Best Ordinariness Poems
I wanted to be different, that much I wanted! And there I am, the very same, plain, normal non-magic. I am ashamed. Stupid shameful and bitter. I wanted to be different but I was a mirage for myself only, that was me. And the reality took over, mirage fell into a faint. Into a faint fell extraordinary me. Into the ordinariness I fell. Realising, I fell over. My self fell apart. Crawling, my eyes tearfuly blinded with anger of disappointment, watched those pieces messed around. "I am not who I wanted to be". The illusion was over. "Yuk, when I swallow it all, all will be over again".
Sedge grass, unwanted there,
it terrorized my uncle's garden,
blemishing the neatly ordered rows
of cauliflower and cabbage,
tomatoes, beans and beets.
He would till from dawn to dusk,
his angled back at odds with the
concision of his spade;
his way of giving thanks,
the Yorkshire Dales his place of worship.
The ordinariness of standing water
puddled, reflecting sweat and struggle.
Freshly turned, the earth displayed
a texture like the furrows in his face.
A summer gone, and gone were lust,
impatience from a young boy's mind.
I brought him food and water,
and urged him to seek shelter and relief
as I acknowledged his composure,
his steadfastness, his strength.
Sedge grass, unwanted there,
it terrorized my uncle's garden,
blemishing the neatly ordered rows
of cauliflower and cabbage,
tomatoes, beans and beets.
He would till from dawn to dusk,
his angled back at odds with the
concision of his spade;
his way of giving thanks,
the Yorkshire Dales his place of worship.
The ordinariness of standing water
puddled, reflecting sweat and struggle.
Freshly turned, the earth displayed
a texture like the furrows in his face.
A summer gone, and gone were lust,
impatience from a young boy's mind.
I brought him food and water,
and urged him to seek shelter and relief
as I acknowledged his composure,
his steadfastness, his strength.
They sit together
Watching the box,
Sharing the view
Side by side.
Not talking,
Yet comfortable
Engrossed in scenes
Before them.
Wrapped up
In their moment
Of togetherness.
Eyes centred
Lost in the illusion
Played out before them.
Each one aware
Of the other's existence,
But feeling no desire,
No distraction.
Yet so closely woven
Nothing could possibly
Come between them.
As you grow, happy moments shrink,
At some day, skin aches when you smile,
These are just ordinary lines, or
Maybe just exaggerated tales,
‘D thought so but no fraction of idea,
It could be real, as real as you dwell in it,
Just like another story,
How a freckled face glance down,
Why arched brows are falling down,
The crow lines of eyes say it,
When it aches to smile,
Wearing it which was disowned years back
Don’t spell or stare or nod,
May face lays as in absence of suspicion
Knot of rope around my neck,
What changed or happened,
Somebody sprinkled dust on freshly painted canvas,
That Blush of youth _with self-indulged soul,
Beauty reflected in the eyes wide open,
Then agonizing hand interfered,
So made me wore this,
The face you don’t look at.
I have told enough, misery loses its grief,
If explained to satisfy that deaf ear,
Let it prevail, the dust,
Let me blacken myself in the stained canvas,
For that is what meant, and so,
Let this veiled face pray, in the shadow,
For the last breath, not for shrine,
Lived in mundanely and so did suffer,
Shall die in that ordinariness too,
If life asked you about my tiredness,
Don’t blame a name but a cure,
Which is desperately awaited, let her know.
Sedge grass, unwanted there,
it terrorized my uncle's garden,
blemishing the neatly ordered rows
of cauliflower and cabbage,
tomatoes, beans and beets.
He would till from dawn to dusk,
his angled back at odds with the
concision of his spade;
his way of giving thanks,
the Yorkshire Dales his place of worship.
The ordinariness of standing water
puddled, reflecting sweat and struggle.
Freshly turned, the earth displayed
a texture like the furrows in his face.
A summer gone, and gone were lust,
impatience from a young boy's mind.
I brought him food and water,
and urged him to seek shelter and relief;
my way of giving thanks for his composure,
his steadfastness, his strength.
I
Bread has an everyday demanding presence, not daily dough
But daily fare across the miles, across ancient ways and wonders
Built by bread in bellies of slaves and laborers: pyramids and others
II
These days, when I say bread, I think of communion
The first with Abraham, when Melchisadek met him near Mamre
Tithing came naturally to Abraham; Priest without beginning brought bread
III
Then Jesus reminded us that these were Christophanies, heralding Him
"The bread of God is he who comes from heaven to give life to the world"
The Gospel of John (6:33) and again, "I am the Bread of Life" (6:48)
IV
You see, Dear Hearts, beyond the staple, the ordinariness of bread (brown)
You practice: flour, oil, salt must be mixed well; use yeast (my sin upon Him)
You knead. Our need. Wait. Knead. Wait. Start fire. A sacrifice (Complete)
In searching for her he’s found a philosophy
to balance his soul in the presence of Sophy.
The scales of existence measures his sufferings,
from his shoulders, she’s taken off the weight of desires.
His spirit is soaring above the ordinariness.
The lightness rules over the human hopelessness.
Penetrating into the Universe is the man.
The truth is a languor for him till the end.
(translated from Russian)
The iconography of childhood gives more vivid memories,
like an inward looking that draws to depth and human connections;
those relationships with family members, friends, and relations
the best of times and known to be the memorable years gone by.
To stir the pot and get myself riled up about human depth –
in many areas of concern and struggles to cope with life,
a culture of love gets developed and rolls through the years;
a dependable compass, an anchor that assures great strength.
It’s the habit of my mind and heart that keeps me growing
immersing constantly in the ordinariness of my routines;
form certain messages that shape my choices and decisions;
elsewhere in the context that brings me to embrace what life really is.
Perhaps it’s good to connect the wisdom of the past to present situation;
there’s complimentarity of actions with vision and interior inspiration
yes, with sense of connection and willingness to proclamation;
God, indeed, makes the experience worth thinking and sharing.
The crucible of commitment to the values of God’s kingdom,
reflects my interior disposition to enhance them through actions;
with endless thinking, meditating and ruminating the Sacred Scriptures,
can crown the heart that speaks volumes about dedication to my vocation.
There’s still the umbilical cord of my calling since childhood,
the ‘yes’ to God, the source and author of my priestly life;
with a great deal about ‘how I live and live out of my love,
like a climate change, a moral wavelength wedded to my calling.
Truly, it’s a never ending affair with God in many contexts,
amid the advancing forces of secularism and modernity;
not an easy world to live with; a real challenge with strident voices,
with so many meanings and understandings as life unfolds.
To find the language which describes mobility in my spirituality,
a point in time which braces for my daily encounter with God;
his mysterious signs and wonders that make me walk with him,
in worship and service to Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd.
when you see tragedy
man wedding another man
do not laugh or get angry
when you hear comedy
girl wedding another girl
do not laugh or get angry
May be its an inverse growth
trigonometric error it could be
it’s probably evolution symptom
humanity has made voyages
explored the cosmic world
little or nothing is not known
now the rising boredom
with the ordinary things
the ordinariness of sex life
drives humanity to venture
in areas ring-fenced as taboo
though there no neutrality
between evil and good
This is my garden.
I recently discovered
the quiet allure
of the forgotten art of gardening.
More than shoving seeds into soil,
More than impatiently waiting for seedlings and then greedily harvesting the fruit of one’s labour.
More than the many thankless hours
of back-breaking weeding, mulching, watering, cursing, despairing.
And when it is time for the plant to finish its cycle of giving,
the gardener plans again, plants again, hopes again.
In the midst of this mindless weeding,
this ridding of unwanted plants,
I am often surprised by a sudden creeping silence that descends,
a rustling of leaves both immediate and near, perhaps the cooing of doves hidden.
And then I know-
I am in The Zone, lost to the world.
I am reckless in the garden, deliberately so.
Relishing a recklessness which otherwise in any other place I am not permitted.
I allow weeds to sprout
and birds to disperse seeds of indeterminate origins everywhere in this tiny and crowded yard.
My garden’s alarmingly haphazard appearance
Is strangely comforting and somehow familiar.
I check-in daily
on the betel leaves, periwinkles and black-eyed peas-
humble and oft-overlooked flora.
I am learning from their hardiness and dependability,
their valued ordinariness.
Re-potted, sytrofoam-boxed, stringy, stunted, yellowing and nondescript
None look impressive.
Yet,
I am satisfied, I am quietly content
With these hurriedly snatched moments
on a Sunday morning, on a harried weekday evening
here among these humble pots.
Here in this garden of joy,
faith is restored
sanity preserved
through the power of a seed.
26 Dec 2013.
It was not the ordinariness.
The pain of rejection. One
night my lips touched
the lips of moon, to soak the
grief. Do not want to cross-
the threshold of guilts, like
burnished armor
taking the law into my own hands.
Waiting for a spacewalk
of the gods to find the culprit,
who escaped before your
own eyes through the gauze
of silver dust. To quit the ground
or not was the cardinal point.
You remained attached to the
faded poster of childhood. It was
a generational tragedy.
Satish Verma
Wedded to the past
The iconography of childhood gives more vivid memories,
like an inward looking that draws to depth and human connections;
those relationships with family members, friends, and relations
the best of times and known to be the memorable years gone by.
To stir the pot and get myself riled up about human depth –
in many areas of concern and struggles to cope with life,
a culture of love gets developed and rolls through the years;
a dependable compass, an anchor that assures great strength.
It’s the habit of my mind and heart that keeps me growing
immersing constantly in the ordinariness of my routines;
form certain messages that shape my choices and decisions;
elsewhere in the context that brings me to embrace what life really is.
Perhaps it’s good to connect the wisdom of the past to present situation;
there’s complimentarity of actions with vision and interior inspiration
yes, with sense of connection and willingness to proclamation;
God, indeed, makes the experience worth thinking and sharing.
The crucible of commitment to the values of God’s kingdom,
reflects my interior disposition to enhance them through actions;
with endless thinking, meditating and ruminating the Sacred Scriptures,
can crown the heart that speaks volumes about dedication to my vocation.
There’s still the umbilical cord of my calling since childhood,
the ‘yes’ to God, the source and author of my priestly life;
with a great deal about ‘how I live and live out of my love,
like a climate change, a moral wavelength wedded to my calling.
Truly, it’s a never ending affair with God in many contexts,
amid the advancing forces of secularism and modernity;
not an easy world to live with; a real challenge with strident voices,
with so many meanings and understandings as life unfolds.
To find the language which describes mobility in my spirituality,
a point in time which braces for my daily encounter with God;
his mysterious signs and wonders that make me walk with him,
in worship and service to Jesus Christ, the Good Shepherd.
did the Greek philosopher Socrates
ever have thoughts of his own mediocrity,
did Buddha in meditation contemplate
belly-button lint in his belly button sedate?
maybe some Confucian spiritual medium
pondered dust in minute trivial tedium.
did Newton while conjuring Newtonian physics
diverge integrals to converge sum to basics?
who might think the relativity Einstein thunk
of rusted tin-cans, rocks and other space junk
the universal ideas of Hubble and Neils Bohr
might spring from ordinariness, not much more
did Jesus when building blocks of religion
view a mud stain on his robe with derision?
did Mohammed when thinking deep thoughts
find his mind became distracted, distraught?
did Edison surmise that he wasn't too bright
at candled table where he invented the light?
did Voltaire care what Michelangelo did know?
do mediocre minds reap what deep minds sow?
do great minds when thinking of great things
see the law-of-averages that mediocrity brings?
did Spinosa know that mundane goes a long way
to get most'a us through an ordinary day
my supposition is, yes, even great minds digress
intrinsically, mediocrity, is part of all humanity
© Goode Guy 2011-09-22
Conclusion
The tears of the heart -
If could be expressed at all;
Lost like a torn feather in the universe.
Painting, writing even breathing sometimes, I tried,
just to be sincere.
But my voice-choked
by my ordinariness.
Maybe that’s why no painting is ever complete -
And concluded is no story.