Below is the poem entitled Life Imitates Art A Humble Tribute to Oscar Wilde which was written by poet
Rezaee Araghi. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
Read Poems by
Farshid Rezaee Araghi
O thou proud Nature
Rolling in ashes of long-burnt
Fiery love of yourself
What are you boasting of?
That’s nothing but
Wooden rotten figures
With wrinkled claws
Scratching the Earth’s breast
Fumbling for manure
Destined to be strangled
By the icy hands of snowy demons!
They’re nothing but piles of dust
Proud of piercing the clouds
Forcing a heavy load
On the Earth’s shoulders
Yet, trodden by every foot
Crushed by every step
Whose sole voice
A mere echo
Dies in an instant
Not long enough to be heard!
Those plump, haughty phantoms
Wishing to display their mighty wrath
Pat each other on the shoulders
And roar to shake and shock
The creatures beneath
Yet melt in their rages’ climax
And weep for their untimely death!
Thy far stretching seas and oceans?
They’re nothing but tiny trivial
Drops of water
Gathering to form an impressive identity
By losing their own!
In the depth of their watery heart
Lay their so-called treasures
Which being nothing but shipwrecks
Make them pleased
With their great triumph
Over helpless, wooden toys!
Their anger is masterfully portrayed
By raising their eyebrows
Frowning and foaming desperately
To impress the captains
By their magnificent personality!!!
Thy Sun and Moon?
They are nothing but boring circles of light
One too lazy to move
One too transient in mood
One entangled in the boggy kingdom of his own flames
One begging hopelessly for a beam of light
One pleased with burning the eyes
One trained in fooling the wise
That every single monument of thy greatness
That makes your eyes glow with pride
And your heart beat with pulses of joy
Is nothing but an illusory mirage
Were it not for the sweet words of poetry
Coupled with the melodious rhythm of embedded lyres
Were it not for the winged metaphors
Hand in hand with the marble fingers of imagination
Were it not for the poet’s discerning eye
To see in thee what thou hast not
Thou would not be seen,
Thou would not be loved…