Behold, oh my beloved!
Is there a hidden care
you would like to share,
with your not so gentle gaze?
Repudiating caducity,
your eyes portray
sustained excitement ~
still and restrained
whilst behind you
an arabesque of phantasmagorical
make-believe.
Behold, oh my beloved
the vortex of colours
surrounding you
entwine a paradigm
of that starry night~
and as i look into its cosmic glow
I fall in love with you.
22 May 2022
A Briand Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
6th Place
Notes:
Like Rembrandt and Goya, Vincent van Gogh often used himself as a model; he produced over forty-three self-portraits, paintings or drawings in ten years. Like the old masters, he observed himself critically in a mirror. Painting oneself is not an innocuous act: it is a questioning which often leads to an identity crisis.
( Credits: Google Arts and Culture)
A story about a poet, his girlfriend and their pretty complicated relationship (I)
Kurtistani; aab, cddceec, ffb
You say, we both have a lot in common.
You read such commonness as a good omen,
a sure sign of happiness ahead.
It's true, we have a lot alike, my dear:
impermanence, caducity, frailty,
fatality, ephemerality
and emptiness that goes beyond a mere
interpretation, boredom, tiredness,
non-alcoholic beverages, chess,
severe sleeplessness and mortal fear.
We split as well the adjectives, for sure:
young, adolescent, adult and mature,
old, bald, ill, lonesome, demented, dead.
I sensed myself sinking down
Culminating the stuccoes of existence
Crossing denouements of mortality
Obeying the laws of life's caducity
And defying the clusters of earthly brevity.
My nostrils perceived the essence
Beyond the sod
My ears apprehended the sounds
Of heavy metal spades
And my eyes saw the quietus
When the granules of clods broke
And made space for me
To lie amongst them
While my body felt the ache
When I was being gently graved.
I roused to realize
That my sweven
Toured me down
To the afterlife lane
To forgraith me
For the next realm of existence.
~Nayanika Dey
From: India
Copyright ©: ©7 March, 2016
I am archaic and forgotten these are my dusty tomes
The perennial deipnosophist verbally alone
With flowing ink my guide, the page my diligent doxy
I capriciously choose my diction and propose my proxy
A peccant periapt around thy neck, I’ll drag thee
Along the hyperborean, yet sullen, road you see
Hoarfrost coated little old me helpless and miserly
Carry on, my linguistics are aged unfortunately
The bruit is that the caducity of my tenure is
The reason for this rhyme; I digress and must stress that this
This, is but a puzzle, it is but a conundrum.
I'll let you decipher amongst the humdrum
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