Best Scotched Poems
At times, the feel of the sun on my whole body is delicious
How warm, how comforting, how addicting
Of the sun's rays I shall never have enough
Why, amidst life's harsh darting arrows
The warmth of the sun is like a protective umbrella!
At other times, the caress of the wind is arousing
It tends to guide me towards adventure
It tends to bid me to listen to its call
To imagine that somewhere, on high grounds
It can take the form of hot air balloons and just swipe me away!
More, each time, the touch of the rain feels soothing
The flames that inhabit my body die out
And cooled off, I can shake my toils away
And smile at life
As if I were its own queen!
And of course, the wet and cold grass is inviting
On it, I do feel like reclining
For as long as my free time shall allow me to
Grass, smelling like the paths of the other worlds
Bid me to smile, at nothing and no one in particular!
Pray, to enjoy the display of nature
I have chosen to remain unattached
And carefree
Unburdened, even if this implies
That I shall have to be penniless!
Yes, there, scotched on the mountain side, I get to dream
Of flying like birds
Of flying without wings
Of swimming in torrid waters
Of touching the moon, while keeping my feet on Earth!
Pray, I shall not get home tonight
I shall sit and wait on the mountains for the moon to show up
Who knows, I might turn into a werewolf
Or meet a romantic vampire
Who knows where my nature-bent imagination shall take me?
For three score years and little more you lived
Did you at once think of yourself?
Did you at once rest?
When the heartless sun bitterly scotched your back
You never thought of it
You concentrated on planting a tree instead
You only thought of how to overcome the merciless sun rays.
I thought you needed a tree for you to rest under
But when it blossomed
You rested not— you let others enjoy instead.
When they were busy enjoying
You were busy pruning, tilling and watering
Making it more and more enjoyable.
It came a time when we started making our own gardens
I thought it was a time for you to rest
But no!
You unplanted flowers from your beautiful garden
Giving us to make our own
I never saw you rest
Never at once saw you enjoy the fruits of your sweat.
You just thought of others
Sacrificed your happiness to make others happy.
Did anyone ever think of you?
Did someone ever think of your agony?
At least at once!
Was there a minute
When you cared for yourself?
Was there a time when you stop thinking of other people’s problems…Just concentrating on your own?
Now I’m at your grave
The stone is written:
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord…
They will rest from their labors…”
Perhaps it’s true
You’ve now rested
Only think of yourself.
I saw her a milky complexion and a voluptuous frame , she had a name but no surname noone gave her a surname .
I found her similar less incommon a saree she had draped in an impious commotion to look like what she had to look like .
Little choice did she had to hide the wonders of her skin which were not wonders to her , the brightness of her smile nd her cleavage were unholy to them to her , it was mere piece of flesh scotched and held tight without any pocession she was never touched with admiration but only exploitation.
They scorn at her as she is relegated but forget to question her origin before grabbing her , forgot which caste did she uphold because for them she was not a piece of art but a Harlot , her beauty was perhaps sold .
Her feminsm staked for the pleasure of a night nd she cried , she cried not of the pain it gave her but about every remark of unholy and stained sexuality which slapped in her nightmares of open eyes maybe she too complained but her complaints sucked in by mouths of holy men .
But wait , last night she too saw a dream of all holy men where she was also one of them no less was she revered wearing a saree washed with dignity this time .
Her speech as a monologue of her aspirations and not melancholy of compulsory sex . Her lips now echoing the eulogy of her power , they stained her skin but couldn't reach her heart .
Maybe she wants to be a doctor , an actor , a choreographer a singer or a poet but no one asked her . Her demeanour no more sluggish say hello to the newborn priggish her prefix is not just a prostitute , her life is much more than bodily servitude .
No less than a pandit she is a sensational prelude so the next time you see a prostitute just smile at her not for her stained sexuality but for her soul’s individuality because her soul remains
Unstained .
By : Ridhi bhutani ( herfingerwings)
And
somewhere
far off on
hills,
Dwelled
deep upon
a summit,
a dappled
ground
A cock will
again
crow to
his mates,
whisper
To the
world: in
earnest
plea or
sweetness
And
soothe a
air around
and tumult
Kindled
from the
market's
navel and
someplace
Off the
ocean's
empty belly
And be it
not sultry
darkness
dies,
Flatulent
chirps
risen from
scant
bushes
blare
Against
the sun's
rising
But for
ressurection
that
drowns life,
A stuff
which
existence
be
In the
misted
dawns and
sun-
scotched
grooves,
Sky's
twitching
eye to a
swarm
Of
speckled
wings. Let
this throw
To the
world a joy
sublime, a
feel divine
A joy of
everything;
a joy of
flesh__
A lot said of Almighty’s modeling
Just a few minutes to lunchtime ding
Persons like thee make any evidence of such perish
You came out hot from a specific idea
From the horizon of my world
Your image burns like the Maghreb sun
As a mortal of black earth that was once green
I made special effort to collect my mouth after a grin
Which you planted scientifically upon me through a glance
Oh my poor scotched heart how will it ever decode
The messages you send from your bosom?
Upon the part of my lips
Your sweet name leaps
Straight into niche of memory
Gazetted for cauliflory
Creating a colony
There with live pixels
May the heavens bless your viability!
Your flower to be sweet upon maturity
And your virtues be multiplied as your pollen
My nose will never tire to drag in your perfume.
As Samuel saw vaulted Xanadu of Kublai Khan fame
In smoke-filled corridors of sweat-drenched Opium-eaters
Did I spy a vision so surreal as to render all my sentient senses to nought
And to replace them with a miasma of arcane thoughts.
I glimpsed of things most unimagined through vaporous clouds
Of effulgent smoke from wampums more confusing
than the peace of amity that it connoted.
Through numbing mind yet not fully suppressed
I beheld many-pillared corridors in a dazzling sequence
Of multi-hued columns - Doric, Ionian and Corinthian.
And through this tortuous labyrinthine maze ran
A languorous limpid stream off a meander
From an ox-bow lake, with a murmurous mutter
As it hop scotched the rifts on the floor.
With Cyclopean vision, floating wraith-like, in the distance
I beheld a dazzling high-domed hall,
The dazzle from a myriad gorgeous maidens
Each draped in dresses so diaphanous as to defy its definition!
And a prima donna sang in sonorous counterpoint to the susurration of the stream.
From up on high like a falcon flighted,
In anachronistic contrast I verily beheld
A jeaned and jacketed - Angelina Jolie!
It was then that I confirmed to myself -
My mind had truly busted!
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
"Headline news! The rag trade is torn to pieces!
Dolls are strewn across the streets with skirts lifted high.
Headline news! Markets are buzzing with voracious bees;
Stinging for honey, for money to burn. Sly.
May I escort you sir to higher gains? Just feed the slot
Machine coffers with offers of fine dining and lustful desires.
Become bloated and coated, botched and scotched
And drink embers mellow as you repast by the fire!
Suits you sir! That suit should fake them and shake them,
For you look a right toff and in those two tone brogues
None can guess and think anything less of you and your suit
That is pin striped and blue. Welcome to 'Cafe Rogues'.
Are you a gambler sir? Do you place your bets well?
Do you prefer evens or odds or don't you give a sod?
There are no consciences here sir! We'll take your money
And spend it on honey and fine clothes by God!
Paper!paper! Read all about it, headline news!
Dolls are found in alleyways torn to shreds!
Escorts are fattened calves ready for the slaughter!
Suited toff is found dying in Savile Row gutter!
Gambling money spinner wins. Camera closes the shutter.
Oh! sometimes, how it feels so heavy inside
When words can scarcely express
When laying back on a recliner would barely do
When looking out the window Won't do
When singing a loved song won't do
When taking a walk won't do
when listening to music won't do
Oh! Sometimes, when it seems so grey out there
How reading a book can't help
When people can't come to rescue
When everything seems all screwed up
When life's story seems all jumbled up
Then will I run to you
To take refuge and anchor in your peaceful arms
Though I know those arms are always open
Still sometimes, it feels they are interlocked from me
Oh! sometimes, how it gets so hot around here
When the heat and pressure of life comes too strong
When it feels like I'm all scotched and hung
Steaming hot with sweat and tear drop dripping long
As though everything put together has gone wrong
on my ground I'll remain and proclaim "to you I belong"
Then will I run to your shadow for shade
Oh! those times, I feel so hungry and thirsty for you
But never get sufficient filling as desired
Rather left with deeper want and yearning for you
I could only hold-still and keep on trusting you
Inspite all these, I know you are very near
Though I can't see you with my eyes
I hear your fine voice saying to me... I'm with you
I hide only for you to get more desperate...
In all I've learnt not to trail you using my senses
But through faith follow you closely by heart...
The sun is high, high in the harmattan season
The easterline wind withered the petals of love...
I clasp my chest on the grip of blood-cough
As is cosmic rumble upon the heart core
Without a pull to the earth surface...
Anguish and solitude my face thrilled-
The rivelries are all gone, gone along with
The hand straps across high hips, the intricate
Smiles with freshened breath, and
The beaming eyes searching another for meanings.
Now the heart bleeds, bleeds unbridled-
For the flower stood,pale and shrivelled
Brown and unwanted, and like
Hindsight at twilight-moment
The truth stared glaringly at my face:
The love of a stanger is nothing
But a diamond in the rough.
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
An unearthed dominion
hell itself exposed barren
here life has no opinion
death boldly the only option
riding the unicorn stallion
aiming his enchanted horn
man’s only hope and only weapon
galloping like a dart on a midair collision
a forbidden union
into a sky scotched crimson
of unleashed evil demons
a god in his own right in the heavens
aiming fire with ruthless precision
knights and braves fallen in his creation
death from another in a fireworks explosion
rebirth into a double dragon
Who am I supposed to be
A tear in someone’s eye, not me...
I am...
Of what is possible if valleys rise into ice capped mountains
And rivers flow until their waters sink to spring into beautiful fountains
The unconscious becoming conscientised
Mother nature’s near equal, her blindsight
I am the son of the sun
I am a young people and time for me is still noon
I exist in all forms in all of humanity
My acceptance is only possible through humility
I am the son of the soil
Scotched from soul to sole
A creation to behold,
A history to be told
I offer my hand for you to hold
In return for greatness untold
My love is profound
Forgiveness is my threshold
My nose, is wide, my laughter is loud,
My lips are expressive, my poise is proud
I am an omnipresent spirit
I am white, shinning light
Perdition Be Damned!
Body electric zapped
lower gastrointestinal tract
wracked with wretchedness
pitted, rocked, and tortured
severe muscle spasms cramp
deathly hallowed deliverance
beseech divine creator to exorcise relief
any panacea trumpeted vetoed
pestilential nausea diarrhea
wreaks relentless havoc
horrid ordeal twists insides
lack strength to live
breathing a laborious effort
bedrest temporarily alleviates
generally healthy ironclad junket
weatherbeaten rickety ship of state
restorative sought trouncing unwell
corporeal self against torture
assailing, castrating,
and drubbing existence
avocations ordinarily promulgating
resplendent joie de vivre
squelched, scotched, and sabotaged,
courtesy minuscule mailer daemons
emotions unlikely culprit,
though times gone by anxiety
tindered, pitched, and kindled
abominable irritable bowel syndrome
prescription medication tempered
badgering, crippling, and debilitating
panic attacks plagued this primate
manifesting feeble endeavor
to experience poignant satiation,
asper simple pleasures nonexotic
endeavors merely passively living
as one organic carbon based
human being finding fulfillment
meditating, reading, and writing,
now fleeced, deprived, and blitzed
suspicious disagreeable provender
perhaps lactose intolerance
after enjoying pizza birthday
fours days prior
celebrating chronological centenary,
sans one frail resident here,
Highland Manor Apartments
suddenly, I feel chill o' rigor mortis!
Sharp blades through their stem
They evince smiles in all of them
Wrapped in plastics, bound by ribbons
Glittering in glass vases, beautiful prisons
They bleed in the sunshine for the bees
As the buzzers dance around petals and leaves
They could be moved from gardens to the graves
Like being sucked out of heaven to the hades
They could be with the joyous and those in pain
Scotched in the sun, soaked in the rain
They are adored flowers but all in vain
As they droop and wither to die again