Fractured shards of grief
collide,
Chromatic tears of sorrow
fall.
Vibrant pain refuses to hide,
A kaleidoscopic, mourning
wall.
Splintered hope refracts the
light,
Geometric sadness fills the
night.
CHROMATIC AGONY
An iridescent ache blooms
deep within the heart,
As iridescent sorrow swirls
and offers no rest.
The mind fractures into a
thousand jagged planes,
Each reflecting a different
shade of bitter pains.
Prismatic desolation spins in
a dazzling wheel,
Making the heavy weight of
anguish feel unreal.
THE SPLINTERED SOUL
A kaleidoscope of silent,
weeping hues,
Blending the deepest blacks
with melancholic blues.
Beautiful catastrophe dances
in the dark,
Leaving upon the fragile soul
a burning mark.
Yet in this swirling tempest of
emotional grief,
The brilliant colors offer a
strange, sharp relief.
Poetry paints prismatic word-pictures
A cubist painting programmed in plain air
Poetry and painting prize pure features,
For centuries, art crafted with grand care
Let us journey to juxtapose the two
Both attract the primeval painters' flair
With colours in rich red, yellow, and blue
Words sketching with wise theatrical care.
Try to catch and caress the words you see
Draw sights and sounds into your fractal soul
Organic lines jotted down joyously
As fractal forms that fill Metatron's scroll
Golden spirals smeared in an author's room
Are geometry's homage on a loom.
sunshine on warm september mornings
autumn eases in quiet and on tiptoes
love in many splendoured colours
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
“The Prismatic Self"
As I lay in my bed trying to figure out what to write
My mind goes blank and my creativity is way out of sight
The need to write the perfect poem and rhyme
Keeps me from getting anything done, until I have run out of time
“Why can’t I just write like I would any other day?”
Because the thought of the contest continues to lead me astray
My mind can’t stay focused on the task at hand
So I start to do other things that were not planned
Eventually I start to get into the mood
Then I get hungry, so I get up to eat some food
The reason I go through this process each time I write
Is because It feels really good when a spark of creativity takes flight
I always finish what I started, even if it takes a while
The stress and inner turmoil is worth it, if I can make someone smile
So if you were to ask me why I write and embrace the stress
I would have to say it’s because of the people I may impress
So now as I lay in my bed trying to figure out what to write
The mirror in my mind stays at ease knowing that the end is in sight
I may repeat the horrific steps all over again
But my creativity is a stage and I hold the pen.
The sparring mind requires a venue fit
for wide ambition’s pointed blade—the craze
of poignant poetry’s unbridled wit.—
Masked)by the wily writer’s wire-meshed gaze,
the soul unleashes on the stage of writ
a flurry of pen strokes, a wanton blaze
of mangled meanings, aiming now to split—
—to split the atmosphere in half…for praise!
Ah—perhaps, in this contest of our wills,
I do not joust against “you”,—just with “I“;
so the looming question mark lurks near: “Why?”
Simply for the thrills! merely for the frills?
Thus, muses Nietzsche, the great unveiler,
“Bist du echt? oder nur ein Schauspieler?…”
Caressing the floral frame, I see reflecting in my eyes
A question of perspective, of purpose, of the prize.
Am I looking to gain favour? Do I desire to impress?
Is my motive to spread joy with the topics I address?
It's true. I would be lying to say that in my heart
The virtual trophy doesn't matter, what does is taking part.
After all, I too am human and it disappoints me so
When my little contribution fails to give a glow...
A flash in the reflection, like a light bulb thought
The reason why my ink reveals things I've been taught...
To be a source of inspiration is no sinful desire.
Ego is essential for us each to build our fire.
Our works are so much more than a hobby to pass time.
We can offer comfort. It could be someone's lifeline.
If we encourage others to find the strength to face the rain,
Generate positivity, then our efforts aren't in vain.
What you see is what you get with my little rhymes.
My poems don't require you to read between the lines.
For the first time, I can smile at the reflection I can see.
I'm authentic. I am real. My poetry is me!
In the hall of mirrors, I lose my face
A maze of reflections, each one a different shade
Of truth and lies, of light and darkest space
I search for the real me, but it's hard to stay
The judges' voices whisper, "Not enough"
A litany of doubt, a choir of rough
Hands that shape and mold, yet can't define
The contours of my soul, the lines that make me mine
I write to be seen, to be heard, to be known
Yet in the arena of words, I'm overthrown
By fears and doubts that masquerade as facts
And the masks I wear, a dizzying array of acts
But still I pen these words, a self-portrait in shards
A synesthesia of pain, a colorless hum of doubts
That echoes through my mind, a haunting melody
A reminder of the self-fracture that I can't define
And when the verdict comes, will I be brave?
Will I don the cloak of validation, or the shroud of shame?
The answer lies within, in the prismatic self
A kaleidoscope of contradictions, a messy, beautiful wealth
'I think, therefore I am!'
I write to bang and clang,
to play with words, cast spells.
Wrangle and entangle readers,
with thoughts dredged from memories,
resonating, reverberating within selves,
aligned on shelves, waiting to join in.
An audience of thinkers shaken not stirred,
by the clang and jar of poetic,
rhythms, rhymes, images and ideas.
Rendered with razzmatazz and syncopation,
in the written words rendered,
improvised, and concocted in a group session.
On a stage, on a page,
of prismatic selves,
jamming and jarring,
banging and clanging,
jangling with Mr Joe,
in worn out shoes.
Afraid,
that no one is listening, or
that no one,
really, truly, bluesy cares?
"Poetry is important to the writer but I feel it is all about the reader."
By Poet
Today as I open up my computer what will I see,
a contest looking back at me?
As I read the rules I must decide is this one for me,
or will it haunt me if I turn it away?
No mask needed to read the many rules,
I am only writing when the words flood my creativity.
My ego must sit upon a shelf watching,
but not a word to be whispered or said.
Win or lose I have tried my very best,
not knowing what the judge is looking for.
My purpose is to first write for my readers,
only when they love my writings do I feel I am a winner.
I keep returning to the contest page over and over,
in hopes to learn how to become a better writer.
Poetry is the language of a human poet’s heart,
mind and soul writing away.
“let’s ink the void with soul’s emote ~
at peace within in God’s bliss boat”
~ quote by poet
In heaven’s womb, during deep sleep,
soul poised for a consciousness leap,
shallow breath synced with God’s heartbeat,
we fearlessly swim in the deep.
Come the morn our heart is upbeat,
enlivened by magnetic heat,
being benedictions of grace,
stardust collected from God’s feet.
Staid stillness determines our pace,
mood and mode release and embrace,
mirroring the light of our soul,
which illumines vastness of space.
Love in love with love has no goal,
save by melding making hearts whole,
which then is the cause why we write,
fulfilling thus our ordained role.
To portray spiritual sight,
as words dancing in black and white,
penning a melodious verse,
needs no less than spherical sight.
There’s no cause for us to rehearse,
soft musings of the universe,
felt by heart, translated by mind,
for the better or for the worse.
With vibrations of God aligned,
we are led by scent of love blind,
an outpost to fulfil His will,
hoping soul’s light each of us find.
Okay then, I’ll admit it. Yes, I’m lazy.
Not quite the hardest worker ever known.
My talent is a Motorola phone:
to drink the colour of a mountain daisy
or taste a mirror (doesn’t that sound crazy?)
I need to keep it charged: I have to hone
those Pasolini “pentals” of my own
(“that’s mental petals”, says the Bolognese).
I enter things without the least compunction:
no sooner enter, than believe I’ve won:
no sooner win (excruciating pun)
Narcissus-like, than find the photo-function
to say that, on reflection, it was fun:
like playing chicken at a railroad junction.
Voices have a color
like anger or happiness,
shouting from the rainbow
in palettes of sound
Voices have a color
like red, blue, or green,
painting the silence
—in brushstrokes of fire
(Dreamsleep: June, 2021)
Delineation
By symbolisation
As the uttered word
Finds all hearts stirred
By the power of vibration
Coloured by their interpretation
As of purity of their being
In resonation feeling
Marked by intent
With will bent
In surrender
In wonder
Co-creating
By experiencing
Stirrings in the heart
Wherein cognition starts
Anew at each given moment
Heightened by stillness quotient
12-October-2020
this sun
is illusive
like mind
in thoughts
of you
and love
i stand naked
beneath unborn
memories
shadowless
alone
clouds above
aglow
in prismatic
tears
waiting
to give birth
to this emptiness
that swells
in my eyes
Donna's prismatic eyes
Suspended midair
More eyes, many visions
Overlap like dubious codfish
staring at the hollow pennycress
Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty 2014
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