One must master the rules
before breaking them -- it is
like that, especially with poetry:
One learns to logically manage
the spaces~ what isn't said, the
pauses and non verbal connective
feels --
The novice often says too much
or is so obliquely obscure that he
or she makes senseless attachment
with others --
Fine fabric of poetry closer
the frayed edges of language, loose
threads of thought we light, to keep
from unraveling. What lasting value,
if any at all, rises in the smoke, is
sustained by memory of the lyrical
flash.
At the mellow edge of dusk where the sky
is opaque and blushed,
a languid fade of light obliquely dreams.
Eyes bruised by loss are made translucent,
a sorrow is captured, a memory mirrored.
There upon the evening’s march,
a Goddess of impermanence and compassion
walks away into the hastening penumbra,
for a while only, she wears a garment
of celestial mortality for visibility.
Soon the unfolding drape of night
will become a little black dress,
one she has woven together
upon a cosmic wheel.
Briefly the deity turns to embrace
those who wait and watch.
A few will reach toward Her,
while their entranced minds
spin and circle over still open graves.
Some will die to themselves
as her astral dress ascends -
most remain to return
to that cyclic forgetfulness,
that masks a lucid revealing
in-between the veils
of dusk and dark.
Opening the door onto your secret,
my heart pounds at the display of old wounds.
Healing achieved by clinging to nothing—
a future only obliquely glimpsed.
My heart pounds at the display of old wounds
where other’s careless words and barbs had pierced.
A future only obliquely glimpsed
through a whiskey bottle nearly empty.
Where other’s careless words and barbs had pierced,
going through life like that makes one anxious.
Through a whiskey bottle nearly empty,
discontent is always triggered by something.
Going through life like that makes one anxious;
healing achieved by clinging to nothing.
Discontent is always triggered by something—
opening the door onto your secret.
It’s all an act, can’t you see?
A pretense of Shakespearean complexity
A mask of so many layers it’s hard to hold
Yet it only gets heavier as this sorry life unfolds
If you really cared then you’d see my eyes
And the bitter pain these beguiling lids disguise
But all it takes to fool your petty mind
Are some superficial words to keep you sweetly blind
As time goes on, the facade takes its toll
Exhaustion insidious as my heart grows cold.
The light fades to an ironic, acrid hue
The last bastion defeated with all hopes of rescue.
So all that’s left is to succumb meekly to this fate
Smothered by self-loathing and the ever-present hate
That twists my life into a snarling parody
Plummeting obliquely into mundane obscurity
So how to find solace in a shell that I despise?
By defiling the innocence this awkward exterior belies.
It’s clichéd I know, but it let’s go
Drink, smoke and ‘til we feel alive!
That smile oblivion reserves for only me
As I surge towards it,
Self-destructing
Happily
We’ve all got to die,
So why should I
Linger for longer
Than is
Necessary?
The Dawn
I have voyaged far, crossed many oceans
I have seen the unseen, the grotesque.
We are cable of, but I have also met kind
people, I never sank into the abyss of cynicism.
I have seen flowers no botanist has, but I keep
it, a secret the nameless will be hidden.
I rejoice, for I have found my modest me
obliquely I was not here nor there confused.
as semi-transparent waiters passing my table
erased me from their memories.
QUINTESSENCE
an absence
of
fervent
intensity
in miniature
with
infinite
equivocation
an ambiance
of impressioned
sensations
a resurgence
of an elide
intermix
apparently
remote
from
abiding concern
obliquely
descended into
a preoccupation
with the sensual
such
eloquent
perfection to
enlighten
the fusion
of continuity
with cohesion
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
The body-personal will be achieving little today.
Today is a too tight T-shirt.
Bloat and insomnia
have measured and found soft round toads
croaking in the swamp of being.
There are squawky
oral articulations in dry joints.
A fate has made its presence known
revealing pre-set mousetraps
strewn upon the path of well laid plans;
it warns obliquely of dentures mechanically
nibbling on stale cheese.
Knowing the hours will belch
and empty-out air that could have
breathed new life into words,
Perceiving that chattering mind-children
will cross the distracted mind
without a crossing guard,
be bowled over, squashed, spread
over neural highways,
their scant electric membranes
dissolving and denuded
leaving a sticky residue
over the body personal...
then that body
must retire and regroup
into a proto-cognizance,
a glow of phosphorescence
too primal to be snared,
yet able to predict
when it can get out of itself -
hopefully.
The canvas is bare
Potentialities abound
There is a moment of inspiration
Something, perhaps profound
A vision, an image
A thought in the mind
A 16th century renaissance landscape
An abstract painting obliquely devine
Rich deep colors
Brush strokes placed perfectly
The master creator
The work, a pleasure to see
The view is spectacularly tragic
Its subjective in our mind
It speaks to our knowledge; our experiences
Of a world we seek desperately to define
The past creates the images
That painter captures with every stroke
An image begins to emerge
We feel excited, or absolutely broke
The canvas is bare
The art is the life we choose
So, live life like theres no tomorrow
A beautiful masterpiece comes to view
Life, they say has no meaning,
If all that we live for is an illusion.
If you don’t see my efforts,
Then why do I try it anyway?
Why give my best,
If my best is not going to get me anywhere?
It was just like yesterday;
When you and I were kids alone,
Now that you are fully grown;
You don’t even want to say “hey”,
So you are full-fledged;
You don’t want to look at my face,
Remember when in the rain we were drenched,
Because you couldn’t keep up to my pace?
As a friend I waited;
As a brother I held your hand tight,
You and I were face to face,
But we couldn’t see eye to eye,
We were obliquely opposite like fire and ice,
Cos you couldn’t value the portrait we painted,
It was about you and me;
It was about friendship.
An almost April falls as if the season
were feeble and elderly already.
It is a Pavan for a dying princess;
see how she is laid upon the yellowing grass
her beauty reflected like icy droplets on Spring stems.
Do you hear the sad music?
Even death has its music,
even the smallest of germs
even the invisible footprints
of a killer virus have a sad music.
We are troubled, for the days look in vain
for a new tune to sing.
When April is in her bright green flood
perhaps the Princess will revive
with fresh blooms in her flaxen hair,
maybe this sad Pavan will learn to dance again?
~~~~~
The title of this poem is taken from a 16th Century English composers work.
The Princess allusions references obliquely a work by the composer Ravel.
A ‘Pavan’ is a slow, stately court dance of the 1500s and 1600s, usually in duple meter.
~~
Evoking sullen quests of a lonesome mind
She stepped outside under the starry skies
Only to find, one more time, no one replied
It was a vibrant sky celebrating moonlight
Wanting no part of her gloomy trespass
Jolting her entrance in thunderous clouds
Being self absorbed within grim thoughts
She rewrote the vows engraved in hearts
Ignoring sensuous past that longingly recalls
Refusing feelings that once she cherished
Courting indignation of a senseless voice
Asserting obliquely, she made her choice
Unwilling to acknowledge her cries forlorn
Silence she heard was the galactic response
Rejecting her plea to renegotiate what was
May 10, 2019
HM: Strand select M contest by Brian Strand
And I will say into the end
Farewell, don't promise love forever
I'm going mad or I ascend
to madness in its highest level.
How did you feel? - You had a deal
with ruin, but it's not about it.
How did you feel? - You had to kill,
You killed so clumsily; I don't doubt it.
Oh, cruelty of the miss, there's no
forgiveness for you, body's living,
it walks, it sees the light, what for?
My body's empty and it's grieving.
My temple thinks, and thought surrounds:
my hands are fallen, there's no motion,
obliquely flock of smells and sounds
just go away without emotion.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Bella Akhmadulina, 1960.
Taking my place in your gazing blue eyes
Who stole the glow of my dawning sunrise?
As defiling your virtues you obliquely lied,
Pounding my heart till I died a little inside.
When a brilliant sunny day said goodbye
As lightening arrived to thunder blue sky
Storming my life, you left me teary eyed
Exacting high price by forfeiting my pride.
Reluctantly I disclaimed your sweet smile
As your blatant animosity put me in exile
And adulating ill-will you ceded to hate,
Trampling on destiny you altered my fate.
On my horizon cried your reign of disdain
As you rejected goodwill again and again.
Remnants of aspirations no longer claim
A desire of passions to reignite our flame.
Meaning of love soon indelibly changed
Revoking your name from souls estranged.
Hurt still remained, woefully pacified--
Lingering listlessly, till I died a little inside.
February 9, 2019
Placed first:Early March 2019 contest by Brian Strand
Placed second:I died a little inside contest by Silent One
THE power of my lost mind binds my tongue
between paper and pen obliquely bleeding
i leave it there.
esophageal --> the blue (my) heart
beneath sun setting pinks drowning squamously
and the gulls within their famous white regalia
0--oh!~ the magical patois across the
battered waves o'er the seas!
:: 05-17-2018 ::
Shift Change
another day slides
obliquely into dusk
clouds yawning
in a graying pall
darkness peeks
from beneath
a sulfurous moon
eyeing its fleeing prey
©1/18/2018
submitted to MIDDLE JAN STANDARD CONTEST
sponsor – Brian Stand
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