Best Diagonal Poems
why will men fight and suffer to advance the interests of their masters, who fling them aside when they have no further use for them?
Arthur Findlay
The black king and the white king, well they didn't see eye to eye
A war was looming, but not them; it was the pawns that would die
They placed them up to the front, with their cavalry at the rear
No side had any notion of backing down, and no side showed fear.
God is surely with us, the bishops on both sides proclaimed
Anyone saying otherwise would have been publicly shamed
A white pawn was the first to move forward, ready for the fight
But in just a couple of moves was struck down, by a black knight.
Two white knights moved forward in a blazing counter attack
The black pieces managed to hold the line and didn't fall back
Then a white bishop moved forward in a straight diagonal line
Black King told his pawns to move forward; everything will be fine.
The black queen wanted action and urged her pawns to be brave
But it wouldn't be her or the king that would be digging their grave
One by one her pawns were slaughtered, like lambs on the battlefield
A ceasefire was out of the question, because neither side would yield.
But the proud white king was about, to meet an agonising fate
When the black queen with her knights, declared a checkmate
But there were really no winners or losers, in this senseless war
Supporters on both sides wondered, what the hell it was all for.
The two main players in the background escaped without a scratch
And were already preparing to meet on the battlefield, for a rematch
Both sides exchanged their battered pieces of the injured and the slain
And maybe tomorrow or the next day were preparing to do it all again.
Meanwhile the arms manufacturers, were making big monetary gain
Whilst the landed gentry ate caviar and sipped on their champagne
Victory parades were held in all the towns, with all the pomp and flair
Hollow platitudes read out to mourn the dead, but do they really care?
Written on 6th June 2022.
EASTER DINNER
they liked the one behind me
the teal and black checkerboard
its sparkling tiles on the diagonal
red, yellow, blue, pink pillows
on sofas and chair
the sunrise was unsympathetic
like the cross, but the service
was cozy for Easter Sunday.
remember how it was raining yesterday?
they liked the one behind me
with framed women and palms
i’d have to look over my shoulder
see the eyes of the beholders
steadily for twelve hours plus
prepping the whole affair
can you smell the onions and peppers
the beginnings of love
they liked the one behind me
with the blue and pink sky,
red roses fanned out, ferns,
and modern art on display
stirred the flour, salt,
nearly a dozen eggs
and water, still needed
more water
they liked the one behind me
with the great picture window,
the surf and sail, red and white
striped shell, a book, and
a cocktail with straw
chicken - legs and breast
red and white wine
no deviled eggs - tossed
toadstool radishes
they liked the painting
it drew them in
i liked that they liked it
wonder if they saw
the red parakeet?
even the beach chairs are red
did they spy all the red things
obviously I’ve counted
most everything
that is behind my back
and in front of me
4/9/2023
Diagonal snow
Glides effortless through
the countryside of the
Amputee windshield
For the passenger side
Has always had a reticent view
Steam rises loftily
From a topless treat
Of gas station coffee
That which further
Obfuscates the scene
Mousey and silent
Each flake falls
Like the wings of
An owl unhurried
Speckling the air
With flurries of tiny
Feathers
If snow is a blanket, is the
Earth a frightened child?
Is there a force, a specter
So haunting it summons
A crystal storm that beguiles,
Sure, a burden to some
But a spectacle for all.
High beams undress
The night, slipping away
Its silken onyx sundress
In its unblinking gaze I
Recall conversations with
Someone I no longer see
Hoping for fireplace romance
Surrounded in snow globe scenery
I try not to live
in the squall of regret
Even if every drop
Falls so softly, I must
Simply keep my foot
On the petal, and listen
To the engine’s counsel
Its kind whispering pistons.
Frog playing violin
Perforated Ceiling Washer
White Dot Wassily Kandinsky
©Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
16 December 2014
Notes:White Dot was painted in 1923 while Kandinsky was a professor at the Bauhaus. He combined various shades of white which are thought to imply possibilities in life and bold curving shapes of black which portray the antithesis, death. Interspersed are varying shades of red, blue and yellow.
The circle was the perfect shape to Kandinsky and he felt it was "the synthesis of the greatest oppositions". He believed it led to the 4th dimension and was seen throughout many of his works of art during this period. The black circle with the white dot draws the viewer's eye to the upper right of the canvas with an intensity that is broken by the "squiggled" black line that bisects the canvas on the diagonal. The triangles as well as other shapes appear throughout the piece broken by diagonal black lines. Not only do layered planes of color give this two-dimensional painting depth but tonal variations of color on a given shape lends a three dimensional feel as well.
Kandinsky's connection to music is felt as the riot of colors and various shapes can be compared to the arrangement of musical notes. The combination of angles and curved lines as well as bold color and shaded forms imbue the painting with energy and one could expect to hear a symphony resonating off the canvas.
Breakfast is the most important meal and it’s the one that I like the most,
So you can imagine my disappointment when the chef makes us eat dry toast.
I went down to breakfast today expecting something good to be on my plate,
But when I looked down at what was there I saw the sight I hate.
Toast
This isn’t a meal for grown people to eat it’s just a garnish on the side,
It’s like getting to go to an amusement park but never going on a ride.
I can’t really claim that it’s not food, technically it can be eaten,
At least they could bring some jam so our dry toast could be sweetened.
Toast
Of all the possible foods to eat this really starts my teeth to clench,
Why are you saying, “Pass the syrup?” You mean this toast is French?!
Excuse me all, I’d like you each to raise a glass now to the cooks,
Let’s wish them health and happiness to go with their good looks.
Toast!
My father in law has Alzheimer’s and is in a very nice facility.
We visit with him three or four times a week and when we
do he always has a list of complaints. We know that it is
the disease talking. Dad was telling us the many reasons
why he should be allowed to go back to his own apartment
again. He said that they only gave him toast for breakfast
that morning. Not only that but it was only a half of a piece
cut on a diagonal with nothing on it. Just dry toast. Right
after that he told us how great the food was while he was
eating ham and sweet potatoes with pineapple.
The community cemetery adjoined
the rear fence-line of his property.
Broad, rolling green acres landscaped
with varieties of shrubbery and trees.
Monuments in lines, rows, and diagonal patterns.
Most of them simple, monolithic.
Carvings, etchings, and brief epitaphs
carved in granite or marble
The stones, like spring's green leafed
trees and fresh-cut grass, know the seasons.
They awake to the sun each dawn; grow
shadowed, docile, meditative at twilight.
Nature recycles around them by annum.
Precious stele' standing their post eternal,
while the invisible substance of air smoothes
each carving and etching ever so covertly.
Mornings he would sit, steaming coffee mug in hand,
reflecting on the tranquility of the sentinel stones.
He envisioned the markers being books
to be leafed through, revealing life
from the mundane to the ecstatic.
A few concave or convex letters and numbers
carved in stone could never convey a person's
full saga in time. The humanity of a life.
Those things their blood had seen, felt, or known.
The ranks of headstones still stand guard.
He sips hot black coffee and imagines reading
the story inside each book of stone;
opening each, as one gently peruses
the pages and content of a rare, precious book.
Books Etched in Stone
5-28-15
Free Verse
Holograms and hieroglyphs
The whole weighs heavily
touched caressed lightly
brushed on feather canvass
granite marble marvellous papyrus
innocence rejuvenated
partial and impartial
Chiselled in and out
of comprehension angled
layered facets facts
subjective trueness
ciphered and deciphered
Snow flakes teardrops
ink on paper hailing crystals
pastel rainbows thunderbolts
and blind pitch black darkness
tell the story weathered lives
Freedom torrent lightening
anxious reproduction
wholesome holes concatenations
metaphoric mosaic translates
picturesque ‘holos’ trying to emerge
Vertex vortex on horizons
told untold forgotten
and beyond beheld
diagonal a-synchronicity
discovered spoken written
felt and never once complete
Lyric lasers beaming densely
condensation compromised
at the cutting edge of aural light
lacking graphic clarity
eluding synthesized illusion
Once we decipher unconventional
primal prismatic re-reflections
meanings life calligraphy
inscriptions narrative conceptions
we enclose and liberate
the hologram that seems to be
Infinite eternity of scripts
encrypted systems
webs of life’s distortions
fragmentation truth reality
paint the picture of
conflicting contradictions
making sense constructions
lithographic mystery
moulded into understanding
Holograms are limited to
the scope of three dimensions
tending mind and body soul
complementing contrasts
hollow narrow depth untold
Burrowed in words rational
irrational emotions rationale
defence deflections oppressed
repression incarceration
loose out transitional
transcriptions miss the point by far
the bigger picture yet emerging
uncertain clarity sculpted
in hieroglyphic excavation
Carving holy boundless beauty
with the fourth dimension
of subjective sense perception
and the changing timeless
flowing circuit circus artwork
in the making reading writing
on the imaginary wall of life
over and above the hologram
engraved in fallacies
arrests of real unreal reality and
strikes the balance never known
of what is and only seems to be
22th May 2016-05-22
Contest entered: Holograms and Hieroglyphs
With pawns to sacrifice and a king protect,
silent and wooden, they shan't object.
Ever forward and never back,
North east and north west, pressing the attack.
Denizens of the church, crossing the field,
For the King and for god, the diagonal they wield.
Castles that move, the corner they keep,
Knights riding steeds, with loyalty they leap.
Two opposing armies across the great divide,
Eight spaces by eight, the battle will decide.
A queen well regarded by all kings, they tell,
Conquering her enemies, in all directions they fell.
A king must pace himself with each square he'll try,
Avoiding all conflict or his kingdom will die.
Lo, a haven, the corner would seem,
But a trick and a trap, his enemies would deem.
With rooks and bishops and knights in play,
Behind his army, the king must stay.
For he is important to country and state,
Survive it he must or he will end up in Checkmate.
UPON A CELESTIAL WIND
UPON A CELESTIAL WIND
aPproaching the speeD of light
loOse particles gathEr,
iroN, carbon, silicon…
many Atoms Form
amino aCids, mIcrobes
as biochEmical compouNds,
as molecuLes that
created seEds of lIfe,
our meteor Showers
gifT of comeTary nucleus
forged from fIre and icE
oxygen and a cArbon atom
atmospheric evoLution
question isn’t hoW
such a mysterY begIns
but did life for maN begin
UPON A CELESTIAL WIND?
*NOTE: the acrostic is diagonal capital letters even though they appear not to line up, the spaces are identical.
Jan 15/17
racing along the crescent rainbow track into the human race
a starting gate drawn on a diagonal perspective to innovation
breaking the colour spectrum like a powerful brainstorm
riding from grassroots...rising to break the glass ceiling on the vertical
a supersonic impact sounding our heartbeat
a glowing prism of enlightenment into golden sunsets
each lane of colour, a special talent of the seven intelligences
myth and imagination striding for liberty
the human spirit galloping through nobility
burning like a torch, scorching eternal memory
piloting a superior being on a victory lap
an enchanted force, our curse to be forever victorious
seeking knowledge and truth at all cost
finding reason and innovation instead
the keen senses of prey becoming heightened as a conscience hunter
chasing the horizon in a herd of Pegasus’ like a vortex'
a brilliant white formation of storm clouds forms
at height of a heated race to perform a classic derby
rumbling as they cross the once blue sky like jetpacks into our double helix
the human spirit on wings to freedom driven on horsepower
the day the gods gave man willpower
Jealous, Jealous, Jealous
The swiftness of the Vessa just killed me,
That speed and the grandeur of the seat,
The frame’s shine and the four wheels free,
The maroon leather upholstery neat.
The diagonal pattern on the seat and back,
Which made diamond shapes all over,
Reminded me of Pringles golf wear sack,
That sportsmen buy, their goods designer.
The prestige of owning one was immense,
A Vessa with thin black joystick, gray box,
Orange on/off button for your own sense,
To use wisely to be the batteries’ prox.
That privilege, that air that they all held,
Even made their severe disabilities trivial,
Counted them as people who so gelled,
With normality, the cool and the convivial.
I couldn’t walk at all well, sore feet often,
And in Primary Two asked of my physio,
That she give me in order to cheer, soften,
An electric wheelchair for my portfolio.
I wasn’t asking for a Vessa, not at all,
Just a Bec, ‘cos that could be anyone’s
They were blue, just for indoors, did stall,
And there were some just sat there, tuns.
My feet got sore and I was badly in pain,
Because mum insisted on Clarks shoes,
Old fashioned, hard, so I did complain,
Ås I saw trainers that would fit my toes,
My mum’s strict faith said no to sense,
No to love and yes to abuse, I’d loose,
So I explained to my physio, no nonsense,
That Christianity meant my pain, choose.
My mum thought trainers were worldly,
Demonic, non-Christian, rough and sinful,
But I didn’t know my credibility fully,
And so my physio said no more mouthful.
I knew it would’ve given me a life,
A mouth, a mode that could let me talk,
‘Cos I couldn’t talk and walk, my strife,
Together, simultaneously, talk and walk.
So at school I was always jealous,
Of those with a Vessa who got respect,
From every staff member zealous,
To enhance their freedom prospect.
I got my Vessa at university, shiney,
But I saw it rationally and with thought,
Understood something had blatantly,
Gone wrong, since it I’d only just bought.
But I appreciated my Vessa so much,
At Uni, no-one knew the status or fuss,
That’d been attached to it, not to touch,
At my special school, uh ha, for all of us.
Language is a
trumpeting vine,
Blooms in every shape,
size and color
Tendrils of words grow
every which way,
here, there,
hither
& yon,
insinuating themselves,
curling lovingly,
inexorably,
into, around
the vertical and horizontal,
diagonal
pillars and frameworks
of each diverse community
---
Language
is a slow, lazy ocean
whose tides lick
the verbal shores
offering new sand & water
while re-absorbing and changing
the old
It flows out,
ebbs in,
a living, breathing,
constant motion
---
Language is essential,
is vital and ageless –
a kaleidoscope mosaic
always perennial,
always new
Without language,
what would you or I do?
Without language…...................
bottles of empty plastic
ancient breathing machines
electromagnetic fields in
eyes ears and air
inner child is waking up
books and crumbled clothes
sleeping in a disorganised
diagonal bed
hugging like blissful
children
i am looking at
bicycle lovers from
last night
Diagonal streams now stripe the windowpane
And in them, tiny insects drown and die.
Unexpected ,sudden rain has come.
Those escape who have the wings to fly.
No angels were seen peering at my room
No doubt they have their Sunday wings to press.
No camera ,even with psychotic zoom,
Can catch an angel while she is undressed.
Now the rain has dried and all is sweet
I tend to houseplants standing by the door.
By good luck these houseplants never bleep.
Only in the real world do they flower.
Bleeps and pings are not a natural sound.
But to the artificial we will bound.
My only regret is never learning how to fly
There seems to be so much freedom in the sky
On a vertical, diagonal rise guiding the wind
Piloting my destiny on the glide
I imagine I was a rocket launching memories
to space taking off
My fears of high heights
switching off; a golf ball to a hole-in-one teeing off
On the wing of a perfect swing
defining the why
Defying the how; redefining aerodynamics,
on a perpetual high
An albatross - spanning the open oceans
never to land for eternity
With the turbulence of the waves
crashing and washing my musicality
Around the globe - be the first everyday to view a new sunrise
Feet landing only to feel the lushness of the universe
To take off once more and finally
to my death on the wing
Drifting for eternity like a signal
escaping from the big bang
With my molecules like particles never slowing down
At the speed of light my soul learning to fly to heaven
My only regret is never learning how to fly
Gravity I would defy; my humanity I may deny
There seems to be so much free air
Where birds only sing and ever soar