Nib Poems

A Real Cup OF Coffee humor

A real cup of coffee feels nice on the tongue 
it has a pleasant mouthfeel and it is warm 
Some think dung coffee lists high on the rung
while others believe it contains fungi-form 

A teenage diary with a fountain pen nib  
quiet often it holds emotions real true 
Melodramatic entries sometimes its a fib  
oh it comes easy when your feeling blue ! 

A serious person has two brows knitted 
thinking about things between the ears 
A stand up comedian often quick witted
peak-brows it as he jokes & draws near.

Popcorn Scatter Gun

Corncob lay basking in the sun 
Sunbathing and having such fun 
But it got so hot
His nib-lets were shot - 
Popping off the flies, when done

after surgery

After the surgery

I was flat on my back and not
allowed to move, an assistant  nurse came to feed me
A stern-looking woman older than the others
soup she fed me; open your mouth wide, she said
I did her, eyes softened, and she became motherly
scolded me gently when spilling soup on the nib
When I didn`t want any more soup, she said I had to
to eat it all
I felt drawn to her as a baby to his mother 
it was a beautiful moment; she tucked me in
I fell asleep.
Then it was morning, I was allowed to sit up and
later stood up. looked out the window, a football pitch
the players’ red and yellow shirts, it looked like mating
ritual, the one who scored the most goals
gets the sexiest girl, that`s ok, but I got to be a baby
and remember it.

Pollinator - May 12

A while ago,—you seemed a fantasy—
and like a fragmentary apparition
or a flutter flitting past my faint cognition
—to my buzzing thoughts: you the rose, I the bee. 

And though my hiving mind, admittedly,
swarmed all around a phony superstition,
(you—o’ flower), yet,—(and, malintution?
aside;)—you roused in me the gayest glee.

Now, you go as a prickle—as the sting
of a hard thorn, each every random while,
and seek to nib my nose, or pique my eye.—
Well, since convention bars my asking “why?”,
I’ll try to win another petal’s smile;
—though, must you be the blossom of my spring?

These words do not belong to me

These words do not belong to me, they are parasites burrowing into the core of my thoughts,
demanding flesh and permanence, as if ink could defy relentless entropy.
They are called prophecies, but I have seen oracles reduced to mere footnotes,
revelations turned to dust, words as a futile rebellion against time.
They infest my hands, winding from wrist to nib,
spilling like an open wound onto the silent and fragile parchment.
Each letter is a small god, whispering lies to me about immortality,
each sentence, an already cracked monument, crumbling in silence.
And yet, I write not out of belief, but from a deeply rooted necessity,
like one carving a gravestone, knowing that the earth will soon swallow it.
I lose myself in the ocean of syllables, seeking salvation among the waves of ink,
whispering to myself that maybe, just maybe, in the betrayal of words lies truth.
Writing is a dance of shadows, a process of planting stars in ephemeral darkness,
where each metaphor is a desperate attempt to embrace the infinite,
in a fleeting moment, for writing is a song we sing silently,
hoping the echo will endure, even when the ink has dried forever.

The Outburst

That tepid tea, civility,
Is not the drink for such as me!
Thou cusp, thou nib, thou pricket, prickle, tang and tine!
Thy wit lacks width to grasp my line!

Your Absence

In-fact
I don’t want
to dwell in your absence

Necessary life is rushing gradually

Silent breaths
draw the mural
of reinstated epic 

No bridge of love but a long-live sigh

The verse of
untold history
evokes the yellow moon

Over the lamplit the eyed ink twinkles 

Thorns or flowers
perfume the bed
of tattered notebook

The luck of infatuation is greater than the dream

Every moment 
the absence 
awakens me to the nib of fallen

Thus poetry never finds a way of life
Nature annihilates the rhythm of the heart


©Mahtab Bangalee/Feb'25

Artificial Ink

There was a feathered quill in Shakespeare's hand
then he dipped the nib of his pen into a bit of ink
That's how poetry was written, verses poetically grand
Today, artificial poets use AI and it's causing a stink

Humans who would do such a thing must be a bit lazy
There can be no accomplishment in calling it their own
It's spreading like a virus, driving genuine poets crazy
An annoyance, giving reason to complain and bemoan

When accusing fingers point, they "deny, deny, deny"
Accepting kudos and congrats from members in the group
It's lowered the value of poetry and things are awry
since AI users post Mr. Robot's technology in the Soup

Shakespeare would be filled with contempt and disdain
"It's a bane to the community and something to bewail
Accepting AI as real poetry is as ridiculous as it is profane!"
That's what he would say, and then, "I have need of ale!"

Flow and Ebb

Flow and Ebb

Nib and Tuck

Never Ending

Cause and Affect

Friend or Foe

pen

nib
a streak
tiny dots
forming my words
pen

The Breakthrough

My fountain pen found its way,
onto the internet,
it was a transformative process,
for both ink and blood.

There were thousands before me,
many talking in a strange language,
of signs, signals, and digital squiggles,
a code I had to break.

The nib of my pen broke
its golden crown.
My fingertip's had to study
how to not blunder,
like a bull elephant
into a wide-open frat house.

Slapping words down
onto this new plastic virtuality
I crashed through,
pages of self-deleting paper,
struggling to compute
the mysteries of 'write' and 'send'.

Daily I had to deal with this,
almost psychotic urge
to shove my thoughts onto
a seemingly infinite white wall,
hoping I was not,

just going to splash stuff on it,
only to run away.

Hard Days Write

I've been working on it.
If I were a nib or stylus I'd be worn away.
Sometimes,
there's too much space to fill with words,
or there's not enough.
I'm digging my way out
of A Marriam-Webster dictionary.
when I surface,
I might be light-headed,
but a lot sharper.

Witching Hour Minstrel Part Two

Whatever happened to the twelve o ‘clock rambler,
nocturnal venturesome brushstroke sort,
they face whirlwind snowfall, freezing ice,
while others brazenly squirm,
not for stoic diarist this threadbare exit,
exodus of the half-hearted humbug,
but ironclad ilk stubbornly remain,
eyes and ears are substitute antennas,
of this genus, genie, genius, glow worm ghost,
peaceful prowlers with pen on queue,
velvet moon worlds sidereal captured,
crescendo of cathartic bonhomie,
icy night frost  punctured by high drive fog horns,
deft nib from dark ink manteau nomad,
who engross themselves in light and shade reflection,
as we balk at the eerie life we revel in,
drama under bridges, shadow figure chinwag,
river stream babble, blind alley gust,
eavesdrop on historic past teaser,
litter swept aural gossip whoosh,
eventide mournful dog bark heart tug,
darting elfin’s sly mind peep thereon,
yet the vagabond minstrel has to comb,
each backstreet, zebra crossing, sprawling  suburb,
for inert sleepy after hour dozers,
who crave eye candy fodder as humdrum sidestep

Pages

"A heart's blood flows like ink on pages of poetry."
                                                            ~ by poet

Pages of verse scream out loud like a child
when their lines are not allowed to run wild.
Abandoned, they cry, completion pending,
waiting for pens to scribble an ending.

Poets fill pages with enchanted dreams.
Some lie all crumpled, without rhyming schemes,
unpublished in tomes as lost reflections,
replaced by so-called 'better selections.'

Poems that purge angst and grief from the heart.
Pangs they felt after being ripped apart.
In ink, tears dripped from the nib of a quill
Pages of anguish poets chose to spill

With desire to scribe, their passion rages
in each line they write 'pon parchment pages

Pens

Pens
for whom to share their writings  
for whom to share their feelings 
for whom to share their thinkings 

Pens 
to which it's a friend more than a foe
to which it could be full or hollow
to which i would love to show 

Pens
from the tube to the nib to the schoolbook
from feathers to fountains to the workbook 
from the store to the bag to the artbook

Pens 
comes In every shape, size and colour
comes and goes in every way or another
comes in handy for a student and a writer

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