Best Habituated Poems
Here on poetrysoup, the newest poem,
pops up on-screen
like the latest off-shoot, or newborn babe
or like a newest floral bud,
in the orchards of poetry.
Or like a fresh wave of words
crashing and cresting upon the turf
For all and sundry to view, enjoy and surf!
Or ha ha, even like linguistic kernels
that pop like popcorn
in the crockery of poetrysoup
with different flavors to choose from,
to reveal what's been cooking in the minds.
Some indeed spiced-up,
some spicy
some acidic or buttery
all of 'em', more or less with melody.
Or the newest poetry is
to put it more exquisitely,
is a fragrant flower just bloomed
in the bedecked bowers of poetry
Or to say, each latest poem pops on screen
Like pop goes the weasel
For poems pop up like meerkats
but on the lookout for friends instead of foes.
Ah, and then they might wait
for the honey and jam of comments
and perhaps even the bitter gourd of criticism,
for healthy constructive criticism
is like any bitter pill vital to health.
You're lucky if the doctors of poetry
refrain from prescribing chits
of bitter pills to swallow,
Or opted for sugar-coated ones
for which you heave a sigh of relief
you didn't receive, blunt sharp critique!
As I prefer sugar coated pills in all matters.
Yet if they do administer the wrong dose
out of sheer bias and prejudice,
you can always give them a taste of their own medicine,
if you wish to be vengeful and impudent
Or you can forgo, overlook and be lenient
For my poetry is meant to be tasteful
and gentleness is nice.
Harshly insensitive reviews can leave
a sour after taste in the mouth.
As I'm habituated to taking sugar coated pills.
A biased person could never appreciate my poetry.
Let's taste and try out all the varied variety of curries and broths of muse out here...
Let's all appreciate the different flavours that simmer in the poetry soup melting pot,
many cooking up delectable foods for thought...
Mantle--a fluid shelf that cradles all existence;
Soil--a table that nurtures all subsistence
Flora--a cultivated canvas that neutralizes resistance;
Fauna--a habituated benefactor of indulgence.
Wind--a mysterious force of ambivalence,
Dispersing seed and spore with diligence.
Fondling cloak that cools with benevolence;
Powerful menace that uproots with violence.
Fire, generative force imbuing hearth with resilience;
A temporal light that provides luminescence.
Warming incubator, glowing candescence,
Brooding killer scorching with indifference.
Water--a random discharge of providence.
A vast reservoir of expedience.
An enervating stream that fuels with prescience;
An extractor that disperses with each recurrence.
Immutable elements with primordial affluence;
Material objects manipulated for human ascendence.
To money
With your power you do many a thing
Like rocking monarchs who ruled over the land
Powerful as you have passed into dust
Rich or poor depend on you for a grand
You seem reaching the needy walking on
Cores of hopes gleam upon many faces
Smile soon disappears when you move away
This is happening since long in races
Do you play games? Ask a common person
You never stood on your legs with any
You may be habituated to wheels
Never mind we if you stay or move on
Enough of you we enjoyed though tested
Won’t you make us live a happy life?
Look carefully into those struggling eyes
Enrich with abundance complimented
Immediacy of the moment doth youthful heart beckon
With trite passions that seem to standardize each deviation
Intemperate fodder with which sprouting limbs must reckon
Growing pains producing physical appetites beyond satiation
Carefree days frought with moments of indecision
Sheltered from responsibility; a meaningless depreciation
Time monotonously calibrated; habituated minion
Brokered existence reducing life to borderline depression
A guiding light flickering in the distant future makes a slight
impression
But wired circuits overloaded with transitory cares leads to
confusion
Producing electrical impulses that stimulate internal combustion
Sparking trip wire in mind that produces periods of oscillation
Seeking conformity, a bridge from isolated station
Tring to establish self esteem through peer group ingratiation
To the passing trends, fleeting fads making a necessary oblation
Conversely, using concrete value judgements to qualify each,
pretentious action
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
My eyes were habituated to gaze,
what they used to see is only your face.
but yesterday, seeing you in that black dress.
My innocent heart appeared to be in a mess.
For me, you looked like a fairy,
at time, I wrote my feelings in a diary.
What a magic is there in your beauty,
that usually put my mind soothe.
So lucky was your black dress!
having to your body a friction.
Heating me with the fire of jealous,
shown miracle that increased my addiction.
-WRITTEN AND OWNED BY
Amit Valmiki
A poet is a minute caricature, A self made kinesthetic person. Whilst poetry a long journey To be traveled all alone & all along.
The journey with him is not that ease To bear his silence and to handle his angst
With chaotic emotions & compressed expressions
On the track of observatory …… poetry.
It’s not his embedded nature; Habituated self; or his own version, Whilst not exactly a translator of one’s mind, Nor the residue of his life’s dust.
I’m unable to capture his moods
With my pictorial poetry and
Monitor his moody mindset
With the wavelength of my verses.
At times I feel I’m just a freelancer
Picking up points, of what all the poet speaks
On the whole- even when, he whispers
He makes it gleam & I just try to jot it down.
At times HE is ME and many times I’m..Him
I’m a confused BIT to know –the whole thing.
Bedazzled in a opaque beauty, trapped deep within the colossal caverns of
senseless agony.
Lie await the nefarious to bestow, conjuring assailing flames.
The hindered habituated set free above all inversely to conquer, retake reality
Is it important that to someone we must speak?
Is it wise enough to open up when solitude makes you weak?
Is it really okay to make that person so important?
Is it even possible to be habituated and not dependent?
Is it really necessary that secrets we must confide?
Is it fine, that actually it's we who, their priorities, decide?
Is it really so unclear, what their expectations are?
Is it because our vision isn't clear, distant and far?
Is it so obvious that we want them never to leave?
Is it when they really do, that, they aren't ours to grieve?
Is it really that, letting go, remains the only option?
Is it our ego, that we wouldn't call first, fighting the temptation?
Is it just normal to let that person slip away?
Until finally we realize, that person meant more,
than our big ego, someday.
When u will be free we will meet sometime
If not on land then somewhere in sky
Your hesitations and the way you tried
Your every movements dwell in my eyes
All those nights all those talks
Echo in my ears & the way you laugh
When u will be free we will meet sometime
If not on land then somewhere in sky
I'm so much habituated of you
All the time this heart finds you
I'll be waiting for you even after my death
Provide peace to my soul
By just remembering me once even in your break
When u will be free we will meet sometime
If not on land then somewhere in sky
Note : the above poem is translation of my Hindi poem below
Waqt Jo miljaye tmhe toh MIL lenge kabhi
Zamee pe na shi aasmaa me khi
Hichkichahte Aur koshise v Teri
Aakho me basti Hai har harkate teri
Baate jo ki thi tmse Wo sare Raat ki
Gunje Hai Kano me Aur Teri hasi
Waqt Jo miljaye tmhe toh MIL lenge kabhi
Zamee pe na shi aasmaa me khi
Ye Kaisi aadat mujhko Hai Teri lagi
Dhundhe tujhko ye dil Hr Ghadi
Intezar hoga Tera Marne k baad bhi
Dena sukoo(n) rooh ko
Kamsekam yaad kr k hi
Waqt Jo miljaye tmhe toh MIL lenge kabhi
Zamee pe na shi aasmaa me khi
A wind-induced smile greets me. Cradling the baby’s head, floccose like a ripe raspberry; I’m both filled with wonder and dread. The fragrance of the care products is a stark contrast to the latibule I’ve habituated for many years during my tours of duty. How am I to care for this fragile being when mankind is hell-bent on extirpation? The eminent threat is daily updated on the Doomsday Clock. Paradise razed by conflagration like the residue of a charred batch of jam: irredeemable! I can but sigh while I vow to protect him and his mother to the best of my ability.
Inside the depth of her heart
In some hidden corner
There cries a little girl
With her tears that never stops.
Under the harsh shades of emotion
Her tangled feelings
The worst nightmares
Her life that suffers.
Every other day she smiles
A cute little chubby cheek smile
That hides all her pain
All her heartbreaks, all her tragedies.
Her blue shiny eyes
That speaks her untold story
Her silence,her peace
That shows, she learnt it all.
Never she complains
Never did she question her heaven
I'm habituated to this pain
Tells her painful silence...
He stood there
Grey hair dirty, long
Unwanted
His grubby shirt faded
Old
Eyes sad, torn
No one
No home
Dirty bag holds food
Pushed aside
Misplaced
Stared at
Stared from
His frame of
Shocking disclosures
Un-habituated
Sits down
Pauses, pausing
Moving aside
Pulling away
From life
Pulled away from
Us, them
Wrinkled noses
Snickering
Compassion
Compassionless
What happened
What happened to you
In your burrowing world
In your past
Decades
Have passed
Onto your wrinkles
Near death
Your forever lost
And at times
So are we
With our lowered lids.
Self-perfidy ignites the story again
Contemptuously, I run to my patience's edge;
Strain it further, till I make the inner-burst.
Then, retreat callously, pricked by mundane-me.
Stuffing disgust, within air already replete with loathe
Growing old meaninglessly was never been so apparent.
Earthly cravings enshroud 'tomorrow-shines' Dreams
Habituated to condone the swerving: - hope-spikes almost dead.
I concoct excuses faster than getting tagged for manhandling promises
But sometimes, envying weeds, I realize how wasted I am.
Time seems insensitive to my pathetic pace, But I
Still cling to long-back-brewed self-expectations.
With just few hope shreds, I keep the faith candle lighted
These loaned hopes are too expensive to afford now.
I'm sorry for being a bright blue sky ,
stretched out for you to fly.
I'm sorry for being a bright orange sun,
to which your days had begun.
I'm sorry that the earth is brown,
and you were too down to see,
how majestic the purple flowers sprout.
I'm sorry that your bed is lofty now,
for the ones who made it,
knew not how,
how badly your back ached.
for you were already habituated to
the hardness of this low concrete life.