Just an ounce of that snakebite I took;
I feel better now -- I can write.
My thoughts are inking out,
oozing out of the dry heart with efforts,
Like an 'would-be' mother pushing her baby out.
A little ounce of that stuff --
That made my head turning gyroscopically
Making heaven and earth messy --
Like a top, spinning in indistinguishable colors.
Just a little ounce of that stuff --
That made me bold and write shamelessly.
Am I impulsive;
Am I a poet?
'Misconception', should I call it.
A poet is not grown out of the rubbish pile
Of impulsive words.
A poet is a civilization in itself;
An insightful glance into seeing what others miss out.
He/ she knows the science of writing
That dips down into the human hemisphere
Of raw ingredients, forming life and history.
Poetry is a diary of wisdom,
Rejects fantasy and reforms life.
So, I simply wish --I were a poet?
Categories:
gyroscopically, philosophy
Form: Elegy
I can’t walk out on this feeling;
Sharpened wings of a broken Cessna clip
The meanings of my speech and thoughts,
Shearing off jagged chunks of dialectic as it
Ploughs nose-first in a drunken field where
The barley and wheat reeled.
Threshing a painting in my mind done
By some cracked-up renaissance artist.
He took to his bed in order to avoid the
Loss of love and died there alone.
I avert my own gaze from objects of desire,
Potent caskets conveying mushroom folly,
Otherwise depicting love borne to the loveless.
I am fearful of affection, the craving
And where it can lead.
I cling to the visual wreckage of the plane,
The tail stabbing at the very sky that
Threw it to the summer earth in a temper;
Smoke trails drift from busted twin props
Towards a sun they can never reach or embrace.
The crash-site reminds me of me, my
Kamikaze psychology, my gyroscopically inadequate mind-set;
I realise the plane and the pilot became as one,
Guidance system and guide into the ashen testament
Of bitterest stone-ground disaster.
Categories:
gyroscopically, life, loss, love, nostalgia,
Form: Blank verse