Long Inarticulate Poems
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An inarticulate artist,
I wanted to paint
the lone life’s landscape,
effervescent,
the construed course
of a river called desire
unrestrained,
meandering its way
in self-possessed pattern,
I yearned.
In prime youth
I thought I owned
solely
the whole canvas,
in self-satisfied strokes
I smeared
blithe,
the subterranean serenity
of psychic vales,
disappearing undepicted
in the fold of canvas,
blank.
Free will amalgamated
prodigal paints
with shades of ego,
copious,
contrived colors spilled
with spontaneity slide
from porous palette
of permeable mind,
expansive.
The banal painting
didn’t turn out
to be a masterpiece,
the hidden designer
created a mundane motif
of listless life,
destined.
Toward the hued horizon
of draping dawn,
drawn at canvas periphery,
my mental brush swept
spellbound,
striving with sensuous drive
to capture the beauty
of unique chromatic lattice
at the edge
of the nascent sky,
pristine.
In supercilious strides
I trampled
the malachite meadow,
turned wasteland,
where I walked
d i s t r a u g h t
on my shadow,
s h a t t e r e d.
On the bleak backdrop,
sinking forlorn
ordained,
within twilight zone,
rinsed by sedate rays
of the setting sun,
my consumed essence
gives perforce
now
the final strokes
of bare brush
at the edge
of convoluted canvas,
where my senescent mindscape
devout,
is illumined
by the eternal glow
of divine light.
Through the lens
of introspection
I see me
metamorphosed
into a lengthening shadow,
magnified
bigger than myself,
d i s i n t e g r a t e d.
This is how one of my friends describes
my character attributes.
In many blood-shot blazing eyes he sees
they seethe inside in the inferno of anger,
throw out raging words from the venomous minds.
He doesn’t run away from them
to heal the scorched self-esteem,
nor does he ignite another flame within in retaliation.
He confronts them with composed confidence of poise,
doesn’t let them incinerate the sanctum of his soul,
for he exudes the cool fountain of forgiveness.
He walks life on the path of self-respect, he paves,
and on the way, all the good done to him
he can’t acknowledge loud with words,
but the buds of gratitude blooming within,
he keeps adored under sensuous shroud.
Mellow psyche absorbs his inarticulate feelings,
he is overwhelmed, but doesn’t demonstrate.
In the anchorless drift of the mundane mind,
detached from the principled roots,
the untamed instincts may envelope his senses.
As the needle of ethical compass breaks,
the vortex of emotions drags his mind
into the transient tide of the changing times,
the inner voice of his conscience echoes.
He sees the light of wisdom illumine the soul,
discerns the divine acumen of awareness.
The piety portal then opens for him
to the sanctum of profound bliss.
These blatant lives we lead
with our guts hanging out
between pretty words.
I remember (after the failed gastric surgery),
when gore spilled out of my prone body;
that slow unwinding of blank verse,
(the wordless made flesh) - uncoiling
in bold inarticulate sincerity.
An intestinal serpent – seeping,
and I the author of that preconscious serpent
still attempting to fill empty shells
with delusions and other ill-formed proofs
of existence.
Then from out of that open wound,
out from that that visceral self-revealing,
the pulse of my life so starkly exposed
at last, saying something -
true.
In the Twilight of Her Tears
by Michael R. Burch, age 19
In the twilight of her tears
I saw the shadows of the years
that had taken with them all our joys and cares ...
There in an ebbing tide’s spent green
I saw the flotsam of lost dreams
wash out into a sea of wild despair ...
In the scars that marred her eyes
I saw the cataracts of lies
that had shattered all the visions we had shared ...
As from a ravaged iris, tears
seemed to flood the spindrift years
with sorrows that the sea itself despaired ...
Prodigal
This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who died four days short of graduation from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Nashville on April 16, 1998.
You have graduated now,
to a higher plane
and your heart’s tenacity
teaches us not to go gently
though death intrudes.
For eighteen days
—jarring interludes
of respite and pain—
with life only faintly clinging,
like a cashmere snow,
testing the capacity
of the blood banks
with the unstaunched flow
of your severed veins,
in the collapsing declivity,
in the sanguine haze
where Death broods,
you struggled defiantly.
A city mourns its adopted son,
flown to the highest ranks
while each heart complains
at the harsh validity
of God’s ways.
On ponderous wings
the white clouds move
with your captured breath,
though just days before
they spawned the maelstrom’s
hellish rift.
Throw off this mortal coil,
this envelope of flesh,
this brief sheath
of inarticulate grief
and transient joy.
Forget the winds
which test belief,
which bear the parchment leaf
down life’s last sun-lit path.
We applaud your spirit, O Prodigal,
O Valiant One,
in its percussive flight into the sun,
winging on the heart’s last madrigal.
Keywords/Tags: twilight, tears, years, joys, cares, dreams, sea, despair, lies, vision,
(BN)
to what purpose
this heart of light
still moving
before time
and
after
empty of meaning
in a turning world
bereft
of sunlight
(EC)
a time for building
where
poetry does not matter
a distant
panorama
an echoed
ecstasy
a different
kind of
failure
inarticulate
in
empty
desolation
(TDS)
almost forgotten
many voices
the emotionless
unchanging
where agony
abides
still
unopened:
this sphere
of being
unattended
out of time
(LG)
a transitory
blossom
in place & time
hope&despair
half recalled
of little
importance
died
forgotten
every phrase
a pattern
in
a
knot
of
fire
The world seems to be discordant lately
The dawn carries with it something to be cherished ,
The mind buoyant with thoughts decorated ornately
Hidden somewhere in the terrains of my heart, already perished .
My mind's inarticulate cry to be heard
As neglected choices were left unmade,
Delaying them seemed to be a better option, I preferred
As my opinions were left unsaid.
The hesitation in lifting the veil of my creativity
Arousing a storm that might offend Others' belief
In my mind, held all day and night in captivity
I follow my ambitions to replace the grief.
For long my voice was hushed and could not find a way
But pulling me down will only make me become my better self They say .
Life, like a practiced comedian on the stage
Keeps smiling and frowning in turn.
Under the embers of joy that spark from our hearts,
Lies the pulverized heap of charcoaled dreams!
Sometimes I find life, a tight rope walk
When a false step can prove so very fatal
And fear it might land me in some bottomless abyss
Demanding me to proceed with utmost caution
At such times, I raise my heart in prayer
For divine assistance and godly intervention
Sure, this abidance in God keeps me on
When life turns a trek through labyrinthine paths
While staying at the Himalayan heights of joy
Sometimes I feel hurled down into the nadir of despair
Soon after proudly flaunting my trophy
I see myself smashed into utter defeat….
When trials and sorrows, thus dominate my life
And joy, I find is only a passing phase,
I turn to inspirational books and biographies of men
Who have dared and won against all odds
And thus fuel my mind with fresh hope
Sometimes when I feel moody for no reason
And am weighed down by an inarticulate ache
I make a stroll into nature, to the silent shade of trees
To hear the nightingales sing, to see the bees collecting pollen
To feast on the beauty that surrounds,
And inhale the salubrious air that comes wafting
Then I am filled with a new vigor and renewed zest
Brightening every corner of my darkened mind
In all ups and downs, when life becomes full of care
I withdraw into a lonely corner with my pen and paper
And tap at the fountain springs of my imagination
When a cascade of feelings plunge down from my heart,
Spurting out in broken jets with or without rhyme
Unveiling inmost secrets and thoughts of joy or gloom
Then it quickly hands me down with a therapeutic effect
And the storm inside ceases and a divine calm settles
April.3. 2022
What Keeps Me Going Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Cecelia Hopkins Drewer
"Dream Bug"
Hour glass
rainbows sparkling
crystal grainy rapids
sliding intrepidly through life’s fingers
their coloured sands speak in tones
they are obtuse and vapid
like snowflakes they fall
confetti on my hands
Writing you
between there
and here again
a feckless court jester
fearless sometimes
walking handstands
painting portraits
in pedantic rhyme
then a page stained,
you're thumb-licked and turning
metaphors gliding ghosting
a snail trail planchette
words miss spelled
they are moulting
like white feathers from cooing doves
we are back in grades of one
singled out on school parade
while the band plays on
we are all caught
like grounded gefilte fish in class
when the saints
go marching in
we’re stopped
for covert mingling
In the office a Nosferatu principal
ignores the grief
behind his two spectacles
two sets of hands are requested straight
knuckles down and held out
the bamboo cane
coaxed no passing
secrets out,
automata face
scream time put on delay
the clock to midnight
on his crypt's wall, hidden
strikes still a braille mind
doesn't once drop the ball
it smiles ruthfully
dialling up the forbidden
chemistry of tears,
a juxtoposition
from the internal well
My opal sky suspended
heaving dreams falling slow mo
through foggy clouds
are breathed in like lavender rain
antiseptic are all
our polished stories
rehearsed repetitively
then delayed and side courted
tennis left hand
lucid inarticulate
backhanded
Love all
candy hearted
is a fresh game
pulled swiftly
from a side pocket
refuting singing flutes
whistling and caressed
by a tongue flirtatiously wetting lips
a regular, pulsating change of pitch
a romantic vibrato
recalled
he calls me
a witch
Scent of a woman
once je t'adore
now her true essence leaking
their personalities mirror switched
bloodied and cut
pieces of peace
stolen by a foolish matador
she’s holding open the exit door
Dream Bug
walks across a
marked and sullied page
lines bleeding right
Melting
dissolved
to the far corner
lid sealed
in a glass jar
left-brained
Dream Bug
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Bondage was good for us.
"Master-me,
you are me taking me.” She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
A man of his time.
A black girl for all times.
George is silent.
Mind brings her to me now
as she arranges
the form and flavors of desire,
her flesh a sensual braille for shaping hands,
limbs a binding chimera,
flesh capturing flowing silks -
a choreography of her muted history.
Inarticulate passions lock us together,
we are deep sea divers
pushing against an erotic gravity.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington shoves his shriveled member
into another young black woman.
Should we honor both?
Dark is the page we now turn.
Truth or not, love or maybe.
Once we were most pleased
to burn down the president's mansion
again and again.
Once we were a room,
a space for the spilling of pagan oaths,
for the pleading of primal prayers.
Now that room rages
upon an emptiness only my blood hears.
Bondage was good for us.
“You’re not my master”, she would say,
“you are me taking me”. She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
at least by sexual union.
A man of his time.
A black girl for all times.
As her descendent she shared herself with me.
I imagine her now as she arranges
the form and flavors of desire.
Her skin a sensual braille for my shaping hands.
Her limbs submissive yet grasping a
binding chimera. Flesh capturing silks;
blind Labial dances preface
a choreography of complying violence.
We struggle with the glottal language
of inarticulate gods,
we’re deep sea divers bound to an erotic gravity.
This place is a womb
for the birthing of tattooing hungers.
Rooms enter rooms until dark suns
open our mouths with their electric flares.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington shoves
his shriveled member
into another girl – another room.
A place we were pleased to burn down
again, and again.