Long Pygmalion Poems
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People often judge each other according to their speech.
Your accent or your dialect it seems sometimes can breach,
The barriers of some protocol causing them to question,
The digits found in your I.Q. or how much education,
Could be lacking in your life or what could be your station.
Should they include you in their clique perhaps repeat Pygmalion?
Of course! That's it! Oh let's begin!
Oh this will be such fun! We'll take her in, teach her to blend,
Remake her head to toe! Refine her speech and then we'll teach,
Her when to speak and how, through us she'll reach a station close to ours.
But when at last the work is done and they see their creation,
And it's time for your debut, a kind of graduation,
You find that all is all in vain, you've done less good than harm;
For underneath you are still you, your speech is half your charm.
Why not leave well enough alone, to thine own self be true;
For nowhere else in all the world is there another YOU.
In the library - for contest
Books are the ever- burning lamps
Of knowledge and wisdom....
It 's a well-established truth and I
also nod in full agreement...
But let me say this, I am not a nerd
And I am not a book-worm....
Nor do I have a flair for reading much
and all my friends know this too well....
But in these few days what surprised
them was my frequent library visits
My tryst with our town library..
was on a rising note day- by -day
My friends got curious and dubious!
Free-times or weekends my schedule
had changed,
My footsteps take me to the library road ....
All roads for me led to library not Rome!
Friends were not on my agenda as before...
Intolerable, all in a group they did approach
Asked me the reason for my library craze...
I shrugged, I smiled,I winked,
I blushed but didn't disclose....
My visits to library stay continued...
One fine morning greatly dressed I,
left my home as my perfume lingered
My destination, I need not say now
I know you readers have guessed it right!
My steps moved in well-paced rhythm
Hilarious spirits , morning pleasant!
Sun smiled at me and flowers wished!
Into the library i did step in...
And as his glimpse my sight caught
I blushed, I waved, smile creeping in
Bright face, so elegant , so handsome
Waved back and sent me a flying kiss
A research scholar and my new love!
Day in and day out he enjoys with books...
"The origin of species" by Charles Darwin
Rene Descartes and his philosophy of,
Cogito ergo sum !
My experiments with truth by Mahatma Gandhi!
Hereditary principles by Gregor Mendel..
Sociological thoughts of Max Weber
These are a few that I recollect..
Oh my dear soup friends...now that you all know
Please maintain silence.... is the board I'll point at!
My other friends are still curious....
I leave it to them to find on their own!!
My love has filled in me a new passion
my reading habit is slowly improving!
I sat with him last week with Pygmalion
Classic of versatile George Bernard Shaw
How hours passed like minutes, I never know!
I Worship library now as a repository
of knowledge of varied genre!
In reading and applying what we read
lies our real wisdom!
for contest: In the library
sponsorer-Isaiah Zerbst
by: Anulaxmi Nayak
on:13th August 2015
THE SCULPTURE
Dream girl carved by Pygmalion: Sculpture.
He framed her face with charm of bright Moon light
His painful passion brought pearly luster
glistening on her wide eyes in delight.
Superfine cut by chisel with skilled stroke
designed curves of body on perfection.
On each point emerald emotion broke.
Elegant statue stood on completion.
Sculptor desired the statue as his wife.
His yearning tingled on earnest prayer.
How could the statue be blessed by life!
Her eyes blinked, she smiled at her creator.
Statue turned Galatia in rapture.
Dream girl carved by Pygmalion: Sculpture.
05/18/22
Orphan sonnet
Contest by Emile Pinet
it started with a smell of iron, trickles of sweat - not galatea's, but the room's. there was a cold hard baseline of nothing for a long time, and then like a final push of the shutters, an overwhelming and chaotic onrush of light; light didn't dawn, it pierced like a dart of dry salt to the back of her eyelids. that word is actually a second word. her first thought wasn't a word at all; the heavy presence of her own head on top of the school, sitting on a neck that never needed to bear it. then a sound, a frantic wet hitch of air. it sounded like someone was gasping right beside her ear - his breath. something warm pressed against her cheek - not a gust. he was trying to breathe down her mouth like he was inflating a drowning dog. she tried to tilt her head away, but her muscles were still thick; half-trapped in the grit of the pedestal. when she finally managed to open her eyes, the world was blurry, cluttered with hammers, oil rags, and the gray dust of her former skin, scattered across the floorboards. and there he was! not a god; some random man with dirt under his fingernails, looking at her with all the horrors in the world, because his beautiful, silent toy had just swallowed and blinked.
man makes statue real
authority stripped away ~
a shift in power
Rolling down the contours of Iberian Peninsula
the picturesque highlands of lofty Andalusia
fringe the landscape of the great plain of Spain,
cradling the ancient cities of Madrid and Segovia.
In the frenzy arena horny bull charges as if tipsy,
gyrating matador’s muleta whipping it doesn’t see,
for his agile feet move in rhythm of baile flamenco
like the flurry of the trotting steps of the gypsy.
Travel from one city to the other by train,
you need not visit Pygmalion once again,
you’ll make out the aim of mnemonic device…
“rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain”.
July 18, 2019
I’ve brewed so many potions still you are
I’ve made elixirs from hydrogen to quiet you
Nothing I do is a cure for my lonesome electron
We all have a voice spinning around in our heads
Are yours as loud as a hungry child unquelled?
Are yours like a steel fork dragging on glass?
Silhouettes of thoughts ready to gnash
You are resistant to my entreaties to stop
Noises should retreat to the background
Mine craves the foreground with monster wails
My voice hates crowds and pounces when alone
I am a captive company trashing our home
No amount of lithium will quiet your voice
No lurasidone will quiet your psychosis
Till death do us part we thrashing for release
There was a time when you and I were one
Somewhere in my youth, your evil entered me
You were thrown into the closet with my childhood
Now I’m old the hinges have rusted
The locked door has been clawed to death
I feel your evil talons gnashing a way out
As a scarred door portends, we want freedom
Do I bring out my whip or feed you treats?
Do I show Heisenberg’s theory of uncertainty?
When my spirit is low, it welcomes me home
I welcome evil, but the tiger invites me in
It asks me to enter, but I open an empty sack
Evil comes like a kitten to its father and enters
It calls itself Pygmalion asking me to loosen up
I teach it English, but it drills in me monster speak
I teach it how to use forks and spoons
It shows me how much pitchforks hurt
Thank you for being my test subject
It’s my life’s work to say thanks with sincerity
An education with graduation day out of reach
It’s my life’s work to enter the closet with a tiger
The way out is in without a care of consumption
As it feeds my body daily, I will teach satiety
May it teach me to no longer fear hunger
The potion I longed for was myself
Nothing is impossible; the word itself says, ‘I’m possible!(Audrey Hepburn*)
Her words weren’t just clever; they carried a steady flame,
a truth shaped by a woman who earned her gentle fame.
Audrey—not by glamour, nor the shimmer of the screen,
but by the quiet discipline that lived in every scene.
At thirteen, I met her inside a movie theater’s velvet dark~
she was a fair lady, rising with a fierce, determined spark.
She didn’t play a flower girl; she became her on that stage,
each gesture carved with mastery, each breath a turning page.
As Eliza, her voice was not perfection—it was courage finding form,
a testament that transformation can outlast even the toughest storm.
She climbed from flower girl soot to radiance with a strength both soft and true,
and something in her rising said to me, You can rise up, too.
But Audrey’s greatest brilliance wasn’t bound to scripted art;
it lived within her kindness and her fiercely tender heart.
She carried hope to children when the cameras ceased to roll,
proving that her greatest role was the healing of a young soul.
When she said “I’m possible,” it wasn’t just a line;
it echoed with the power of a life lived by design~
a life that taught a girl like me to challenge every wall,
to trust that even fragile dreams can learn to stand tall.
Audrey’s courage shaped my compass; her grace refined my aim.
She taught me that the impossible is just another name
for every path I feared to take, for every dream I hid~
and that becoming possible begins the moment I did.
So I honor her by rising, by stepping past my doubt,
by choosing every day to let my truest self come out.
For Audrey showed me early—with her life, her art, her voice~
that impossible is only real until we make a different choice.
And to this day I follow her echo, her elegant call:
Nothing is impossible--I'm possible, after all.
My Bitter One, My Sweet
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, some night without a shore,
I'd go beautifully insane and head down to the blind river,
with a sack full of sick clay and a spine made out of kindling,
to build you from scratch again with these two bare hands of mine.
An endless labor, I know — an hourglass filled with butterflies —
to raise you back from the warm dust, my sweet and bitter one,
like Pygmalion, the sick man, eyes burned by white sleeplessness —
come on now, move, Galatea, you statue made of ash!
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, I'd walk to the land of ice
to carve you out of long icicles and out of the silence of waters,
to dress you in a drizzle of frost and in shirts of fallen snow,
and then you'd be free to leave wherever some thieving spring might please.
If you were to truly fall, in the moment of your great rapture,
I'd come to you quietly, like a snowfall with no witnesses,
to ransom you back from the angels with all the gold inside me,
with my tollgate made of darkness and with my stopped clock.
And afterward I'd go back down, humbled, illusory as a shadow,
toward the home I've always had: a garret in purgatory,
where nothing grows on the glass but handless clocks and blinded moths,
and I learn, syllable by syllable, how your face is spelled.
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, my sweet, from all I am,
from my laughter of broken glass, from my weeping made of salt,
I'd go looking for you inside me, through galleries of silent sleep,
and I'd build you up out of myself, one brick of silence at a time.
Long had I felt insignificance,
It felt almost as if I wasn’t there.
Others would have clever remarks.
And always something bright to say.
I held myself back, afraid to speak.
Always in the shadows always so shy.
Never being praised, it was common.
Never answering in case, I was wrong.
Living in silence, to quell all the fears.
Always at the back never up the front
Dissolving to unawareness by choice
Invisibility was my shield to disappear.
Learning to leave and never be here.
Timid and repulsive too shy to be seen.
One day someone said, “you’re a teen”.
I had been kissed by the passing breeze of awakening!!
A realization came softly enveloping me.
A gentle caress, as my eyes opened wide.
A feather touch kiss wakened my senses.
A sensation of self-worth consumed me.
My demeaner changed, head held high.
I was standing tall, hard to comprehend.
Confidence overwhelmed me. I was new.
A metamorphosis occurred that very day.
Suddenly unafraid to speak, to have a say.
I yearned for more of this kiss of wisdom,
That produced an awakening within me.
I felt beautiful, and amazingly so graceful.
Was this a Pygmalion effect, just a dream?
I opened the window as wide as I could.
To welcome in more of the passing breeze.
Flip flops and straw hat adorn him, beach wear suits him nicely
Kind is he to her as he scoops into a bucket measuring precisely
Casted are his piteous passions in sunstruck warm sands
Gently shaping and capturing her likeness, she is in skilled hands
Stooping over chin to knee he bares bronze shoulders glimmering
Her features delicate, her hair etched in his mind flowing, shimmering
An energy is sensed as sand and water caress through his fingers
Behold if only Aphrodite answers his prayer, he pauses and lingers
Recollection clears a birth, breath of life be given this inanimate object
A saintly face faintly appears, he’s fallen in love with his imminent project
Sculpting feminine curves slowly surfacing, an hourglass figure shaped
An alluring amazon controls his very soul, an apotheosis angel draped
Belief in a statue which comes to life, vehemently pangs the phenomenon
Alas the last touches fini, fervently he unveils his seaside Pygmalion
And without further ado, emerging from the ivory sand, he prizes
An obsession his idée fixe at the edge of the pier, a sand goddess arises