Long Unwritten Poems
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Perhaps it's my theory; or is it my unwritten hypothesis? It's not a proven fact, but just a personal observation.
There are some people who geniunely need other people. At least in their minds, they cannot live without other people.
And I must say that I'm not speaking of co-dependency. There are people who geniunely do not need other people.
At least in their mind, their lives are better without other people. And I must say that I'm not speaking of anti-social behaviors.
There are lyrics in a popular song that seem to address this topic: "People who need people are the luckiest people in the world".
For the longest time, I did not understand the meaning of the song. It's nothing that I really talked much about, but I think I really get it now.
I once had an overseer and friend whom I considered to be a 'social animal'. In other words, It seems he had an addiction for people beyond normality.
I'm not sure if he felt pulled to them for their better well being, or wealther there were wounds in his own soul that required unusual social connections.
Anyway, perhaps the song is right; people who need people are luckier. Some are less social, but human nature seems to compel us towards each other.
12072017 PS Contest, People. 4P
Once, this world created in me,
A box of a mind.
With dark corners
And scary rooms with unopened doors,
Never talked about, Never answered,
But always, always thought about,
Always, always questioned.
Days and nights spun so fast, it seemed.
Weary me, in that box,
Always ran,
Callousness pushing me from behind.
Then, one day, I stopped running,
The world still pushed, but I slipped away.
The burden of unanswered doubts,
Seemed too heavy,
Over my perfectly drawn square shoulders.
I let go.
The squares, I bent,
Into circles and spheres and myriad magical shapes.
The windows smelt damp, creaked loud and ghastly,
The doors stuck hard to the walls.
The Walls I saw tall and high,
Had paintings I never noticed till then.
They had the hues and lines,
Of broken dreams, and unfelt love,
Incomplete poems and unwritten stories,
Dull and lifeless, yet they stared,
Sharp and staunch at my guilty eyes.
And memories twirled like hurricanes,
Twisted my body and soul,
Took me to shores I lived for long,
Yet haven't known them ever well.
Stinking with guilt, I realised,
Those moments of machinery monotony,
I forced myself over and again through,
To stay a part of this vicious crowd.
Not any more, I decided,
I was not ready to give up.
The starved me, could no longer hold,
And pushed the creaky windows open,
And as The shine glided into my room,
I saw, for once, the glow I missed everyday.
The art that scared me then,
Now began melting, into rainbow colours.
The deafening noise now vanished,
Into the the sound of rain dances.
How meek I felt, I forgot for a moment,
Thrusting the hard doors out,
I stood there, drenched,
Lost in the pouring love.
As I looked back, I saw,
The box I was in, crashing down,
Into a thousand pieces.
The fury of the rushing waters,
Seeping through the dreary corners,
That held all my pain and fear and guilt.
The windows and doors forgotten,
The scary strokes faded,
And all that came out,
Was the magic of The Rainbow Shine.
And so My Friend, please don't wait, like me,
Long times lost, timid in the box.
For the windows and doors are windows and doors,
And not the rails of a locked cellar.
And before the walls drew demons for you,
Break free,
Soak in love,
The kind that seeks the real You.
Form:
To be different is your superpower,
An incantation hidden in the heart of midnight,
A silver vein in the dark fabric of the world,
Where dreams whisper ancient secrets and reality slips through veils of mist.
In the flow of consciousness, I lose myself in the labyrinth of the mind,
Where your inner gardens bloom in unknown colors,
Each petal, a symbol of your distinctive magic,
Among the shadows of conformity, you are a shooting star often lighting up the sky.
In the depths of my being, where silence carries ancient echoes,
I find reflections of your presence, a dance of light and darkness,
In this rigid world, you are a flowing stream of gold,
An eternally burning flame, bursting with power and mystery,
Your brilliance flowing from every step on the cosmic sands.
To be different is like a dream from another dimension,
Turning time into an eternal rainbow,
With every gesture, you break the patterns of normality,
Leaving behind a trace of unknown magic and eros.
In this universe of straight lines and rigor,
You are a magician of unwritten truths,
A storm of words and emotions defying the gravity of the ordinary,
Each thought a bow of circles, each breath an incantation.
The world wears its masks of humble uniformity, but you are the multicolored stained glass,
Every hue, every shadow of your being,
Forming a mosaic that unfolds only in the moonlight,
A story seen only in the eyes of those who lose themselves in your depth.
You are a fountain of mysteries beneath the core of the earth,
Your invisible current felt beneath the common surface of existence,
Teaching the roots of an enchanted forest that blooms at your touch.
You are that wave that shatters the rocks of conventions,
An eternal call to authenticity.
Your different magic weaves lights and shadows into boundless landscapes,
A reality anchored in myths and profound dreams, fulfilling you in unison,
Showing us that in your singularity, lies the power to shape worlds.
In the flow of consciousness, I always return to your essence,
Where rigid lines unravel into endless spirals,
And I recognize that to be different is a sublime gift,
A mystical poem written on the edge of eternity, where desires become light,
Flowing through the veins of a world that never ceases to transform,
In a melancholic dance of the divine and the magic that embraces us.
Locked in the history through the doors of his mind
Are the remains of an unwritten contract he signed.
The rules he lived by with his own flesh and bone,
Wrote in his blood and signed alone.
An Indian father or a Spanish bride,
The white mans greed won’t alter his stride,
The black mans courage with endurance within,
Mixed with trials errors and mortal sin.
Through the hardship and horses through courage and pain
These are the hands that held the rein.
Annie Oakley, Kitty Wilkins and Bell Star,
Combined lace with leather and created a gender scar.
From Picket, Custer, and Crazy Horse,
These are only a few who would not alter their course.
And those less know on Oregon’s trail,
Who sold all they had and to the west set sail.
Chisholm, Goodnight and French, some of the Cattle kings,
They all are the reason a cowboy sings.
And their blood still flows through our veins,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Forgive them for they knew not what they done,
As they settled the west with hand and gun.
Fought for open space they went through,
Not knowing that greed and politics followed them too.
Restless by nature a curious kind,
Searching for answers they will never find.
An unwritten code he rides for the brand,
It pumps through the veins into the soul of this man.
He gathers those memories and tries to remain,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Writing no letter for he can’t but he would,
To who he’s not sure but it is understood,
There is no place to send it anyhow,
So he saddles his pony and rides for the cow,
Sings a song and says a poem in rhyme,
To cut the quiet and pass the time.
That helps keep the stories of his horse and life,
As he sings of a friend and dreams of a wife.
Through the doors of his mind those memories remain,
For these are the hands that held the rein.
Like shuffling a deck he’s held in his hand
He has gambled his life and made a stand,
And made a vow he will try to fulfill,
With the luck of the draw his blood flows still.
To the next generation, with changes in time,
We still hear his stories in song and rhyme.
And if one more day could be spare
For the songs sung and poems shared
Let him live just one more day,
Let him ride for the brand and draw his pay.
In our future let our history not be in vein,
For our hands are now what hold the rein.
Form:
Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful thing in the world, A limited, limiting clarity I have not and never did have any motive of poetry But to achieve clarity.
George Oppen
If it wasn't for poetry,
how would we portray stars of clarity?
Moon would appear silently ordinary,
how would we express that which is contrary?
Verses without stardust shimmer would be horrid,
no metrical composition would sound torrid.
No sapphire skies nor turquoise tides.
No ivory shores nor firefly guides.
No magic of butterflies dancing under moonlight.
A travesty of no lullabies to ease before midnight.
Horizons would appear blank, dismal and dark -
your muted muse would forfeit their spark.
If a poet's conscience suffers a premature death,
how would you honour their quill's last breath?
How would you express that painful goodbye?
No legacy for our words to poetically beautify.
Unable to honour memories of the deceased -
an unwritten elegy cannot praise a masterpiece.
Autumn would just be a modified season.
Spring slowly blossom without a reason.
Summer would bring no wonder in flowers.
Winter would be grey with freezing showers.
Would music suffer from atrocious lyrics,
unmetered songs only lead to hysterics.
Would poetic love exist?
Would our lips have ever kissed?
No expressions to defeat hate.
No epodic justice to fate.
No sweet sonnets to revere.
Shakespeare's world would disappear.
Romeo would not woo Juliet.
Literature students would forget
bards who bled ballads before us -
what would lovers have to discuss?
No angst or alliterations.
No 3am damnations.
No syllable creations.
No lustful flirtations.
An end to narrations.
All lost translations.
If there were only ugly words,
would it be the end of singing birds?
No emancipation of the oppressed.
No catharsis for the depressed.
Hearts would repress and suppress.
Demons would stress and digress.
If it wasn't for poetry,
I would still be a mystery.
I would not speak in rhymes,
there would be nothing to define.
My soul a misunderstood metaphor,
drowning in an inkless reservoir.
Life would become a burden,
as petals die in my poetic garden
and after everything has been said and done,
there would be no Poetic One.
Under the delicate veil of reality, unseen worlds weave webs of mystery,
There, beneath the clear surface, lie extinguished universes, full of hidden stories.
I floated like a child in a dream, feeling the call of these distant realms,
With no proof in hand, just a deep premonition that magic and mystery walk hand in hand.
In the blue sky and the scent of flowers, there are mirrors of hidden goodness,
But in the same breath mingles a wild force, a pain that kisses the edge of being.
Every petal that unfolds under the sun hides a shadow of old, forgotten times,
A dance of secret degradation, painting the world in hues of melancholy.
Under the starry mantle of enchanted nights, when the stars pour into unknown waters,
We feel the echo of another existence, a deep murmur that disturbs our peace.
And thus, in every blooming flower, in every dream that takes flight,
Light and darkness mix, writing an unwritten story of an unseen destiny.
Our lives are symptoms of an ancient spell, a dance of shadows and light,
Where beauty and suffering entwine in a world of shimmering metaphors.
We are but travelers through these constellations hidden beneath the daily venom,
Wandering through worlds of curves and extinguished fires, seeking a revived dawn.
Our eyes are gates to those parallel universes,
Where every moment of joy is shadowed by a tear of eternity.
We are born from stars, but carry within us the ashes of extinguished galaxies,
And in the infinite waltz, we laugh and cry, gathering star memories in unknown hearts.
So, when we gaze at the sky, the blooming, and hear the silence of enchanted nights,
Let us know that beneath every heartbeat lies a flicker of unseen sadness,
That beauty and pain are two mirrored skies,
And only by accepting this dual symphony can we understand the deep magic of life.
In temples forgotten by time, in rivers singing old ballads,
We find echoes of those deep realms, where light and shadow dance together,
And thus, in every moment of life, in every childhood dream,
We learn that magic hides precisely in this ethereal duality.
Let us live, then, with hearts open to both beauty and pain,
To seek those secret worlds beyond the daily veil,
And to breathe their magic, letting our hearts sing,
Even when the echoes of pain whisper their old secrets under enchanted skies.
Two loving heart filled with desire,
these souls set ablaze by dragon's fire.
Torn apart and cast assunder,
raging storm hear the thunder.
Both halves searching for their whole,
while trying to live life and play the role.
All others are driven away by its rage
dim the lights turn the page.
Not by the hand of man but god above,
gave life to these hearts so full of love.
pure and simple tainted by none,
two souls joined together as one.
A tender touch to calm the heart,
that look of passion now torn apart.
The screaming thoughts of words not told,
endless nights so lost and cold.
Heartless and torid is the rain,
sharp and daming is the pain.
Of the loss we share
as we live our lives in such depair.
no one knows the hurt inside
without a word we do hide.
Dreaming of a time when all was right,
most of the day and thoughout the night.
Two loving heart filled with desire,
these souls set ablaze by dragon's fire.
Torn apart and cast assunder,
raging storm hear the thunder.
Both halves searching for their whole,
while trying to live life and play the role.
All others are driven away by its rage
dim the lights turn the page.....
After all these years in this desolate heat,
these two heart so lost now begin to beat.
Breathing so much life back into the night,
the flames rage so bright they blind the sight.
Two loving heart beating freely so untamed,
exotic passion expressed yet unashamed.
Calling out so loudly to the gods up above,
to grant their wishes to reunite there love.
Their souls yearning to feel the power of the fire,
joining as one seeking the flame as it grows higher.
These two heart overfilled with erotic desires,
to feel the sweet touch to see what transpires.
With each beat of there hearts in antisipation,
as to where they will be taken in this transformation.
Trusting one another and forsaking all the rest.
it goes unwritten and will be put to the test.
Two loving heart filled with desire
these souls set ablaze by dragons fire.
The word never spoken now freely flow,
even the stars in the sky brightly glow.
The waves of rage now turned to kind,
as the love these heart anew do find.
Through the years as these hearts age,
dim the lights turn the page......
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…
The Defiance
I feel this night to be stolen from me
This endless night when I’m sitting lone
Day by day, the ever quest is ever harder to see
Of a life to belong never mine… to own
From several weeks ago to only seem too soon
Were my days a helpless stray into the arms of night!
From a dawning Sun to share sorrows alike till a dusking moon
Should there ever be a tranquility to shed a sympathy light?
As remembered, the life of Alkaiya hangs upon a thread
Whether alive it be or death be claimed, remains unknown
With a future unseen, my thoughts were unwritten to be read
And I yearn for the fruits of The Ancients be rapidly sown!
Let there be tranquility to will, of this I pray
No matter the endless nights of places searched in vain
With age, were dreams dreamt much lesser towards everyday!
Might The Askance be of aid to deliver me once again?
Have I forgotten my bearings, my place in the world?
Have I forgotten the belated me, from a once life I live?
Did I remember my dreams with portals welcoming in swirl?
Are there no more of mystic evidence to once more believe?
And I enclose my eyes, envisioning a once moment before
Endearing the fabrics of time woven with melodic aria
However much of information I’m to congregate I’ll recall
Anything and everything I’ll do in sacrifice for Alkaiya
{And as I open my eyes to believe what I’m to see
Alkiaya is in my arms in distance hopes never to be
Is it a dream, simply a dream and nothing more?
If I am to blink my eyes, is the moment nevermore to recall?
And with tears to relent to, I’m to see the truth as true
Of concerns ingrain to forever dispose to never again feel
It is at this moment I’m to know how much she is to mean
If not to love, neither to hold, be perhaps what love can bring
I guess as long she’s alive and by my side, there is nothing more to ask for
And should the day be known when together in love, may well be meant so much more
In the meantime, Twit the Sylvan is already rejoicing in joy
Regaining once again, his special magical ability to annoy
Sylvius isn’t anywhere unfortunately, to share this occasion
A wonder for a Fallen as the hopes of The Ancients is in assurance
However is the future to unfold, my heart has taken a leap
To be entwined with Alkaiya as evidently she wills to speak}
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram