Long Undergone Poems
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Interpretivity is a measure of a person’s rate of understanding. A person’s rate of
interpretation shows the individual’s ability to unlock, identify, simplify, solve,
measure accurately, try to understand, restore, think, re-think, unveil, transcribe,
translate and hence it has a role to play in an individual’s creativity. Since the rate of
understanding is directly proportional to creativity, an individual’s level of
interpretivity is a measure of an individual's understanding i.e. ability to read,
receive, interpret(internalize-explore-externalize). Intuitivity and inquisitivity play
important roles with this parameter. It is the link that bridges receptivity and
reproductivity.
Narrativity ability to read and give back – reproduce without necessarily understanding
what is read. A very high level of receptivity, low interpretivity and expressivity
exhibit narrativity.
Reproductivity – ability to give back exactly what has been given, read, thought e.t.c.
without any sort of addition, creativity, subtraction, alteration e.t.c. It is totally
different from re-creativity. A high level of understanding is needed for reproductivity.
Re-creativity – this is the ability to re-modify, re-adjust, re-define, re-alter,
re-model, re-shape e.t.c. an already existing-created-discovered altered creativity. For
re-creativity to be achieved, some absolute understanding about the substance in question
i.e. to be re-created must have been undergone. It is an alteration to creativity. It is
correctional adjustment to creativity.
Correctivity is the process of re-mending-mending, re-molding-molding, re-fixing-fixing of
an altered creativity-substance. It requires absolute-ultimate not only mastery but total
understanding of the altered creativity in order to perform this process.
Understanding is having an absolute knowledge and wisdom about something. It is the
interpretation i.e. (pure-total reception, highly active intuitivity-individual
perception-inquisitivity and maximal expressivity) that eventually must lead to
creativity. When understanding is at its peak creativity is inevitable whether by
derivations from the original-truth or copies of the-from the original-truth. If
understanding is directly proportional to the vividness of imagination then the rate of
creativity will-must vary from one person to another.
Form:
"measuring years"
how do I measure the years
do I start at the beginning or the end
will it cover the many tears
anger and bitterness I will not defend
just let me be to have my mind
as the years of pain are intertwined
years one and two and counting are gone
I know there will be a new dawn
I know all has been rearranged
as I somehow become withdrawn
life has changed
I manage to get through the years
as I learn to pretend
and somehow work through all the fears
still anger and bitterness I will not defend
I sit and watch my life being defined
through all the years combined
with all the medical treatment undergone
the curtain of life is being drawn
I am told everything is unchanged
yet I remain withdrawn
life has changed
time passes as I hide the tears
a new life is always around the bend
month after month until it becomes years
while on the physical and emotional mend
space and air seem confined
as the life once lived is behind
and the feeling is of being alone
all that is needed is for the anger to be gone
I look in the mirror and see I have aged
for no reason I lash out at everyone
life has changed
a new day begins after four and five years
the years one two and three are seen to the end
still there are days of tears
still there is anger and bitterness I will not defend
it is hard for the mind and body to unwind
as I continue to watch the life I left behind
I keep searching for a new milestone
with every being in my bone
I feel I have been shortchanged
that the world has won
life has changed
now is the time of six and counting years
will I ever reach the changing bend
will this altering life stop the tears
my life of old I will not pretend
years of passing are still intertwined
and my being today is how I am defined
it is true that yesterday is gone
I cannot let bitterness continue to be drawn
my view of life must be rearranged
and view the paintings of a new dawn
life has changed
now the story has been told
as measuring years is getting old
I continue to search for a new view
as there is so much to attend to
while life has been rearranged
this is certainly true
life has changed
SkyWatcher - 10-08-08
My lateness once more has caused me immediate damnation,
and my unstable state, a product of my lost attention.
Overcoming the limitation by doing three person's work at once
resulted to a failed manipulation
of compressing minutes' activities into seconds
just to beat time and achieve punctuality.
Reaching for the door with already aggravated emotions.
In self caution, I knew something was still missing
then I realized it's a stuff I cannot go without.
Oh My God! This means, beginning all over again.
A complication I most feared in a situation like this.
My dwelling place now seem a mansion
as even my bedroom has undergone exaggeration
which at this moment isn't as accommodating
as the habitation I once knew.
Starring at the plain surface of the mirror Table gave no answers
and already praying for the fruitful termination of this trying time,
as I searched among the cosmetic items it harbours.
My next location is obviously the wardrobe
and even with the intense frustration
I was still calm enough to suppress the friction with myself
as I searched each and every pocket of my clothing
which are all hanging in straight vertical position.
And yet, my state gradually reaching exacerbation,
cos' there is no answer.
In milliseconds, my Pillows are in two corners of the room
I prayed for any sort of temptation but not this
as the bed calmly accepts my aggressive search
of my item which suffers an ungodly abduction.
The Investigation continues with a quick scan through my shoes,
and finally leaving the room with no appreciation
which now looks like a ghetto market of a third world country,
a demotion I usually never allow, not until now.
The larger sitting room just increased my retardation
having hope of finding my "Precious" would be mere hallucination
so therefore, I barely did much other than a mere Inspection.
Yet, cannot find its location,
which simply increased the heap of burning coal on my head.
Already tired of exclaiming several holy Indignation
careful flash back and calculations of my previous movements
yielded no results.
"check the Double Seater" was my last thought.
And as I acted in submission to that command,
the invaluable material surprisingly fell off my shirt
My Car Keys!
A smoky vignette opens up, as if morning fog over the mountain valleys blown by winter winds.
Piano notes pulsing in a melancholic, waltz~ like cadence…the plangent tension of one long note on a mellotron held throughout the rhythmic piano notes sounds dolorous and desolate.
Images of 18th century couples in formal gowns and elaborate, powdered wigs dance through my mind. The hoop skirts gently sway as the couples move in a pattern, heads thrown back and arms rigidly locked in position.
The plaintive, closed throat voice of a man begins to sing, simply…
“ I feel unhappy,
I feel so sad.
I've lost the best friend
that I ever had.
She was my woman,
I loved her so.
But it's too late now,
I let her go.
I'm going through changes,
I'm going through changes. “
The couples spin and dance this waltz
all together, covering the dance floor like flowers
twirling a wind storm.
The fabulously tall and flamboyant wigs
disappear as does the pale make up on their faces.
The rigid yet beautiful dance continues as couples take turns covering the entire ballroom.
At each rotation, there's a change, some detail is different, the moles disappear and are replaced with fake eyelashes and red lipstick.
The gentlemen first have hair in low tails clubbed at the neck, then short locks and pompadours. Dresses go from elaborate ball gowns to poodle skirts and then to skimpy spangled dresses.
We watch as they dance and convert from one fashion, and one decade, to the next.
The final notes ring out, vibrating the room and the couples come to a halt, standing like statues in their perfect waltz form.
We realize that although every outward appearance has undergone transformations, some things never change....
Humanities love and dependence on music
and the compelling urge to dance to express the emotions that music elicits... surpassing every boundary, race, culture, and people. All of us use this expression in one form or another. An urgent expression of
Joy, love, sorrow, passion, pain, and on and on…
only able to fully express our feelings
through melodies and
the poetry of dance.
In my sleep I find myself 200 to 250 years in the future.
The Earth, at least I think it's the Earth is found to have
Undergone some terrible changes. The ground is no longer
Solid, it is this liquid fire, a molten lava per se. There are
Angels pinned down in this lava unable to free themselves
Undergoing a torturous torment being hurt like no other.
You can hear their loud screams from anywhere on Earth.
The temperature is burning like being on fire on top of
Being on fire. The Earth seems to be burning beyond any
Known fire, seemingly beyond any known living beings.
Then I saw it, small little glowing souls being tormented,
Being put to the highest amount of pain ever known to
Have been succumbed. The most severe pain and agony
That anyone could ever be brought to. Their screams are
So much more intense than the angels that this is almost
All you can hear. Terror and terrible pain and agony that
There seems to be no relief in sight. Then I saw him, the
Pure evil being himself. You can see his power and ultimate
Reign of this area. He is inflicting as much pain as he can
On the poor souls that are beneath him, giving them never
A break from their suffering. Then he saw me, his eyes
Met up with mine, terror filled my heart. I quickly began
My quick retreat back to my body. Luckily I made it with
The smell of brimstone still on me. I recalled all that I saw
And knew and felt the horrible place that it was. I vowed
From that moment on I would do whatever it took to never
End up there at that horrid place on Earth. I was fearful,
Scared, and terrified and I will never forget the torture
That was going on there by fire and various other evil
Means. I hope I can get as many other people in my life
To never end up there as well, because I hated this
Place, hated it with every fiber of my being. Maybe
Somehow and some way we can stop the inevitable from
Happening. Till then I just have to work on me and to
Hopefully find peace inside myself to find a way not
to end up there, being tortured, and living a dying
Death over and over again.
Russell Sivey
I was born at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road
Which runs through Shepherds Bush
Like an artery,
And in the mid 1960s,
Served as one of the great centres
Of the London Mod movement,
But I was raised in relative gentility
In a ward of nearby South Acton
Whose vast council estate
Is surely the most formidable
Of the whole of West London.
Although my little suburb
Has since become
One of its most exclusive neighbourhoods.
My first school was a kind of nursery
Held locally on a daily basis
At the private residence
Of one Miss Henrietta Pearson,
And then aged 4 years old,
I joined the exclusive
Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud,
Where I was soon to become bilingual
And almost every race and nationality
Under the sun was to be found
At the Lycee in those days...
And among those who went on to be good pals mine
Were kids of English, French, Jewish, American,
Yugoslavian and Middle Eastern origin.
While my first closest pals were Esther,
The vivacious daughter
Of a Norwegian character actor
And a beautiful Israeli dancer,
And Craig, an English kid like myself,
With whom I remain in contact to this day.
For a time, we formed an unlikely trio:
"Hi kiddy," was Esther's sacred greeting
To her blood brother, who'd respond in kind.
But at some stage, I became a problem child,
A disruptive influence in the class,
And a trouble maker in the streets,
An eccentric loon full of madcap fun
And half-deranged imaginativeness.
("Born on the Goldhawk Road" is a versified version of one much reproduced in various forms throughout my writings, although it bears little resemblance to its original, which first glimpsed the light of day in around 2002. It's undergone much modification since then, including the alteration of all names of people and places for the solemn purpose of privacy.)
Peyton, a thirteen year old boy
Looks on, pose for a photo;
He’s in for a test with sound health
Going to rejoin school
After long break for crucial treatment
And awesome wait
After the heart transplant;
He looks like a young man of thirty
Peyton, a boy from Ohio near Cincinnati;
Pure in heart, courageous and innocent,
Enters the waiting car for school
And at this all take heart.
But in about two hours
A fresh bud droops lifeless
In spite of all medical aids!
Suffering from birth
Without ever tasting good health really
Without reaching the school afresh
Peyton leaves the earth ever unready!
Born with a heart impaired
He had undergone many surgeries
Remained always under medication
Yet never losing his heart,
He was titled “Warrior Heart!”
In spite of steering life in alert
He always remained joyous
In spite of huge health hazards
Over the years;
He often cracked jokes and played
If not in a hospital or sick-bed then.
Dying he didn’t die till Derek de facto died in accident
.To donate his heart as arranged by his parents
After his death;
Derek relived with his heart;
Peyton’s heart lived while he was gone.
Was it not a great irony of fate
That when he seemed to regain health
His heart would sink
Denying the faith of the optimist?
Could the boy ever know in the heart of his hearts,
Refreshed as he was with a new heart
That the indwelling spirit would reject
The gift transplanted?
With a child’s innocence
He must have failed to guess
The severity of the design
Of the indwelling spirit.
Courage, patience, perseverance and joyousness
Which the boy had exhibited throughout his life
Proves that he was watched
And helped by some angel
Throughout his life’s journey.
An Indian would perceive it
The result of Karma of earlier lives
A short cut route to reach the goal
As for him the Divine designed.
Oh the jewel of a son divine designed!
Suffering yet enjoying life
You taught us how to suffer
And yet win over it.
Life on earth is a large platform where people show the highness or lowness of spirits of their lives. A queue in time bargaining for the much-awaited satisfaction in life. Just like in litigation, we all undergone proceedings in order to determine our unalienable rights --from conception to birth--judgment has been made whether to preserve or to abandon a life. Is it the longest day of waiting to be born on this earth? Not until we begin to crawl and cry weakly; run and stumble many times; stutter while trying to express the feelings, and get the needed fostering from parents that we realize all these as part of the stages of life. Is it the longest day of molding life inside the house? Not until we are brought up learning under the doctrine of the school to get further knowledge that we see a brighter future. We struggled hard to the academic discussion--from shapes, numbers, reading and into writing, we learned and been guided coherently. Is it the longest day of waiting for commendation? Not until we stepped out from our alma mater and into the challenging workforce that we feel the test of life. We faced many setbacks and blows but determination made us choose to get on it until we gradually climb into the targeted rank. Is it the longest day of the tiring effort to make a living? Not until we retired from work and have seen the fruits of our effort that we begin to feel good enough. As growing old is inevitable, it is about changes in yourself and life. Eyesight begins to dim and hearing fails, agility has turned into weakness, and health deteriorated until you sigh, “It is time to lay all worries to rest and maneuver myself into an open fluorescent green field.”
For all we know, it is still not the end of waiting until we see our next generation coming into being and deserving to be treated as such.
Noel N. Villarosa
12 February 2013
Just a moment.....
A whale breaches the surface and soars into the air, an eagle swoops down and plucks a fish from the water swimming without care,
a woman gives birth, another miracle being on planet earth, joins the human race as we awkwardly evolve into outer space, just as an old man slips away into death's final embrace after living a lifetime visible in each wrinkle on his weathered face. ....
a child is starving as a mother helplessly watches with pain in her heart and disgrace on her face, begging the Gods for mercy and to be in some other place....
a volcano erupts, spewing the gut of history into the sky, as a young boy becomes a man with the future in his eyes,
a rocket blasts off carrying humans deep into space in a leap of faith heretofore unknown for a date with history far from home......
Moments that capture the eternal from the desperately fleeting. These are instantaneous moments of joy, exhilaration, pain, and sadness that span the spectrum and devotion of human emotion......all intertwined to form the essence of life.
We have endlessly struggled throughout time to define what we are and why. Perhaps to define, its like a fine wine that has undergone a resembling activity over time.....
our experiences and knowledge get passed on, not unlike the process of a fermenting wine.....
all the moments of our lives are each a frame of a film that takes a lifetime to produce.
Nearing the end we get a preview of sorts, a sneak peek, a sip of the wine that has defined our time. It streams endlessly in our mind, so have a seat, enjoy the wine, and don't eat too much popcorn, it's showtime, no spoiler alert, there is no doubt because no one knows the ending until the final moments have played out.
A Sensitive Man
He was the finely spun, hushed type
his character often folded up;
inside pocket rather than on display.
He felt different but followed the rules:
school, college and then work.
Politeness escorted him courteously;
his kindness was always considerate.
In early years, his words seemed slight and shy,
he felt the playground of life swamp him
so he shrank, creating a gulf of distance,
away from noise and the carnival of people.
He was aware of the room’s ticking clock,
the pavement through the soles of his feet,
the quality of the fabric next to his skin,
the need for companionship of calm and quiet.
He valued his imagination when looking at life,
learning to read situations and people.
He was called shy, or sensitive, when young
but others, more astute, thought him gifted;
he just thought of himself as …different.
Some sought to bully, causing internal distress
but he rarely backed down, until after the event,
whereupon he suffered scrutinising self-analysis.
As he aged, ‘sensitivity’ was something he polished,
not a weakness, no, in fact… a valuable strength.
He no longer felt flawed, however he did feel pity
for others living a life on the surface of existence,
never in tune with the depths of the arts
or indeed the nature of nature.
He shrugged away shyness, removed remoteness
and learned how to breathe
until finally he had a respect for himself,
an understanding of others… and that gulf diminished.
He now smiles as he thinks back through the years
at the metamorphosis he has undergone;
a young boy into how he now sees himself
……….an assertive, inquisitive butterfly! Ian Souter