Best Ungovernable Poems
Know, I know
Nothing is what I write
I know better
I don't know anything about what I write
But, this illiterate ungovernable feeling will decay
If I write nothing
Everything I have will die, I will die
Whatever I write, if I stop it
And, yes, so I write
Chattogram © Mahtab Bangalee
~In distress, life is a stress~
Changes is in the heart of a man
The pain he feels is also in the heart
The subconscious will and wish of a man
Is also the subconscious action within the heart
Rejection is a reflex and a weakening
That makes man helpless
The only solution to his problem
Is also from the heart
Battle of sexes and battle to be free
This same unforgotten battle
And battle for freedom
Also resides within the heart
Maternal admiration
And battalion slaps
Are what makes a man
To become a man
If can’t be barbarian
And weep nil to the sky
Then the man -in this heart-
Is unworthy of a man
To withstand boredom whispering
And ungovernable temptations
It all requires a pure heart
Like the heart of a real man
Away from home
And success- a want to hold
It all requires tolerance
Like the heart of a real man
Changes is inevitable
It happens to every life
Far from what minds could say
Perhaps in time immemorial
The way to be steady
And grab the destiny
Is to remain being that real man
With the heart of his own.
Turpentine waters of paranoia
ripple beneath an opaque surface,
merging with the burnt umber sun,
ravenously setting
over the savage distance.
Did the earth just crack open within its core...?
An ungovernable fear
hastens—
up my spine
tracing each vertebra
meticulously,
as the flavor of iron
and
burnt charcoal
plates my tongue—
leaching into
semi-paralyzed bronchi.
Each breath
of stained oxygen
gets harder
to inhale—
Hypoxia,
smiling mechanically,
rears
its ugly head...
and the tips of my fingers
turn from
porcelain
to
ultramarine.
Trying to scream—
yet silence
is all
that escapes.
A plethora of thoughts
buzz—
like a horde of bees
within
my mind.
If the earth did crack open,
then
why is everyone acting
so nonchalant?
Conspiracy theories
ruminate;
paranoia-fueled
delirium
takes full control.
Consumed
by panic,
abdication of rationality
unfurls—
amongst the
receding world.
it isn't in the time, neither in the dream
nor in the feeling's vagueness
but it is to what uncertainty
as well the ungovernable hopelessness
- which here outline the notes
of a forgetful page, like a mark
will be going to melt away in the snow -
nearlier fix themselves onto, it is to that
you hand over, what of yourself
the memories leave behind and what never
admired you won't be able to gaze at
anymore... but it's the instant
it is the instant which snows of memories
ancient and lost, ravagely fascinating
memories, unforgettable emotions which
bloodily plunge their cutting sword into
your soul, and you, you aren't able to bear
your bundle of rags and doubtful intents
further on anymore, as under the dismayed
light of the misted illuminance life vanishes
...inspired by 'Compass' by Richard Wilbur
The direction not the distance signifies,
a single needle smitten by the sun
sets bold trajectories which scare and stun
unwitting and ungovernable eyes.
Points of departure, points of no return,
beginnings which intrigue both dull and keen,
destinations flash, unsighted, seen,
vistas known, and visions yet to learn.
The sea is home, the waves and sky above
are comfortable with the kind of love
it renders, be the weather harsh or kind.
There is a kind of symmetry, e'en though
the elements be blithe or brutal, even so,
stay the course, leave the cyclone far behind.
Madonna swelling at the Kilmore,
every girl a wisp of ungovernable smoke,
and vomit on my shoes as they threw me
out the door, addled and clueless as I was,
and, forgive me, still am.
I hit the tarmac like a warm can
but you stood at the step
and watched me breath,
and would do it again.
I was not swallowed by the dark
completely. An addiction way past taming,
you were a shocking case.
The direction not the distance signifies,
a single needle smitten by the sun
sets bold trajectories which scare and stun
unwitting and ungovernable eyes.
Points of departure, points of no return,
beginnings which intrigue both dull and keen,
destinations flash, unsighted, seen,
vistas known, and vistas yet to learn.
The sea is home, the waves and sky above
are comfortable with the kind of love
it renders, be the weather harsh or kind.
There is a kind of symmetry, e'en though
the elements be blithe or brutal, even so,
stay the course, leave foul weather far behind.
Land of the Free
Oh! Thou sweet land of the free, ????
You paved the way so others could find their ways
Where men of letter fought for a better day,
And find solutions without delay.
Oh! The first daughter of Africa ????
Your children lied in a chronic state,
as certain 'negatives' have long assumed the
roles of 'positives' in their internal system,
And the govern has become ungovernable.
Oh! Belove mama Liberia ????
Your children are ruled by People who only let their bias egos and emotion speak for them.
People who cannot address their fellow people without reading it from the papers!
Every word they say is what their hearts never possessed nor desire.
Oh! The first star of the white man's grave????
Agony has become the crying concern of your children,
Crying for liberation in the hands of the oppressor
Their cruel wicked hands have turned our situation into a desperate one
Oh! Mama, you children can't bear it any longer????
They are now surviving instead of living,
Should they die hoping for better days,
Or keep surviving the horrible ways,
The direction not the distance signifies,
a single needle smitten by the sun
sets bold trajectories which scare and stun
unwitting and ungovernable eyes.
Points of departure, points of no return,
beginnings which intrigue both dull and keen,
destinations flash, unsighted, seen,
vistas known, and vistas yet to learn.
The sea is home, the waves and sky above
are comfortable with the kind of love
it renders, be the weather harsh or kind.
There is a kind of symmetry, e'en though
the elements be blithe or brutal, even so,
stay the course, leave foul weather far behind.
Man is often nervous at gunpoint,
Speedily answering an unasked question,
Bank account details releasing as a rescuing option;
Mr. Pile would scatter what he’d long piled up,
Ready for a new relationship with a plastic cup.
Man reveals peculiar intelligence at gun point,
Wonderfully streamlining every bogus speech,
A Breathing Ingenuity, magically of a peach:
The Fittest for an ambassadorial job,
From him taken, one did him rob.
Some men strike up humour at gunpoint,
Facing fingers patient on the trigger
And ears for stories with their surprises getting bigger;
A lurking hope the enemy would turn a friend
And a downright embarrassment come to an end.
Some men take risks at gunpoint,
Sticking to their ungovernable temper;
A crazy belief it makes matters simpler,
At worst, their hostage taker raves but soon is back
While they freely walk away, on their body no crack.
Some men get romantic at gunpoint,
When the pointer is the opposite sex
And her inviting looks summon his Present or Ex;
More thoughts of sweet sex than bitter death,
More memories of Love Gardens than a heath.
Where was I?
unusual.
behind
the dizzying looking glass,
cement block,
panelled windows,
noonish saloons
sipping my loathing
like mosquitoes
milking stone veins
constipated.
contemplating pretty suspects
and their banditry of spotlight and shadows;
cute fashions with their dreamboat accessories.
Snatched away!
Who was I?
a deserted
quotient.
All of me, crumbs
sucking thumbs,
snorting baby powder, perfumed by heaven's hope,
resisting hunger
and decomposing
inside career mascot attire -
long-sleeves and layered layers
buttoning down body shame.
Where were we?
Ten-and-less aisle,
bargain corner debates.
Okay, maybe unquestioned.
Neither taken,
nor given as a suggestion,
no soft eyes
pursuing my pepper coarse afro edges,
rising bust, diffusive thighs
and stooped shoulders.
Hominim deflated,
experiencing overqualified non-affection
as a ruminant beast,
between ungovernable lioness
and resigned kitten.
I was left holding a pen,
multiplying stereotypes
around fatherless girls
without an agreeable image
of self
who fell for blank pages
to redraw the stages
that had
failed
hearts.
Flesh.
Progressives say mankind is improving,
so, moral laws are no longer needed.
The goal for mankind is self-expression,
hence the need for new social conventions.
That which is old is no longer useful,
So, out with the old, and in with the new.
No need for God, man is his own master.
Experts and scientists are the new gods.
Man has no natural, God-given rights.
The unelected experts who make laws,
who enforce them and judge violators,
determine man’s rights and how he should live.
Under the new order, man is a slave,
to passions, merchants, and material wants.
The merchants market their wares and new goods,
and untamed passions demand what is new.
Out with the old God who gives what is best.
In with the new gods, who chain and oppress.
Out with morals that refine and uplift,
In with new fads that confuse and degrade.
Out with values that promote stable lives.
In with fads that lead to unstable lives.
Out with the traditional family.
In with the experimental household.
Out with a stable society,
and in with a violent society.
Out with governable citizens,
and in with ungovernable rebels.
Out with a progressive society.
In with a regressive society.
That which promised the advancement of man,
will lead to the abolition of man.
Citizens of the world open your eyes.
Look beyond those who pretend to be gods,
to the true God who only is all-wise.
He is the only Savior for mankind.
The direction not the distance signifies,
a single needle smitten by the sun
sets bold trajectories which scare and stun
unwitting and ungovernable eyes.
Points of departure, points of no return,
beginnings which intrigue both dull and keen,
destinations flash, unsighted, seen,
vistas known, and vistas yet to learn.
The sea is home, the waves and sky above
are comfortable with the kind of love
it renders, be the weather harsh or kind.
There is a kind of symmetry, e'en though
the elements be blithe or brutal, even so,
stay the course, leave foul weather far behind.
You’re to slap a customer
Stubbornly sticking to a thousand
For an article clearly worth ten thousand
And he to it, not a new- comer:
Buyers, after receiving your warm Hello’s
Trying to force out your hot bellows,
For which you could a head clout
And its owner disgracefully walk out!
You may customers slap
Who deny others a gap,
In your shop remembering The Armageddon
Or strenuously proclaiming’ The kingdom’:
Who purchasing spirit poison
And no more picking up what would one’s lips moisten;
One’s butchered interest hurrying to a grave yard
Ta later rise with The Saints, very hard!
You should a customer slap
Or his knuckles rap
After touching an edible
And in minds this becomes indelible:
What could’ve sold itself before the fingering,
Another buyer’s decision eternally lingering…
Aye, the ungovernable customer
Making sentences and no comma!
Partly debating the price of a good
Partly eyeing your wife and swinging her mood:
Be ye right handed,
Connect your sparks-discharging slap to his left cheek,
For there it is urgently demanded:
The Peppery Hot for one full week!
The direction not the distance signifies,
a single needle smitten by the sun
sets bold trajectories which scare and stun
unwitting and ungovernable eyes.
Points of departure, points of no return,
beginnings which intrigue both dull and keen,
destinations flash, unsighted, seen,
vistas known, and vistas yet to learn.
The sea is home, the waves and sky above
are comfortable with the kind of love
it renders, be the weather harsh or kind.
There is a kind of symmetry, e'en though
the elements be blithe or brutal, even so,
stay the course, leave foul weather far behind.