Long Withdrawing Poems
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Once upon a time
There was a man
Who lost his job
And his home
And his car
And he slept under a tree.
Simpleton that he was,
He never gave thought
To asking the oak's permission.
But the majestic old tree,
Being wise in its great age,
Suffered the unlucky human
To lie there in grateful repose
Between two of its massive,
Outspreading roots.
And there were visitors,
Unseen and unheard
By the man but who,
For their own secret reasons,
Took an interest in him.
So these playful beings
Found a way to indulge
Their sense of mischief
Whilst helping the man
Avoid further calamities
To his person.
The woods where he slept,
You see, were privately kept,
And others like himself would,
On occasion,
Pass close by that spot.
Well, the man was of a mind
To sleep well past the dawn.
But the toilers began
Their day early, so it would
Be only a short march of time
Before their paths
Would finally cross.
So the task at hand
For the imps
Or the elves
Or the ghosties
Or the faeries
Lay in devising clever ways
Of rousing the man
Without ever revealing to him
Their own true nature.
Once, for example, they bounced a
Large, round, feather-light something
Off the side of his sleepy head.
It felt like a giant nerf ball but was
Nowhere to be seen immediately after.
On another occasion, they directed
A friendly little toad
To land with a thud within inches
Of his horizontal face.
But in other instances
They acted more boldly;
Tickling his hair,
Grabbing him by the shoes,
Or yanking on an elbow.
The only time he thought to ignore
Such a silent sort of
"By yore leave, yer slumberin' Grace",
He only just avoided a confrontation
With some early-morning workers.
But Serendipity finally intervened,
And after the passage of a fortnight or so,
This man's situation changed yet again,
And he no longer had to sleep upon the earth.
But a peculiar thing occurred, you see.
Being accustomed to regular attention from
His entertaining unseen guardians,
The man found himself unwilling to return
To the bland comforts of a regular bed.
And thus it was only by
Withdrawing their favors
That they compelled him to
Quit that place for good.
And then, reluctantly, with yet
Further pointless delays,
I finally said my goodbyes
And left that place as I found it.
Patradoot or The Messenger29 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
These young boys and girls, were brought up,
By their parents, with great love and affection,
Now they are mad, in love for their motherland,
To show the splendors of their youthful energy.
They are ready even to sacrifice their heads,
What to say of body pains and tortures inflicted on them,
By seeing such fearlessness and energy of their youth,
Even the enemy gets ashamed of, dear letter.
Triloki was one of these young boys,
Who happily took bullets on his chest, dear letter,
And kept on moving ahead without withdrawing,
Keeping the dignity of our nation and Satyagraha.
DESCRIPTION OF MY CITY ALLAHABAD
You will find my beautiful city Allahabad,*
In an ecstasy and full of rapture, flowing in it’s air,
When you will move on its roads and streets,
Along with the Postman, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 12th August 2010 to continue in 30
Clarifications:
* Allahabad Also know as Prayag or Triveni is the most ancient city
of India, where river Ganga and Yamuna now meets at
the holy place called Sangam.
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Depression has caught me within it’s talons,
Leaving me with a feeling of pure disappointment
Making me to believe that I don’t deserve happiness
Or the love that helps me to find my way through
This desolate, desperate place of darkness and gloom
Worry has trapped me within it’s lasting clutches,
Forcing me to feel like an impatient, yearning neurotic
Whispering pessimism across my cynical nakedness,
Coloring my spirit with hues of deepest ebony
Withdrawing all hope, faith and belief in intimate dreams
Nervousness has ensnared me within loss and anxiety
Causing me to believe that I deserve this rigid irritation
Defeat breathes it’s scent of disillusionment and suffering
Dancing decay and menacing death through my heart
Welcoming me into a world of fear and apprehension
These feelings of wrong thinking fight my hopes and dreams
Anchoring me in heartache, echoing through my silent reveries
Wishing to destroy my peace and serenity, yet I finally see
I can fight these feelings of discouragement with inner strength
Power that weighs in on my warrior’s spirit and combats my doubts
Slowly, I am learning to listen to the faithful heart living within,
The core of my spirit’s breath where that warrior lives and breathes
Shooting out fiery darts of kindness and compassion and faith
Everything that I need to reach out to the goodness I need to see
To know and discover within myself so that I might be able to live
A life filled with honesty, sincerity and all that can be expressed
Through grace, hope, joy and peace… sweet love that lives and gives
Sends darts of intimacy through my soul so that I can dance merrily
Expressing the sense of pure charity that lives within me and reaches
Out to those around me so that I can know what it is to share my humanity
Thankfully, this warrior that lives within me is there to protect me
From the anger, pain, bitterness and sadness that life inflicts
Sending me toward the edge of defeat, but comes back from there
To show me that love is real – love is a mystery and promise and whisper
Breathing into me that warrior’s assurance that everything will be okay
Because I have the love I need to give back and to thank God for everything!
Warrior Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
July 7, 2020
-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet-
Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause
The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance,
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest,
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein
You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal,
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."
I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter,
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer
Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light,
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes,
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.
If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause
by;PD
I do it for fun
An a show! Bravo we applauded. We
see past the befores' and look toward
the nextes': we thought it was one of
those nights. Durning the main attraction
most who were interested stopped and
went out and became audience, you know
regular guy's. I sat next to members of
the areana staff who were midway finshing up
cleaning. A couple of the guys there were
big fans. We sat queit for twenty nine
minutes watching. I remember jumping up
in excitment durning the match when the champ
seemed to be pinned.A queit came aross the
stadium of 25,000: it appeared the champ
had been pinned,the ref said no shoulder up.
The match restarted and wham, clothes line,
one, two, three! Again we thought new champ
the ref said no again shoulder up. Moments later
a fellow asked me if there was surposse to be a turnover
I said no, I doubt it I know whats going on and
the champ is in better shape thaan his opponet, I said
I think
they are hamming it up for the fans. And suddenly the
chmp is picked up on the shoulders and streched
we heard the guy say submit!, submit! Submit! The ref
said no and started the count for the champ to
be let go. Conversation with the ref, the champ pushes the ref
and the ref pushes him back: I'm like no way! Small package
and we see a three count but the ref said no: continue.
I checked my watch to see if we were close to a draw. No they had
plenty of time. Champ rallies back, and his signiture
manuver and we all said it's over. Challemger kicks out. Small package again surprises the champ, a clear thre count. And then it happened a queit and then a loud Boo! nd people began walking out. Fights on the floor and empty seats. The Promoter stops the match. And the next day I hear that
people were complaining. I can't even mention either champ or challengers name on air due to neogated interest by the three companies who
promoted the event. Well we haveman issue one company refuses to reogize the champ and award the championship to the challenger withdrawing from
the alliance. Within days we have Two champs. And the Promotion refuses
to show the tape to the fans!
it's over.
I feel like a ship lost in the open sea in the middle of a storm crashing side to side as I try and navigate the choppy waters of life.
All alone being pulled and tossed side to side between everyone else’s emotions other than mine.
I am trying to find calm land to lay my head in peace and relax and enjoy myself then another wave crashes against my boat throwing me off my balance.
I fight hard to control my ship.
During my voyage I have lightened my load and lost many things on this journey.
I am fighting, I am always fighting. Within the waves and me crashing over my bow.
Some days the waters are calm and the sun shines down in comfort and these are the days that I love. To sit in peace and feel the warmth on my flesh.
I say I do not need anything but this little ship that I am on, and I truly feel that I mean it.
My ship with very few rations has sustained me for over five years.
I seem to have some sort of fortune that I am provided for when the time is needed. I try not to worry about my future.
I have a crew that I feel I am responsible for, and I do my best to care for them all. I feel they want me as their leader but then again it is only on their terms - And the storm rises again, and my ship is off balance.
But this is a crew that I cannot simply let go of. This is a great commitment that I have taken upon.
Sometimes I want to go down to the hull of my ship in retreat and be alone with myself and drink wine and be within myself. But if I do the crew begins to revolt and not knowingly cause my ship to go further off balance in a fight against the storm.
I need my crew. I also see their needs, but do they see mine? I feel myself withdrawing but my ship is important to me. I will never jump ship. I just wish that my crew would understand and learn to work better for themselves and together and let me guide the ship through the storms.
I have full belief that the storms will eventually pass but, in the meantime, I must continue to steer forward and keep my ship afloat. I know my land of promise is out there in the distance of the great seas.
I will go down fighting with my ship.
Such Sad in your Eye
As one is ready to leave
A Mother's womb
From Time's winter Eve
Starting anew at 0
Ready to experience Short-comings
By the early age of 5(yet barely Alive)
Young peers are thrown at you
Bullies to pin us down
Mock now
Tease which hurts
It embodies the cruelty
of this Stage all around
Exclaiming that WE are just a Clown
Piss-ants,by the age of 20
Harboring only allusions of Helping the Needy
Instead of serving ourselves
And when 40 is close at hand
You and I are tired and withdrawing
For today and forever
God is just a Friendly three letter voice
Pointing out the fact:
YOU,AS MY 1,243,678,000BORN
DO,INDEED,HAVE A CHOICE
"amen" to that!!
Form:
Bowing to the East,
a sacred obligation,
comforting
and curious forehead down
to kiss this humble ground
of ego's straight supremacy
Including fat white men
buttocks up
and yintegrity open to receive
To imagine Allah's horniest Tao
amid straightest men
together worshiping Earth's political ground
of cultural becoming
Imaging an invisible economic hand
to massage
message
market
sell and buy and rent,
pimp out and plug in
inspire and respire and expire
speak and listen healthy/pathology signs
and root sensory communication systems
dissociated from ****/oral pleasures
and distended
recessive YangProjectile envy
never prayed
For PatriTheist's great dualdark
win/win transeminal figuration
swelling,
then withdrawing paradise,
like breath
and surf
and in/ex-codependent biformation
Climaxing humane/divine's Allahmin Integrity
without straight male overprivileged impatience
and left brain dominant expression,
extending poly-symphonic power and pleasure
beauty light
multiculturing fertility
reflectively withheld from aggressive foreheads
Gone
To receive sacred manly grace
beyond mere mortal
health-wealthing sensory freedom
for capital-raising
praising
saving authentic co-empathic face
Of Divine cooperation
ecopolitically
polytheistically praying
for bountiful
beautiful protruding co-predation
Whole Open SexSystemic fetal
on man's reclining
enveloped in worshiping knees
made for yintegral male/femate
feral
fertile imagination
Five times per homo-sapient day,
whether he needs it
or wants Allah not
non-dualistic pole through hole
through depolarizing whole
neuro-systemic NonZero binomial
nonviolent SafeZones
For root-systemic health
tipping pointed prime chakra
root communication
in SacRed Hearted resilience
Polyculturing wealth
of metaphoric language choice
through humble worshiping grace face
effaced
Front and back proud male bodies
out and in erased
dominantly disgraced
Misplaced sacred temple
resurrection.
A gentle stream flows out of Glenburne pond,
north bound waters feed the Susquehanna.
Meandering highway six eleven,
through Dalton, Factoruville to Tunkhannock.
Timely announcements keep informing us,
"Beware! Alert! The dam may break! Alert!"
From the rising depth of the little pond
surging past a caution to record levels.
Purging water stems the mounting pressure,
then peeks, to purge once more as tension builds.
The bells will toll this night, when all must leave.
The stream rises along it's shallow path.
Widening this too narrow stream basin,
water flows over then through the dam.
Olden wood and part askew, the dam holds.
The creek rises filling up it's channel.
This gentle stream that once bore much new life,
became the shuttle for countless debris.
Not quite a sewer, it carried overflow,
from septic tanks breaching its narrow banks.
At six to seven inches, a boot full,
the normal depth of all Tunkhannok creek.
Many years past since since some have sat and fished,
then, human waste has brought about decay.
Now storms have come and many played this course
but, none have left with quite so muck discourse.
At two and three, it was a sight to see.
When eight to ten, it frightened most brave men.
Twelve feet high it snapped trunks of ancient trees,
willows along these banks flourished for years,
sixty feet tall, thirty wide, out of sight,
unseen, lost, not one tiny leaf remains.
It cleared once gentle banks at fourteen feet.
Eerie sounds produced by water confined
within these walls, now roared forth pouring out.
Chilling bones and bristling wet, matted hair.
Withdrawing with water in my boots,
retreating again when it went knee high.
Then higher to my car, still water rose,
swallowing a new, four high pole fence.
Leaving on muddy roads that follow streams,
forged by the foot of ancient warriors,
hardened by the hoofs of pinto ponies
and the axle wheels of covered wagons.
Two old men. That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away,
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoing former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscuous tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking bone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows, clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestial light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.