Long Pebbles Poems
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History breathes as we awaken into each new imagination.
Did you think this was a life? It is the seed of every growing.
It is the wind and sand and rain storming. It is the pebbles
and fingers forming; the sun and the blood, and the leaves
greening, then browning, then gone. It is the snow of a single
season memorizing itself as frost formed upon a single missing
surface, always clinging. It is a difference; distancing us into
a distillation of our wish to become the knowing of our God
and to give ourselves the chance of choice over matter.
It is with great effort we become the softness of a thought
that endures; to make the imagination of permanence
a lasting measure and to make a history that breathes.
"Samsara!"
Yelled a young prophet
With one eye and a cane.
His eye was made of tightly bundled,
Tall, wet grass.
His cane the smooth, rounded
Pebbles of a Dakota stream.
His voice was the tinsel thunder of God's,
Like yours and mine
Though with this difference:
There was no more of himself.
The yellowing light of Time,
It's pulsing, churchless transubstantiation
had spun a bright and absorbing bloom within.
He was of Earth and Spirit now.
He had achieved the Great Nothing
that we all beg and sob
And clench at our mother's dress over.
He finished: "Samsara!,"
He shouted from a bodily silence
In a forest on a city block,
"Release their hearts!
For even that is not their own!
As they hear the bird's notes soar,
May they realize love's swinging door!"
He left them then, ignored,
For the trees beyond the sprawl.
The Light beyond the Wall.
`
This chap from the States, just asked me to write, a poetic collaboration,
I was asleep, it is quite late at night, no time for a rhymed dissertation.
I thought to myself, what a spiffing idea, for we speak the same lingo at least,
But hold on a sec, I'm English - good grief, and worse still I'm from the North East!!
I wrote to this dude, over in England and said, would y’all write with me?
He seemed kind of cranky, said he was asleep, probably needed a nice spot o’ tea.
Though things ain’t the same, like they’ve got a queen and we have a man who’s in power,
And Big Ben over here is a star quarterback, to him it’s a clock in a tower
With some trepidation I considered the task, in horror at the realisation,
In the States their football, isn’t like the UK, it’s rugby for your information.
But the strangest thing, is that ‘grits’ are a food, whereas here it’s ground pebbles or stone,
And they travel around in their big Chevrolet’s, on Route 66 lined with phones.
Now I’m not sure I made the right choice, they’re weird with their bangers and mash,
fries are called chips, their beer is served warm and it seems they weigh all of their cash.
Cookies are biscuits, car trunks are boots, the telly is their television,
my fingers are crossed as I sit here and hope, that I made the wisest decision.
But joking apart, it’s an honour to join, my American friend in this Rhyme.
I sincerely agree, it was truly a pleasure, let’s do it again anytime
11/5/2019
Introduction by collaboration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
I stand on the rocky shores of my island,
Waves crash towards my feet, foaming between my toes on the empty beach.
No Kings. No Masters. No Gods. Only I.
The shores were as barren as the land itself.
The shore froths from its mouth, suffocating in disgust at what it has become.
And I sneer with sadistic glee as it gasps its final breaths.
I see unidentified vessels approaching the wasteland I am bound to.
I balance between the pointy pebbles that pierce my sole.
I can vaguely see the shifting shapes sliding straight through the sea.
It is a fleet of individual sailors, looking to find claim on my barren bay.
My blood races, like an Olympian sprinter charging towards the flaming torches.
Yet, I haven't moved.
An electric surge courses through my body with the power of a metropolis.
Yet I haven't moved.
Senses heightened tenfold;
I can smell the salt oozing out of the sea,
I feel the air whistling in my ears from the east with a tickle,
the thirst tormenting the tip of my tongue,
the shriek of seagulls shattering my eardrums, and the detail of each and every ship, from port to starboard, is clear to me.
Yet, I haven't moved.
From this desired pit of despair.
in a fountain of wishes, where dreams are tossed like pebbles
hope is rushed, silence hushed -
light being the language of one seeking
imperfect to be
yet,
perfectly pieced are we
Perplexed:
at how pieces perfectly connect with you
when,
imperfect to be
are we
___________________
~ Just a little Scribble ~
Thoughts from the Heart
Oh baneful yellow Moon in fullest rounded sphere,
Bright as Summers Buttercups in abundant yield,
Coldly riveted upon Winters beaten, thin silvered panels;
Thereof: By ye mighty hammer doth great thoth wield!
For what fearful trowel gouged out thine far flung valleys
Whilst piling high upon yon monstrous heights?
Wherest, scattering the bare pebbles, a ghostly sower
Coursing across vast cratered plains under Selenian moonlights.
Here once didst thou swelling tides ever invade long vanished shores
Dragged upon by some dwindling, exploded, far distant star;
An atmosphere girdling, warming and nurturing -
Torn from this barren rock and cast way out afar!
Eternally ostracized and deviled, adorned in black swirling robes;
Drifting angular grains heaped - raked by hot solar winds;
Your desolate kingdoms lit in all seasons under heavenly lanterns;
Worshiped and foully cursed upon: for any amount - and all manner of sins.
And ere did erstwhile lovers that ever come forth on bended knee,
To traverse the pale beams that twist about the crooked stiles,
Pledge well intended oaths beneath high, impossible windows:
Their grandly draped balconies and balustrades bathed in luminosities wiles.
When across the recorded centuries of histories misted-veiled years,
from the quill of the old sage, from the high lilt of the bard,
Your pensive countenance disaffected and of a cheerless tilt -
Hanging upon sharply crested vestiges of reckless disregard!
O My Jazmin-
I know, your pair of lips speaks of me
Your electrifying touch of hands solicits me
Your dramatic love letters invite me ardently
True to say, I engrave you in my silver canvas of desire
No, there I aspire me not to your pubescent breast,
to your appetizer lips, salacious buttocks,
to your stirring navel and waist
Really, I never seek me in your scandal mongering
I smell you in the blooming words of the Hamilton's Mythology
Where your smiling writes the timeless tales of gods and heroes
I smell you in the weaving hives of the Songs of Offering by Tagore
Where your walking sketches the panoramas of idolizing prayers
Dear Jazmin, you are my sea beach of the Patenga
I seek me in your footprints on the scattered pebbles,
You are my rising sun of flowery days
I seek me in the flying white clouds of the blue sky on you
You are my flowing Karnafully river, Halda valley
I seek me in the dashing busy port of your city,
You are bed partner of my resolute writings
I seek me in your pen and poetic anthology,
You are my youthful alehouse
In your grape wine I seek me,
You are enviable scent of my virginal dark night
I seek me in your seduced heart where moonlight hides
Here are masjids, there are temples
Here are holy shrines, there are eternal palace- graves
On the Cheragi hill through the flowers shops
I seek me everywhere at your starry night by the halo
O dear Jazmin, you are jazz music of my empty night
Come, once again come to me lit up the Lalon songs light
18.09.2020 Chattogram
Once upon a time, Prunella
dwelt amid a magic wood
a dainty pixie most rare
whose temperament wasn't good
Last one of her purple line
in that dreary, dreaded glen
where beasts ever feared to tread
and mankind had never been
For purple pixies were known
to be devilishly mean
they'd terrified the kingdom
wherever they had been seen
So Prunella lived alone
and pouted, skulked and scowled
and dark nights when coyotes called
she piteously howled
Until one day she found them
some children lost in the wood
and scared the daylights from them
just because she knew she could
The children fawned and pleaded
to appease her rotten mood
this only made her madder
so she copped more attitude
But she'd miscalculated
when she made the last one mad
and felt the ammunition
from that slingshot-wielding cad
Wee bits of sweets kept flying
so like pebbles at her wings
until he ran out of those
then he chucked most anything
Around the wood she darted
avoiding him at some length
until at last she gave out
having used up all her strength
He plucked her from where she fell
and plopped her into a jar
then she began to bargain
as the village wasn't far
But Fred, both shrewd and clever
vowed to keep her locked up tight
'til they all were safely home
and ev'rything was made right...
So she charmed the fireflies out
to show them all safely home
bossily shouting orders
from within the jars glass dome
But once they were safely back
the boy quickly changed his mind
decided to keep Ol' Prune'
(as pixies were hard to find)
And 'though she was mad as hell
and her wings pulsed fiery red
she couldn't help but admire
this precocious, wily Fred
'Though he never let her loose
they became the best of friends
laughing with glee as they kept
his parents at their wits-ends
“What's with these wild ideas?”
They would grouse, and groan, and moan
unknowing those mischief-plans
were a pixie's- not his own!
…the flecks of mud that paint their faces
like splashes from nature’s easel,
whilst blades of grass and twisted root tangle and
turn into laces green, to tie around feet and ankle;
these hill shaped blues that pound and pace over field,
cobble and path, collecting pebbles, marsh and clods;
a footprint left in the earth, then mapped and
mirrored under arches; these blue mounds that take toes
when sore and keep them warm in rain, mist or heat,
in late night jogs with flour for breath;
these tor shaped blues that hold my soles
like gloves, as a friend’s hand in times of need;
these blue, mountain shaped comrades that
push me over finish lines and through
thresholds, that suffer dirt and sweat and a
frustrated boot or kick back into the garden;
these two blues that help refresh my mind
and keep rhythm to every beat or gasp,
that are better medicine than any pill prescribed,
that neither moan, criticise nor protest…
In this shattered dream
I didn’t want the silence
Goalless the flying hope
On the swinging touch
I wanted the love
But I’ve to be silent
I wanted a warm kiss
I wanted the agitated touch
I wanted the elated shared bed
Expected impassable celebration
Expected never decaying pleasant time
I expected the love
But I’ve to be silent
Age in the teen, golden period
Playful density in the mind
Blue tickled embracing
Inebriated dance weaving
A knot of hands in hands
Wandering steps on the silvery pebbles
Sipping espresso with the masking sun
Drizzling on the oceanic hills
Everything I wanted with the love
I drew a crowded station on the winked canvas of love
But silence, silence everywhere
Now I’ve to survive in the silent letter
O’ Love is the farmer of the silence with the craving surf
©Mahtab Bangalee
29th January, 2025
Chattogram