Namelessness Poems | Examples


Premium Member Nameless

More than an anonymous, I find me faceless.
Fallen prey to the predators of world concerns
Life has gone baseless, and my face has gone graceless.
Owing to the inner blaze, there are facial burns.
 
The physical crowd that is seen may not matter.
Crowds of thorny bushes within seem to pierce me.
Drizzles of restlessness, often pitter-patter
Whims and fancies seem to be just an untrue glee.
 
Like bubbles that shine and go, or like the rainbow
Existence seems tentative. Why care for a name?
Leaving this mundane earth when one happens to go
Does he or she carry his or her well-earned fame?
 
May namelessness, herein, not be my worry.
It's towards eternity; I'm in a hurry...
Form: Sonnet

A Mother Writes a Letter To An Unwanted Child

There is regret,
shelved torn fingernail.
You were smuggled away,
bound to an older bosom.

I needed to quickly name you.
The name I gave was flimsy.
You disappeared inside my eyes.
It all seems worse than wrong now.

I gave them your drowned face,
they breathed new air into it.
Dressed you to forget.

I can only see phantom clumps of you,
shreds flying in the wind
a transparent stranger.
I cannot now speak to your
namelessness.
All has gone quiet inside me.

I have been sewing tight a womb
made of long-evening shadows.
I feel less flesh confined, more porous
to the residual flavor of you.


A Stone On the Bed of a River

Sometimes I feel like a stone on the bed of a fast-flowing mountain river: namelessness, immobility, contemplation;

nor past nor future
instantaneous rapid 
stream of illusions
Form: Haibun

Man In Distress

" Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key"


Where is this world of ours headed for
Can’t it see a lone man gasping for breath
What does it mean to bear a famous name
Can it stand the namelessness among unknown men
A passenger taken ill and an unmoving crew
A hale and hearty youth who wouldn’t fetch a car
The hospital of the poorest he reaches at last
No light shines there except the match stick
So it can go out,  as he steps in at night
So those who want not to see mercifully can’t
The candle that comes late is fighting the night
For a man with the splendour that laughs at all light.



Contest: A fragment of life  
Sponsor: Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet
By: S.Jagathsimhan Nair,  24 aug 11

Entry for PD's darkest poem contest on 22 feb 13

Trees Breath Darkness

The song was blended in the air with an unknown smell. We were separated by tress of unknown shadow, 
of unknown darkness. That darkness was dancing in your attire, encircling those dashed lines that  made 
you believable, something real. You didn't know that darkness was nothing but the breathing of trees. We 
were lost in the dark, reptile shadows. I didn't want you to feel the song as the sound of my soul, which 
rustles in a river of anonymity, namelessness. I didn't want you to smell the song as the smell of my 
being, the smell that it found from the clothes hung in the sun on our backyard. My being had a color that 
I lent from the flood of snakes erupted in our home.  Each snake had a strange color that I never had seen 
before. My self was soaked by those colors, like the self of Kabir* who used to sing, color me by you. I 
wanted you to touch that color, to breath it. But you, lost in the trees, didn't even notice me. 
Although I can remember your eyes, gleaning in the dark
Like a long forgotten coin that I lost in the fair of Shindurmoti**.


*Indian spiritual folklore poet.
** A annual fair in a village of Bangladesh.


Peace Afterwards

Was it a summer storm of sexuality?
Only the chaste statue stood in threads,
and then went down the cuticle
with nipple rings.
The demand of namelessness was rising

in the dim shadows of brisk tones.
To step down from sanity, a clown
was ready to become a hunchback.
Inserting the name of cupid in the missing years
the theme will encircle the house.

First conceived as a rose, its petals
are covering your cleavage
and our poor kids are slaughtered without
a surveyor. Do not read between the blood streams,
the solf face has become a bomber.

Of eternal rage, colours are moving
from red to gray. Ash was filling the empty bottles.		



SATISH VERMA

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