Long Quavering Poems
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From Loneliness to Linkages
In the midst of a lonely night
With not a voice to greet the ear,
And not a human sign in sight,
Seated at a familiar desk
With faint fingers on the lap-top
And a thoughtful mind not at rest,
In the quietude of a room
I dare not ever call my own
I can hear my breath in the gloom,
The tick of the clock on the wall,
The rustling of the gentle winds
As they caress leaves that do fall
As feathers on the lowly ground,
The sharp shrilling sounds of crickets
And the quavering croaks of frogs
From a nearby verdant thicket.
From the loneliness of my room
I try to link up with the multitude
As I press down the keys of my laptop
To create verses in deep solitude
And rhythms with or without rhymes
In a freely structured version
Beyond the bounds of space and time
To convey my deep-seated emotions
Gathered in solitude and quietness,
Share my cherished thoughts and visions,
Impart images ingrained in my mind
In the daily course of my lonely life
To one and all who may wish to find,
In a bid to forge linkages with friends
Beyond the range of the oceans
And bring down the loneliness to an end
Written by Krishnanand Guptar
18 February 2023
Poem for Eula Davis
October 8, 2013 at 8:39am
POEM FOR EULA DAVIS
A very throaty Warbler issued
Quavering Trills in a morning song -
As he serenaded the dew
drops on the grateful trees
Other birds were answering with
songs of praise from familiar days.
No one taught them
how to sing or gave them
the messages they so proudly bring.
Birds from near and far
joined in as if to say -
We will add our voices to remind you,
that we are cheerful and we sing for you.
We are aware-we are awake-
and we are awesome
chirping and singing our songs as
we bath in puddles of raindrops.
We remember the timing of the of the
golden and silver songsters.
Ruffling feathers coquettishly
as each song in the distance stirs
up fond memories of your existence.
The caw-caw, the peeps,and the chirps;
The caw -caw again and
the melodic harmony begins
Orchestrating the morning worship
in celebration of this life.
One songster descanted a high range
as he sang a louder pitch
Distinctly he told tales of ancestors
awaiting with welcoming smiles
.
The siren in the distance and the
overhead plane threatened the calm.
The plane resounded as thunder
above all the noise
the birds continued to sing.
I Listened as they go on to conclude
in exuberant delight.
Warblers warbling
Tweet- tweets deliberating
discussions many more chirps
peeps and tweets
During the morning meditation.
As the world passes by
I'd listen to the birds serenade-
I'd listen to the clucks-
and the cackles, I'd listened
to the throaty warbler-
as he resumes the lead song.
The other birds in turn join in again..
The world rejoices in their songs
all over the universe-
The rest of my day
could never be as great as
the moments in the morning when
I'd meditate and listen to the birds sing.
A loved one closed her eyes
and made her transition;
The chirking birds know-
That the only triumph over
death is to have lived a good life
.
So they continue to sing.
I'd sit and solemnly
listen to the message
that their chirping brings.
As I softly say goodbye.
We shall never forget Euna Davis
as long... As early in the morning
We be reminded in jubilant birdsong.
POEM FOR EUNA DAVIS
A very throaty Warbler issued
Quavering Trills in a morning song -
As he serenaded the dew
drops on the grateful trees
Other birds were answering with
songs of praise from familiar days.
No one taught them
how to sing or gave them
the messages they so proudly bring.
Birds form near and far
joined in as if to say -
We will add our voices to remind you,
that we are cheerful and we sing for you.
We are aware-we are awake-
and we are awesome
chirping and singing our songs as
we bath in puddles of raindrops.
We remember the timing of the of the
golden and silver songsters.
Ruffling feathers coquettishly
as each song in the distance stirs
up fond memories of your existence.
The caw-caw, the peeps, and the chirps;
The caw -caw again and
the melodic harmony begins
Orchestrating the morning worship
in celebration of this life.
One songster descanted a high range
as he sang a louder pitch
Distinctly he told tales of ancestors
with welcoming smiles
.
The siren in the distance and the
overhead plane Threatened the calm
The plane resounded as thunder
above all the noise
the birds continued to sing.
I Listened as they go on to conclude
in exuberant delight Warblers warbling
Tweet- tweets deliberating discussions
many more chirp’s peeps and tweets
During the morning meditation.
As the world passes by
I'd listen to the bird’s serenade-
I'd listen to the clucks-
and the cackles, I'd listened
to the throaty warbler-
as he resumes the lead song.
The other birds in turn join in again.
The world rejoices in their songs
all over the universe-
the rest of my day
could never be as great as
the moments in the morning when
I'd meditate and listen to the birds sing.
A loved one closed her eyes
and made her transition;
The chirking birds know-
That the only triumph over
death is to have lived a good life.
So, they continue to sing.
I'd sit and solemnly listen to the message
that their chipping brings
I softly say goodbye.
We shall never forget Euna Davis
as long... As early in the morning
We be reminded in jubilant birdsong.
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013
Prior To Commencing Poem, I Dreamt Contretemps Escalating fusillade...
Galvanized hotheaded idealists (jaded
locals - kindled moderates) nursed
oppressive proletarian quavering riot
spearheading triumphant utopian voice...
whether contrived right here and now,
or purportedly fragmented remnant
occuring during REM sleep
beside the point, asper conjuring atypical
bent arising within mindscape,
sans garden variety *****sapien.
he laments instantaneously forgetting
intricate webbed tapestry comprising
unconscious manifestations nearly every time
reluctantly opening eyes,
whereat realistic landscape within noggin
vanishes without any trace
try as I might to induce recall
asper impressive world within
hydroelectric powered illusory windmills,
despite non cacophonous disruption
i.e. natural awakening processes,
yet for the life of me
after effect bruited
within entire body electric,
hence envisions some contrivance
mebbe mental construct
prior to awakening
to captcha essential details.
Ah...mother lode of ore ridge and hill
elusive material could perhaps yield
adequate money order to pay one bill
alleviating penurious state, so I can chill
without succumbing L'chaim going downhill
fast, especially since monthly social security
taken in toto with more'n
one bitter medication prescription pill
(father's little helper) eases panic/anxiety attacks
plaguing yours truly since...reciting
storybook rhyme 'bout Jack and Jill
argh, how an overdose quite tempting
escaping once and for all where little doth fulfill
me, cuz thankfully individual choice of freewill,
not banned by pro life fanatics,
imagining to wrest free millstone
formerly revolutionary war gristmill
sitting idle (billy me) bidding one final goodwill
to deux daring daughters,
ditto same number twisted sisters mentally ill
papa and bro respectively
understandably justifiably, emotionally deserted
detached baby boomer whole existence a standstill
overly cautious livingsocial,
what...repeating mundanity till...
death, a tragi/comic relief.
Solitude breeds malignant nemesis
couched as woe seated heavily
within mine angst
riddled quavering psyche
blinding clairvoyance
debilitates enthusiastic frequency
wavelengths propagate unfounded
probable future destitution
predicated upon intractable lifetime mired
within groveling penuriousness
"dirt poor" accursed fate
pervaded plentiful not ready
for prime time playing years
repercussions long fostered anguish,
when offspring begot
(particularly the whip smart eldest)
she jockeyed herself as winner
with good n plenti horsesense
chomped at the bit, albeit figuratively,
when aforementioned progeny
attained age of awareness
underscored by livingsocial
in the horn of plenty
regarding estates generally
dripping exuberant wealth,
where plush domiciles within MainLine
accentuated luckless financial pitfall,
asper yours truly afflicted mental illness
mine generalized anxiety, panic,
obsessive compulsive disorder...
ascribed to existence squandered,
nee imprisoned impenetrable prison
found me captive undermining
ordinary healthy development
sabotaging approximately five decades
constituting better part sans mein kampf,
which total three plus score orbitz,
yet far and away psychologically afflicted
nsync and linkedin with
emotional, mental, and social trauma
(learning difficulty compounded
dilemma repercussions extant today),
now healthily sublimated,
courtesy painful pubescent exhumation
poetry metier write
cathartic, holistic, narcotic...
plus weekly therapy sessions
also exercise in toto with meditation
supplements summoning forth
inner Wizard of Oz
to traverse cratered abysmal pits
gingerly sidestepping death traps
awash with skeletal wreckage
indelible scars perforating
air supply condemning me
aging baby boomer nsync
lead zeppelin plunges
corporeal essence gripped
stranglehold asphyxiates
sputtering torturous undulations
irrepressibly avast impossible mission
livingsocial counter intuitive
rather hermetically sealed simian
accustomed himself being alone.
My pen;
Is the source of my greatest power,
Conveys my deepest private thoughts,
Translates the speech of my spirit,
Utters the voice of my very soul,
Thus is my most precious tool.
When I am sad;
My pen may be likened to a lost orphaned child,
Wandering aimlessly through the woods at dusk,
Exposed to the cruelty of this unfeeling world,
Helpless cold fearful and knowingly unwanted.
It drips sluggish tears of ink across the page,
Dragging itself with what little strength remains,
Desperately seeking and end to bitter sorrow.
When I am happy;
My pen is an uncontrollable fluttering butterfly,
Skittering quickly quavering across pure paper,
Touching down so lightly with seraphim feet,
Much penned up energy impossible to contain,
Excited ideas poor forth like ambrosial torrents.
When I am angry;
I unleash the rabid dog that is my weapon,
It launches itself forth with ferocious haste,
Scratching and clawing out loathsome words,
Shredding paper betwixt slavering locked jaws,
Its breath is heavy with the odor of blood lust,
Hungry for vengeance and a taste of the enemy.
Sweet Catharsis;
Criticize me not for committing my thoughts to paper,
Scorn me no longer for sharing my feelings thus healthily,
Generously give instead credit for self-control and creativity.
Would you rather I go about spilling tears down upon my cheeks,
While depressed unwittingly bringing down the moods of others?
Or shall I act upon the ugly desires that anger may conjure,
Behaving recklessly deliberately injuring those around me?
Though happiness and excitement are meant to be shared,
Even positive emotions must be kept in gentle restraint.
So leave me to my great escape my personal outlet,
Do read enjoy and admire my prudent craft,
And if the fancy strikes you some lonely day,
Empower yourself with the greatest tool known,
Pick up an all mighty pen and write!
Form:
Lamenting strings of my violin... how sorrowfully they wail
as if they mourn for my mistakes, so many times I've failed.
When my bow caresses them now, do they feel the pain
within my heart, the emotional wounds from which it bleeds?
"Why has love forsaken me?" my quivering voice pleads...
with the same vibrato quavering from the violin's refrain.
I yearn to have my love's head placed beneath my chin...
in the tender hollow where his nestled kisses have been.
My violin weeps as I do when my tears flow upon its wood.
With trembling fingers, I hold it close, and my frailty is exposed.
"Forgive me please, dear instrument with sadness I've imposed.
I hear your cries in each mournful note, as if you understood."
I should show some compassion and mercy by letting it be
instead of eliciting it for comfort in this time of misery.
O, heart of mine, the time has come to stop this weeping.
No serenade pervades my soul when I hold it at arm's length.
No sultry songs can I play that would give me immortal strength.
Far better that I should lovingly lock it away in safe keeping.
I yearn not for an audience to hear melancholy notes I'd play.
Stradivari would be mortified if he heard me plucking chords today.
Perhaps he'd say, "Madam, your artistry was meant for other things!"
I cannot fiddle a classical sonata when my future is a riddle to me.
Perchance one day I will endeavor to play again with bel esprit...
if my heart has healed of its sorrow and grief no longer stings.
After My Death
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Say this when you eulogize me:
Here was a man — now, poof, he's gone!
He died before his time.
The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt...
Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere,
but now it's been lost,
forever.
What a pity! He had a violin,
a living, eloquent soul
to which he uttered
the secrets of his heart,
setting its strings vibrating,
save the one he kept inviolate.
Back and forth his supple fingers twirled;
one string alone remained mesmerized,
yet unheard.
Such a pity!
All his life the string quivered,
quavering silently,
yearning for its song, its mate,
as a heart falters before its departure.
Despite constant delays it waited daily,
mutely beseeching its savior, Love,
who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly
and never came.
Great was the pain!
There was a man — now, poof, he's gone!
The music of his life was suddenly interrupted.
There was another song in him, somewhere,
but now it is lost
forever.
Chaim Nachman Bialik (1873-1934), first name also Hayim or Haim, was a Jewish Holocaust poet who wrote in Hebrew. Bialik was one of the pioneers of modern Hebrew poetry; he came to be recognized as Israel's national poet and the foremost modern Hebrew poet.
Keywords/Tags: Chaim Nachman Bialik, Hebrew, translation, Israel, life, music, violin, voice, sound, song, string, strings, heart, mate, love, pain, lost, forever
Soft somnolent skies have ceased seething, for day’s nearly through,
while winds echo whispering thoughts of returning to you
and heavens throb, pulsing and bleeding in crimsons, once blue -
their passions, like flames, fill my veins as you pass into view.
The breeze holds her breath as you touch, then embrace me anew
and smouldering clouds withdraw, blushing, then paling their hue.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The pendulous moon appears, sweeping the fog from up high
distilling the drops into notes of a hushed lullaby,
their quavering tunes spinning tales which amaze, mystify,
while tremulous stars fling a fire that fevers the skies,
for stories they tell reflect love as revealed by your sighs -
their fury is burning, alive in the depths of your eyes.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The shifting shore’s moaning, seduced by tempestuous tides
which flow with the rhythm of flesh as our senses collide,
and quiet explodes as the stillness of night’s amplified.
A lingering kiss bids adieu till the morning breaks wide
when cockerels come conjuring dawn with voluptuous pride
enticing the sun into banishing night, starry-eyed.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
Just a single conscious decision,
hanging in the palm of your hand
A quavering sensation
breathing in subsequent rhythm, a pulse
dripping from the band
All these motifs around me
and I'm just a stagnation in time
Never will be or is the same as
each second lapsing behind
Carrying around moments as my burden to bare,
and trying to stop my eyes from looking into this seismic solar flare.
The ground is sighing beneath my feet or is it attempting to just break free,
a living mechanism of one's will and thought leeching from my soul the memories I have wrought.
Focused on the grass photosynthesizing in it's summer glare
the heat could never reach me from its pinnacled spot 10,000 feet in the air.
Casting shadows on the ground segregating the widow at it's peak
all the while attempting to hide what I could never seek.
Uprooting life around me clawing at the source of their refrain
stretching out with feline grace gathering acidic drops of thoughts that have become deranged.
Open mouth is bleeding and narrow eyes are never seeing
the subconscious insanity soaking in them and the constant lies it's breeding.
The shadows black out the light as day smears into night,
pendulous orbits of moons and stars that are destined to collide.
Gravitating towards the abyss, senses revealing the things I missed
and from the seems futile screams are starting to vindictively drip.