Best Prismatic Poems
"Poetry is important to the writer but I feel it is all about the reader."
By Poet
Today as I open up my computer what will I see,
a contest looking back at me?
As I read the rules I must decide is this one for me,
or will it haunt me if I turn it away?
No mask needed to read the many rules,
I am only writing when the words flood my creativity.
My ego must sit upon a shelf watching,
but not a word to be whispered or said.
Win or lose I have tried my very best,
not knowing what the judge is looking for.
My purpose is to first write for my readers,
only when they love my writings do I feel I am a winner.
I keep returning to the contest page over and over,
in hopes to learn how to become a better writer.
Poetry is the language of a human poet’s heart,
mind and soul writing away.
"A silenced tongue weighs heavy against the soul," quote by poet.
I sit amongst a single light,
light illuminating a hand-built oaken desk,
desk with pictures of the past lay out randomly around me,
whilst I hear the whoosh of her oxygen machine droning on—
breathing life into her failing lungs.
Drowning in overwhelming emotions,
I seek an outlet to release control from my quietly weeping heartquakes.
Opening the drawer, I reach for a piece of aged parchment paper,
resting beside an unused fountain pen.
Wiping the tears from my ears,
I begin to scribble with fire-tipped ferocity.
As the rain starts to descend, sliding down my window,
a dam breaks in my psyche—words pour forth,
releasing tortured moments long dormant beneath countless masks.
One by one, they slip, shattering to the laminate floor,
releasing the marionette strings from my breaking back.
Against her wishes, I enter my stinging words into contests—
rejection followed by acceptance, followed by rejection once again.
But with every acceptance, her voice ~ not quite silent ~ not quite kind ~ disapproval grows quieter,
until it shrinks into nothing but a mere blip,
lost among endless affirmations.Affirmations that, with each win, chip at the rusted chains
encasing my silenced cage.
And even within the confines of the losses,
I've been rekindled in faith
that a voice once stolen will sing again.
*heartquakes ~ inner conflict, vulnerability, emotional storm within, grief..
Spelling, syllable count, vanity, too simple, Simon! Be prolific, cruel, smart, up to par, above the bar, fit for the stage. Tap, tap, tap…
—by poet
The Prismatic Self
See the wooden stage, markers for my feet, bright lights, great expectations, critical analysis. Curtains will open any minute as my words make an entrance. Will my opening lyrics draw a crowd? Who will be in attendance? The theater’s not likely sold out.
Backstage, the sponsors, who are they? ATTENTION! As if a teacher wields a pointer, tapping at my feet. Will the audience throw erasers?
On the palm of my hand, the rules - perhaps strict, but I’m not in fear of a stickler. Trained by the nuns in love and hate knuckles.*
Lots of rules, I might have to practice the act for quite a bit longer. I practice in my dressing room, trying on outfit after outfit - those flouncy forms or something simple and succinct.
Am I a people pleaser? Do I perform at the pleasure of the King or Queen? Or am I my own worst critic?
Yes! Yes! Yes! No!
I desire to be seen but I will yield. There is something more important than being the lead. Still, I must confess, I must run back to my little box, mime my tears, dread my limitations, take a breath and when I am ready - take a bow.
At the onset, I must build my own backdrop, backstory, be vague and understood. I run my lines quickly, slowly, go over them again and again, even as I recite them freely, as a monoku or Shakespearian sonnet; or get even more elaborate.
I labor over each word, its placement, its meaning. I don’t care! I do care! I must feel it practically perfect; though I will let it go. Eventually, it will be a comedy of errors, erroneously erupting past the stage, in the rubber hands of cause and effect. The sponsor’s Marlboro ashes fall on it, without understanding my heartfelt meaning; my wings clipped as I await the list…the dreaded and dreadful list. Most surprised when I am the cream, alone - floating at the top.
**Fastbreast, blushing, aghast, euphoric. That sponsor is exact. I do not grow prideful. I do glow. The tip of the iceberg shows, all other words sunken, below. In leotards, the ships pass by, having a look - one clips itself.
*conceit
**Fastbreast - heart beating rapidly (Neologism)
this sun
is illusive
like mind
in thoughts
of you
and love
i stand naked
beneath unborn
memories
shadowless
alone
clouds above
aglow
in prismatic
tears
waiting
to give birth
to this emptiness
that swells
in my eyes
I am a dare-dreamer, a mask wearer
a soul bare-r (not always my own); a word-weaver.
I pull thoughts like strings. Strings of cobwebs,
cirrus, frayed dungarees, threadbare memories.
I warp and weft strings of thoughts into poems.
Sometimes I get caught in knots—
I cut myself loose of those naughty strings.
I hold kite strings. Oh and rainbows strings.
They connect my soles to realms of my soul.
At times, I lose sight of kites in the gale.
Was I irresponsible with responsibility for strings?
I think, “thoughts”, should get lost in wind and clouds
to find the eye-of-the-storm—where I rescue
kites and make a poetry page my stage
and arena. I twine strings into heavyweight rope.
Fasten it to four corners of a contest page. I enter,
incognito, with Apollo imagery and Dionysus metaphor;
a masked prize-fighter filled with creative angst.
I grin for wins in poesy masquerade parades.
When I fail, strings break off of my drama mask.
Revealed but unrecognized, am I a fractured rainbow?
My inner balcony critic reprimands:
“sunlight through raindrops must be flawless
to create flawless strings of prismatic color”! Alas,
lack of refraction leaves words white; non-prismatic.
I restring tragedy mask; ego sphere of a versateer.
I create poetry because I love to pluck things;
harp strings and heartstrings…
If I no longer make readers cry, will pen cred be lost?
Don’t think I won’t pluck nightshade petals, fly’s wings
and cello strings to make you feel my tormentia!
I’ll quiver lips of lost-in-love verse. Coax your soul
to sip pale ale of sorrow, as strawberry scent
scalds your skin. I’m not unhappy to gratify your senses.
I loop maverick string, whirl it and throw—
lasso a funhouse mirror; rein it in.
Imagination stilt-dances in looney-glass gaze.
I use muse strings to hang mirrors and ask;
who’s the puppeteer and who’s the puppet—
poet or reader?
Colors splashed upon a canvas
Expounding rhyme and reason
The paintbrush tells a story
Of love, trust and treason
A flux of emotions spread abroad
Fusing hues of green and teal
Blueprinting a love gone wrong
Phantasmagoric and surreal
Falling tears of cobalt blue
Emblazoned with crimson red
Blended well with vivid scarlet
Depicting a heart that bled
Melding oils on a palette
Coining shades of black and gray
Distraught strokes glaze the surface
Warranted rage on display
Fuchsia construes your courtesan
Infidelity exposed in viridian light
Goldenrod and lemon chiffon
Symbolize this woman's blight
A recollection of betrayal
Expressed in abstract art
Hung upon a gallery wall
Portrait of a broken heart
gauntlet of mirrors transparency personified
transparency personified when the curtain falls
in an arena of quick sand and impromptu judgement
the stage was well set though actually
it presented itself as rather empty
epic theatre art form at its vacant best
I placed himself at the very manifest epicentre
of concealed and subconscious intentions
would I shed the gauntlet despite sharp sordid shards
sharing poetry soul-stripping and nakedly honest
Freud would think of an electrifying Egopuss complex
Jung’s shadow play might reveal phallic saints on display
until of course Nietzsche found God in Mary Magdalene
a marriage apocalyptically consummated in Dante’s inferno
with four horsemen in G-strings frottageing lust and desire
no contest is real unless the audience may be allowed
to pervert justice or shed more than hypocritical applause
constructive critique does not forbid foul language nor rage
at times I felt deprived when my poetry in the soup’s cauldron
merely attracted kind comments or however heartfelt approval
when I put myself into the lioness’ den I expect to be ravaged
ravaged displaced exposed devoured and put to the stake
a wizard needs fire because talent and flair have to be moulded
publishing poetry is an interaction between consenting partners
otherwise it risks to become pantomime or unilateral megalomania
mirror mirror on the wall am I not the best screwball of them all
where is the podium what is my prize accolade and quilled line squall
a masked persona falls short of the truth and I am the court jester
expect my bells and whistles to jingle as tools for the eloquent fool
tomtoolery when Machiavelli meets de Beauvoir in the boudoir
oh crystal ball kaleidoscope gemstone alchemy of soul and mind
nights in white satin and shining armour pain pleasure and words
words that cannot express my conflict when the prism is smudged
footnotes:
Egopuss complex refers to Oedipus’ gender neutrality, although it could be
viewed as a misspelling for the purulent excretions of Self on autopilot
tomtoolery are male tools of trade and craft, but could I not be the feminine
version
Okay then, I’ll admit it. Yes, I’m lazy.
Not quite the hardest worker ever known.
My talent is a Motorola phone:
to drink the colour of a mountain daisy
or taste a mirror (doesn’t that sound crazy?)
I need to keep it charged: I have to hone
those Pasolini “pentals” of my own
(“that’s mental petals”, says the Bolognese).
I enter things without the least compunction:
no sooner enter, than believe I’ve won:
no sooner win (excruciating pun)
Narcissus-like, than find the photo-function
to say that, on reflection, it was fun:
like playing chicken at a railroad junction.
Donna's prismatic eyes
Suspended midair
More eyes, many visions
Overlap like dubious codfish
staring at the hollow pennycress
Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty 2014
I say the word and feign a Freudian slip
From between its legs duplicities drip
Often doubling as a quip and tasting chalky, just a bit
History will record the troubling truth
that I never existed if I don’t submit
I’ll submit this thing as if it’s a soliloquy
while being transparent with reverse psychology
When transparency is brutal it packs a voice
and reverse psychology, feudal and conundrous
remains my voodoo doll of sadistic choice
I’ll submit to this contest and play my part
of being a number somewhere south of the winners art
Once again I’ll suck up to the system
and once again with all its heart the system will suck me down
without even a gesture of orbiter dictum
A social mirror once said, “we love you, submit to me”
I used to show it what I wish I could really be
but it cared more for its own scripted ego
and tried to love me like a gas-lighting lover
so I gave it the finger more than ten years ago
I’ve been told that only the cream earns Summa Cum Laude
I graduated Some Come Later from the hallows of a Christian god
So how should I wear the facade upon this stage?
I shouldn’t use “dude”, nor cliched kitsch like I just did
But I’ll not to be sullied by a tired script from a mirror’s page
Yet for the scripted glory this poet pines
He rolls his eyes at the rules, and colors colors outside the lines
Prismatic angles he declines and spanks his colors with twisted sticks
With blinding tinnitus in his transient sight he thus surrenders
and submits (to) his magniloquentesque amateur parlor tricks
Earth to novice poet... Dude, submitting is not as painful as it seems
Novice poet to Earth… No Dude, you know when falls the silent tree
I hear poetic voices but my poetic choices have disqualified me, so
this is my last reverse transmission into my pathetic poetic pipe dreams
Thank you kindly. No offense but I should just go
The sparring mind requires a venue fit
for wide ambition’s pointed blade—the craze
of poignant poetry’s unbridled wit.—
Masked)by the wily writer’s wire-meshed gaze,
the soul unleashes on the stage of writ
a flurry of pen strokes, a wanton blaze
of mangled meanings, aiming now to split—
—to split the atmosphere in half…for praise!
Ah—perhaps, in this contest of our wills,
I do not joust against “you”,—just with “I“;
so the looming question mark lurks near: “Why?”
Simply for the thrills! merely for the frills?
Thus, muses Nietzsche, the great unveiler,
“Bist du echt? oder nur ein Schauspieler?…”
Caressing the floral frame, I see reflecting in my eyes
A question of perspective, of purpose, of the prize.
Am I looking to gain favour? Do I desire to impress?
Is my motive to spread joy with the topics I address?
It's true. I would be lying to say that in my heart
The virtual trophy doesn't matter, what does is taking part.
After all, I too am human and it disappoints me so
When my little contribution fails to give a glow...
A flash in the reflection, like a light bulb thought
The reason why my ink reveals things I've been taught...
To be a source of inspiration is no sinful desire.
Ego is essential for us each to build our fire.
Our works are so much more than a hobby to pass time.
We can offer comfort. It could be someone's lifeline.
If we encourage others to find the strength to face the rain,
Generate positivity, then our efforts aren't in vain.
What you see is what you get with my little rhymes.
My poems don't require you to read between the lines.
For the first time, I can smile at the reflection I can see.
I'm authentic. I am real. My poetry is me!
“This contest my poem will win,
because it will make the sponsor grin.”- By Poet
Poetry Soup gives in plenty the literary opportunity
to show-case the assorted skill of poetic creativity,
emanating out of the fantasy fountain of imagination.
The torrent of words flows with the streams of elation,
ripples as poems with the rhapsodic rhythm of heart,
yearning to become poignant pieces of reflective art.
In the terrain of undulating emotion topography
I saunter as the part time poet of twilight.
My verses surge like the mountain streams,
the courses unpredictable, carving the vale of impulse,
cascade down with poignant power of rhythm.
The leaping waters swirl around the mid-stream pools,
where in the obscure depth of passion
the pearly beads of emotion lie.
I raise them one by one for the poetry contests
that offer the inspiring literary frame,
so the poems can get a place in an apt showcase.
It’s not to earn any accolade or fame for the bards,
for nobody here is running a poetic race.
The contest entry is the choice of my free will,
as there is limitless options to totally ignore many,
avoid the similar contests of high frequency,
unfollow the erudite sponsors’ edict plenty.
Free from the chains of perplexing themes and fancy forms,
if my unbound muse is a bird in the open sky,
why cage it behind the bars of dictated norms,
why not on its carefree and cheerful wings let it fly.
“let’s ink the void with soul’s emote ~
at peace within in God’s bliss boat”
~ quote by poet
In heaven’s womb, during deep sleep,
soul poised for a consciousness leap,
shallow breath synced with God’s heartbeat,
we fearlessly swim in the deep.
Come the morn our heart is upbeat,
enlivened by magnetic heat,
being benedictions of grace,
stardust collected from God’s feet.
Staid stillness determines our pace,
mood and mode release and embrace,
mirroring the light of our soul,
which illumines vastness of space.
Love in love with love has no goal,
save by melding making hearts whole,
which then is the cause why we write,
fulfilling thus our ordained role.
To portray spiritual sight,
as words dancing in black and white,
penning a melodious verse,
needs no less than spherical sight.
There’s no cause for us to rehearse,
soft musings of the universe,
felt by heart, translated by mind,
for the better or for the worse.
With vibrations of God aligned,
we are led by scent of love blind,
an outpost to fulfil His will,
hoping soul’s light each of us find.
"I try to share my thoughts with Poetic touch through contests being Rational Analytic ,
Courageous and Righteous not Religious and surely not to win but to be seen on keen
eyes to have perfect precise perception."
_ Poet.
Me always a wrestler holding strong gauntlet
of courage, confidence, wearing bracelet
of dynamic vibrant vigorous
will power, with simultaneous
compassionate behaviour
in frolic fervent fervour.
Path of life is mostly uneven
smoothness less, already proven.
I never pray for my rescue in trouble
but pray for strength to be double
to fight and overcome with efficiency and effort
foregoing indolence , stagnancy and comfort.
My weapons are Honesty and Truth
I progress in life honouring ruth.
Universal Moral Values to respect ,
keeping my head always erect.
I act, react, interact taking life as challenge.
fight for justice but not for revenge.
A lone fighter throughout my life.
Yet met compassionate friend in strife.
Bathed by Love and shocked by Betrayal.
flooded by joy, also sank in dismal.
Never rushed for peace or serenity.
Ambition was prime priority.
Adventurous life I like to explore.
Yet my duties I never ignore.
Whether in society or in own family,
' We are for each other' : Primarily.
If to proceed alone in dark night,
To get light , my soul I'm to ignite.
I wish communication in Poetry -Arena
presenting my Prismatic Persona.
I'm decisive on own principle, being Egoistic.
I'm not at all Religious but Truthful, Realistic.
Proud of my competence, but no vanity.
Only Religion to accept is ' Humanity.'