets (Catena Rondo)

(after Roy Campbell)

They praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship

then write a poem over and over again,
struggle along for more than sixty times,
abandon all love and poetics that rhymes,
then write a poem over and over again

struggle along for more than sixty times,
they despise a poet whose words do flow
while they struggle to complete every row,
struggle along for more than sixty times

they despise a poet whose words do flow
says that he types faster than they can write
does not even know the very day from night;
they despise a poet whose words do flow

says that he types faster than they can write
while the very words of other poets they copy,
are sheltered, from the rest of humanity,
says that he types faster than they can write

while the very words of other poets they copy,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
are scared of the great world lying beyond;
while the very words of other poets they copy

they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,
their work is without any kind of profundity
and sometimes on them I have a kind of pity,
they are fishes swimming in the tiniest pond,

their work is without any kind of profundity,
they praise there own elitist workmanship,
they want others them as gods to worship,
their work is without any kind of profundity,

they praise there own elitist workmanship
then write a poem over and over again
until only their tinkered out words remain,
they praise there own elitist workmanship.

[References: “On some South African novelists” and “On the same” by Roy Campbell.]

number of comments: 1 | rating: 1 | detail

10 - 30 - 100

Latest items:

poetry

In the old painting something was living (rondine)

STAR STRUCK

Killed In Action

The Bride

FALLING BRICKS

ABDICATION

Caught Weeping

THE FALLEN LEAVES

Too many times (Tritina)

On some South African Afrikaans published poets (Catena Rondo)

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