Best Abraded Poems
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece. Tolstoy followed in 1890, with a novel.
He argued that matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece with this title. Count Leo Tolstoy
followed in 1890, with a short novel of the
same name, in which he argued that
matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
for F. A.
You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I’m trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh :
« You are unshaven. »
You took proper care to remember the right words :
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The ****** you probably tried to fake –
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it’s all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.
You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice :
« Turn out the lights. I’m afraid
You’d never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
Only constant repetition make them less wearisome.
One whole week you waited and watched.
One by one you chalked us down.
We fled, not so much from you
As from ourselves, not knowing which
You or the condemned flower to take :
« Why don’t you tell me something about yourself.
I’ve said enough, » you said and came closer
Wraithed in your trapper's overflying airs.
Now that you have prospected a little
Confiscated my intimate thoughts, coaxed my ego
Applied the guileful balms which embolden
A man in bed and made of the future a promise
And turned and sighed like the unwanted thing
Now that you have preyed in my sanctuary
Gazed long in wistful silence my empty shrine
How can I let you go – take my scent
And mix it till it roots in other flesh
And wandering, I’ll not know why someday
I might fret in the company of familiar strangers.
« What about the lad ? » Alone and wishfully loitering
« Oh, let him toss and turn. Why shouldn’t he ?
He’ll write better then, » you said, for once
Rippling the nimble calm embossed on feigning face
That poised flutter of your lips when words you wield
Assume a dextrous innocence
Little wonder then the sensually provoked blushes
Cross-fertilise the loping lurk of your poems.
You in going a little way towards me
Have gone a long way from yourself.
Before you go a little way prospecting
Leave leave a little of yourself in your safe.
©: T. Wignesan, 1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983, rev. 2012)
The rain didn't fall
last night so much
as it was thrown.
The wind didn't blow
last night so much
as it was whipped.
And a whip is
a thing which
lacerates, it cuts.
The day after
was the last day
and the next days
will be filled with
no more and no longer
until the next days
outnumber the
here-with-us days
and the days after those
days will pile on, unmercifully
as well. The whipwind cuts.
Whippy storm.
Shallow breath.
Dirtied coat.
Abraded eyes.
Right one swollen.
No bowel signs right,
and few on left.
Unwilling to move -
pressed rump-first into
a corner
facing southwest.
Signs of sweat.
"My other horse went this way."
she weakly offers
to the morning air,
to the isn't there,
foreshadowing shadows
and coming despair.
"I wish the doctor would
hurry up and get here."
though we knew he would,
he was, he would be...
soon.
How soon? We didn't know.
- - -
Shaving tummy,
seeking what's beneath,
what is deep.
Ultrasound inconclusive.
Which leads to a conclusion,
the conclusion.
Mommy cooing for hours.
She's brushing him now.
"He's toxic" says doc J.
"It's time." quietly said
to all who already know.
But the spokeness of it is
it's own gift.
The haunting guess brought into
Life, into the moment
into Astro's stall.
- - -
Outside, the crows cried.
The grey winds sucked
warmth.
"You're gonna like where
you'll be." repeated Momma K.
A stroke.
A kiss.
A nuzzle.
A forelock felt.
He thumped down.
Momma started.
We four knelt down,
knowing that but
three would rise.
Syringe after syringe.
Twenty two years.
"His heart's stopped now,"
says Doc
"That's just his diaphragm
tryin' to do its job."
Astro huffs heartily.
- - -
Blankets cover him now,
in a damp paddock.
His bridle off.
At long last.
He is still.
She shakes.
Tears from both.
- - -
The wind won't stop.
He seems to breathe.
It's just the wind
under the blankets.
He really seems to breathe.
- - -
"I learned so much from this horse."
I’d heard of Persephone, that beautiful earthly maid,
Who’d vowed her love to Hades, although her mother forbade –
An enraged Demeter scorched the earth; a desolate paradise was made,
But Persephone visits still, embrocating this soil-
I know, because these winters would always fade…
But if time changes, then why don’t we?
My time is still stagnant as far as the eye can see.
They say that time can heal all those wounds and fill all those holes,
that rupture, corrode, poison and abrade the soul.
But I am waiting for time and time is waiting for me,
to forget, forgive and forgo my hurt; to set me free.
Time warps all, rules all- it renews and ruins all that was, is and will be,
then why won’t time help that sunken and lowly being, that which is me?
My memories flow in an emulsion of hate and melancholy,
They have flowed, and flowed, and flowed - this river is yet to join the sea,
The sea that will fall off the ends of the earth-
How I wish it would carry that sunken and lowly being, that which is me…
I don’t blame you; my life was a place where you couldn’t be.
Thought I could lock away my heart, and give time its key.
But the key is lost now, all my emotions seem to flee-
the tears, the pain, the helplessness that came when you went,
they trickle down my abraded cheeks- I’ve lost a part of my heart,
I am an amputee.
I do blame time, that awful, abstract, vulgar object that people desire,
they say that it’s not theirs, they don’t have it and do want it to wait,
Ha ha! Time is conceited, cruel, a careless entity-
It won’t help me; it will do no good now- my time sure is late.
I’m sure though, that your time has changed and time has changed you,
Time must have helped you to revive and yourself, renew.
But time has shunned that other half of the picture that lies shattered on my marble floor,
it chose not to fix me, and simply walked out my door.
We all are made, broken and fixed,
by the time that switches the season and tide.
It floods the dimensions, within which we thrive, seek and hide.
It is I, the one unwilling to overlook the past, is me-
And thus, I wonder, if time changes, then why don’t we?
~*~
Cautiously I tread down a path paved of nightmares
Dark trees with gnarled branches
Marked with loneliness
Stained with loss
Misery hangs in the air
Despair trails down imaginary forest walls
Walls from which cries for help seep
Bottomless crevices of broken dreams
Abraded emotions
Poisoned souls
Frightening images paralyze
Petrified eternally, mentally, physically
Sounds of crushed aspirations whisper like an evil cry
Hopes and dreams turn to dust,desecrated
Envy runs as thick as poison
Eating away at logic
Sensibility all but gone
Drowning in abhorrent past
Still haunting traversly hanging overhead
No sign of depreciation in sight
Decayed by wear and tear
Frayed edges barely hanging on
Shadows of raven colored streaks reach out
Wanting to strip all promises
Silent prayers to the heavens in protest and anguish
Screams that resemble wounded animal
Howls of suffering rise through frigid winds
Plaguing anticipation as you echo into the night
Heart beating wildly pounding like a fist
Screaming through leaves
Awaiting reply
Answered by silence...
Feeling your cold, dead eyes
Following me, do I run? can I hide?
Like a disease slowly it begins to decompose
Rotting like wood aged over time
Till its all but gone...
~*~
For your deepest darkest poem Contest
Sponsored Poet Destroyer A.
Waiting
Years have passed by
as I endlessly wait,
Sure you are at peace
crazy... that's my trait,
Life a dejected flute
that you no longer hold,
Its many holes waiting
for your tender kiss,
Warm breath to be blown
inside of me,
Magical melodies ...
Those loving moments
longings that got buried,
Waiting to erupt
anytime passion volcano,
Molten smooth lava
to unleash my desires,
Asleep on flames ...
Drumming beats
of a broken heart,
Losing all rhythm
waiting to be mend,
My soul you took along
a mere body now crawls,
Abraded bleeding ...
Faint colourful images
treasured deep within,
Spirits that intrigue
for all times to come wait,
Be sung as regional songs
those tragic tales of love,
Glorious pages of history ..
Written Sept 9th, 2015
For contest "Waiting" by James Rogers
Awarded 1st place win
Entered into "Best love poem #3" poetry contest by SKAT A
Awarded 10th place win
I avoid the light that invades the space of the windows
because it perturbs the nuances of my thoughts:those
frigid sepulchral memories of yesteryears' love lying
uniformly beyond a damp partition of consciousness,trying
to escape as a means of a venerable excuse for me to
decimate this flesh and soul which gives residence to
those effulgent ponders that waver restlessly and tangent
upon the structure of the optimists' creed that was bent
from capricious minds and hypomanic-states to which nothing
states of the verities of the now abysmal dolor which rings
through my heart with incessant intonation of a melody
that schlepps through my senses in remoteness of euphony
which springs forth from mouths of angels vocalizing of their
freedom.And within those octaves I hearken of the loss
of my freedom which I once embraced in the solitude
that abraded piquancy of vibrant day,having worn it away
to evince the cold moments of paltry existence when those
unawakened fleeting thoughts(which are semblable to windows
of graves)allow no memory of yesteryears' love bereft
to evade,and no glint of light to invade the eyes of death.
This is the second half, read part 1 for the first half
July dawned hot, we began to know
That here was something, a warm hot glow
August again, classes to fill
We planned as one, like Jack and Jill
September, my birthday, private you and me
My friend burst in, yet we still were free
October again, I fought through traffic
To meet you Halloween, in your silly Minnie raiment
November your birthday, make love in the club
I held you I pretended to love what you loved
December I planned a perfect getaway
You and me and some others, and kindness you laved
January brought classes, more than before
We bulled on through, now in sync, lovers asoar
February we began to slow falter
Work, school, friends our altar
March you strayed, to my horror my pain
I swore I wouldn't, yet your tears I obeyed
April you gave it your all, you called
I pretended to love, through my pall
May was Florida again, but cracked
We all faked joy, yet twas bittersweet pack't
June was all gone, we began with goodbye
I begged to you now, but you said to fly
Twenty-three stones I laid twenty-three months ago
To guide you to my path my door
You complained of the mud, which stained your shoes
Who knew at the end, what life you would choose
Each stone now grows moss, a film of dust
Each cracks a bit more, with each summer's rust
The stones abraded my skin, took simple cells
Each one a testament to love, to your spell
Your mocking voice suggested a simple path
My eager hands set it down, to dull your wrath
Twenty three stones laid out to the back
Where now I crouch, in loneliness wrap't
"Always thought of myself as a top of the food chain type of guy but lately I'm stuck on the bottom"
In the pitch of night I wander
foraging the inner workings of the mind
life hasn't been too kind lately
but what is one to expect
I feel not at ease as I reach out
to touch each appendage
kicking back as the pain explains
what is wrong and and what is right
Fresh wounds fillet my soul
and I'm vulnerable
but not scared
fear's not what I fear
Some scars are abraded
as I try to naw off the weak
the dismembered, the cancerous
cells calling me over and over
I will not heed their message
but they won't stop
as I limp onward not knowing
or caring what will hit me next
butterflies despair
wounded and abraded - yet
forges right ahead
Tribute To
Butterflies
Gods Messengers
At the distant verge of horizon
Slowly submerging is weary Sun
With reddened face
Bidding grudging adieus
To his day long drudging
Brooding over mandatory next come
I stood there staring at Him
I wanted to say “don’t depart”
In an automatic reflex
I lifted my right hand aloft!
Nay! He didn’t stop! I wept!
As feared reemerging are my
Horror-ogres, with creepy insurgence
A dirge from distant mountain range
Barged inside my fragile core
With harrowing clangor
Oozing out acid-reminiscences
From burrows of my bruised past
Started corroding once more
My already well-abraded heart
The dark thickets of moonless night
Are thickening my tiresome thoughts
I wriggle on my bed like a sloughing serpent
In an insomniac discomfort getting ready
For deadly duels with my night spirits
My only hope! A quick crack of dawn!
To restart my histrionics and harlequinade
amongst my people; and dazzle one more day
Making fun and pleasing everyone
With my feigned charm and exuberance
Dreading inside the night at imminence
Adversity
'I need a word; I need a enunciation to exclaim'
Albeit I lack them
I need ear to hear echoes also sounds,
Circumstance holds everything bound
Assorted terminologies of facilitation, certainty and belief
Nothing accumulated lone mounted reef,
Tear coursed like brook inside
Nothing heard than rest in peace beside,
Resonance of tear; aches and cries,
Authority brought no deduction, without any assays
Temporary camps and houses all over,
Numerous loss, destruction nothing could cover
Abraded land, ways and house
Senators here are mute and louse,
Like mole of orifices and mouse
So, I need a stage, a rage and craze
'I need a word; I need a enunciation to exclaim'
But I lack them
The mobile mind of the indomitable mariner,
the resolute sailor floating on the waves of life,
rolling on the curled crests with splintered moon,
drawn into dark agony troughs of drowned stars,
spread to oblivion breaking on the shore of past.
The crushed sands carve seaward footprints,
designed by the crumbled contours of decay.
Time arrow points to terrain beyond the shore,
away from the abraded wilderness abandoned,
where the chasm consumes the collapsed hopes.
The weed-webbed wasteland defined deep within,
piles up the washed out wreckage of life unlived.
The withering garden garners metallic bleakness,
as the path paved outside the familiarity fence,
waits to be walked by the mesmerized wanderer
to the mesmeric meadow of tantalizing tomorrow.
The invented alchemy aptitude of mystic memory
makes glittering gold on the rusted crust of ruins.
Marigold blooms in the scrap heap of abiding hope
in the Midas touched junkyard of the metallic mind.
_________________
February 19, 2023
For Brian Strand's Your Choice Again Contest
Compassion sings in velvet vibrato violin strokes, thrumming upon
an ivory frame suffused in dulcimer tones of need.
Half deaf we echo broken words, sharp jagged phrases, defining
the borders of empathy, binding the reach of the heart.
Compassion lays bittersweet trails on the tongue, late fall berries,
bursting in a celebration of triumph and sorrow.
Half starved, we feast on spoils, too drunk on victory to discern
the salt-sweet retch of blood from the bitter poison of lies.
Compassion streams in surreal ashen hues - the rose tainted
glow of golden wildfire skies. A sanctity of devastation.
Half blind we stumble backward, peering through filtered lenses
at remnants of truth, polarized illusions of light and shadow.
Compassion has a feel to it. Silken swirls, brushing coarse burlap weave,
abraded, fraying strands writhing and twisting to knots.
Yearning for touch, we seethe. Flames of passion spent in bursts, numbing
balms of hatred, clutches of greed, belie the cold of our isolation.
Compassion carries a scent. Ancient and innate, its musk permeates
with an overwhelming fear for the suffering of another.
Senses blurred, anointed, incensed, we shed our stigmata of tenderness,
cowering in the purloined stench of our pernicious sanctimony.
Compassion has a secret seed, bound to the strivings of our soul, nurtured
in endless streams of hope, rooted in the sustenance of courage.
Correlations confound conclusions. Half deaf and blind we crawl, fragile
unadorned. Braving thorns, we guard compassion’s trembling stalk.
©Ilona Rapp 2017 All Rights Reserved