A prose poem based on Copotronic love (Scifie)
by Tamanna Ferdous
One day, I was all prepared to test him about his IQ.
After testing him with different questions in general knowledge,
I read him from an antique Bengali poet, Jibanananda Das.
"The resting place placed the restful here
Never certain if the restful is resting here, though.”
Then I asked his opinion about these two lines.
He informed me," A humane quotation with an outlier in deeper introspection."
When he was showed an art piece of Paul Gaugin,
of a polynatian girl,
he tried to perceive the art from different angles and then said,
“A deformed body had a strange reason to occupy the usage of all the colors
used otherwise irregularly.”
The valuation of paul gauguin and the remark,
it was too difficult to control a wild laughter.
After a while I stopped my loud amusement and asked him.
What was I doing?”
“You were laughing.”
“What is laughing?”
“A physical procedure devoid of meaningfulness.”
“Please try to laugh!”
He followed up with a mechanical noisy aptitude, sensible.
Prometheus, he was a machine!
Sore, sadden alone and down trodden. Smitten
Stuck on the facts we’re not truly physical
I use to visualize I saw, I touched not anymore
The scent of you not anymore
Even in mine dreams the sight of you dazed a blur
Oh’ how I loved you, the touch of you
The sight of you
The physicality of you
Now eternalized in another guise different point place you reside
In my heart, and mind, soul refreshing a blessing
You left yourblessed mark allure--
Maya Angelou Quotes
"And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed."
7/17/2024
E Form - Elegy Poetry Contest
Elegy poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Constance La France
every plant in her garden grew curiously irregularly wild
developing vines and blossoms unseen on other plants
some of her plants looked like hybrids, for no good reason
We asked about her green thumb and she laughed
I love my garden, she said, my plants know it
I give them leeway, and space to do what they want
They love it that I show my confidence in them
I guess that is why they are curiously irregular and wild.
Bad tendency of a bad-habit hobby to get so high,
I find myself overthinking things daily, losing track of time,
To the point my body cycles so irregularly.
i look at life from the side
i am always wrong
i look at life while perfectly centered
i am still always wrong
i look at life at a right side view
i am definitely wrong on that end
i look at life at a left handed view
things begin to become a bit clearer, but i am still thrown curve balls and strike out
totally exhausted and fully burnt out, i chalk it all down to lessons learned and call it a day
tomorrow i start it all over again, and the irregularly rhythmic beat goes on
You are the home to come back to
a prominence of my starry body
enduring there as a warning
to all of that asteroids throbbing at our
affixed paper door
this soul is engraved with
each of your microscopically misformed curve
irregularly modified word
aligned posture
parted attitude and
shards of perception collected in crumpled framework of skeleton
in all those desecrated parts of you lies a thought of me
All for love
All is lost
Lost in time
Lost for ever
Ever hopeful
Ever ready to please
Please forgive me
Please come home
Home is empty
Home is quiet
Quiet no pleasure
Quiet time to think
Think of moments
Think of you
You are my life
You are my heart
Heart broken in two
Heart slowly beats
Beats irregularly
Beats in hope
Hope is painful
Hope I pray
Pray earnestly
Pray quietly
Quietly I walk by
Quietly I sleep
Sleep is restless
Sleep I dream
Dream of good times
Dream of you
You are my life
You are my love
Love to live
Love is the answer
Answer my prayer
Answer my heart
Heart is missing you
Heart is sad
Sad in a mist
Sad and lonely
Lonely I walk
Lonely I cry
Cry for what was
Cry for what I miss
Miss you
Miss and lost
Lost alone
Lost afraid
afraid
alone...
My Heart,
My heart beats and pounds faster the closer I get.
Why does it pound irregularly?
Is it this other being I see so close to me?
I call out to her but she doesn't seem to see me, why?
Is her senses numb?
Why, oh why can't she see me?
I've picked her up and earned her trust,
So why can't she still not see me?
When we're together I can't think.
Am i sick? Should I see a healer?
It hard to explain how things have changed,
But we are the same anymore.
We have split, she's found another. Why?
We are worlds apart, but still the same.
How is that possible?
When can she realize it?
Look can you hear my voice?
Please step into my circle and let me show you.
Come near me, and listen to my voice.
You're making the choice
Either scream No or rejoice Yes,
It takes everything I am to love for you.
Many believe that a troubled soul
is the true muse of the true artist.
That misery and anger brings out
the words, brush strokes, of creation.
I don't know if that's right or not,
e'en though it affects me deep -
but I find it strange that most
don't ask why such may be.
The only answer I can conjure
is actually yet another question.
What do the happy have to create?
What need have they to make, to escape?
In part, I have trouble agreeing,
for I have written wonders
in times of relative ease;
or so I've been told.
I have walked gaily through spring,
and spoke of dewy fields of clover;
arbitrary, aimless, desultory subjects,
irregularly chosen by my mercurial muse.
And yet I can also see it, in part,
for my thieves of one's breath
were in times of onerous strife;
or so I've been told.
I have trudged below naught but clouds,
and spoke of grey days and black thoughts;
distressed, disheartened, dejected prose,
regularly presented to my downcast sight.
I believe emotion, good and ill,
can be victuals for the right muse.
But I concede the point that comparatively,
what have the joyous to escape, through art?
climbing in his bath
water rise shows crown's volume
physics traps liar
Brian Johnston
August 23. 2014
Poet's Notes:
Archemedes measures gold purity of an irregularly shaped crown whose volume could
not be easily measured. A true 'Aha' moment. Physics has trapped so many liars in
history, but few are those with ears to hear. Really kind of sad, that so many prefer
deceivers over truth tellers, having things our way the ultimate vanity.
Rolling
Again today I am begging, an umbrella in raining
I am forgetful to sake out for future from child hood
My emphasis remained pass days from others support
In it nature itself increases hands towards me.
Laziness developed from it I did not do any thing
Inner within me a perfect engine performs my eating
Title headed to me crazy suits a lot
Otherwise how could I match with the head of others
A running man came with his dog near to me
Broadened chick and passed in between nodding
Wagging tail touched in my knee a sensation born
Seeing man and dog’s affinity gave birth of nature
Noises of the road like down river’s flow
In that height and curves many more
Produces an imagination in me irregularly
How I am different from them as engine throbs.
Father used to say read school’s lessons first
Then go to play with other brothers
One day you will grow up and up like him
Collective suggestions I used to hear half between.
So now I am half everywhere with wife and children
In society my counts stand in million between
Happy I am and are happy all we scream
Just we pass in roads and towns with blow of lovely wind
(13/08/2014)
Demography,
Geography,
Gender.
Age.
Curb,
Obtain,
Courtship.
Parenthood.
The shape of life is staired,
Either irregularly paired,
or regularly squared.
We find shame in familiar places,
Stamp fame over unventured traces.
Bond to fulfill culture.
Pendulum swings affirming the law of nature.
Sowing coincides with reap.
As man toils to control sanity,mortality leaps.
For restricting malevolent norms unleashes explosive neferity.
Asleep or awake this is the in-between reality,
Of capturing the needless,freeing the worthful.
Farm dilemma of the cow or bull?
By M.O.O aka C.E the free prison-worden
9/24/12
have you forgotten it all within a moment?
does the feeling ever return to you?
or are you blank without passion or virtue?
does all i say simply run through you?
or does it sink in and get lost inside?
for you i cried
every ounce of pain was because i can’t
seem to understand you and what i truly want
one little moment is all it took for me to know
how long did it take for you?
and this depression just will not subside
for you i cried
i ache and scorn as if it makes a difference
resting, roosting in your absence of existence
my heart beats irregularly with the rhythm
of an imaginary you—me
i never truly said goodbye, did i?
for you i cry
and never truly see. . .
River of Doom
Sad sight dry river, and twenty years ago it was
three metre deep and had trout. We caught some
with nets and, fried them on a small fire and felt
like cavemen. Delicious fish meat we ate with our
fingers. Every year I have seen the river getting
smaller even in the winter when it rains irregularly,
it is no more than a beck. There is no fish not even
the skeleton of children caught by a wall of water,
when it had been raining upland and into the river.
Their father was arrested it was said he had killed
the children, fed them to the pigs, but for a single
button in the sty they sat him free. Terrible rumors
every summer I see him walking along the dry river,
muttering to himself trying to find his children
Screaming crow perched atop the flat screen,
messages from the otherside fold in to skin
invisble current
Flowing angrily against grinding teeth
The ruckus awakens deep within us
something terribly holy,
something irregularly pure
pouring
out eyes too awake for a somnambulant world
drowning in prescription whirlpools
Open door, mentholated air,
lungs bleed against the sky falling
Crashing in to anything we beleive
anything we understand
miniscule molecules
explosively disingenuous
and broken
no longer original
no longer transparent
or beloved
Isn't it interstingly humorous
that our bones become hollow
from the words we forge
from weakened states
of being
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