I am 1,248 songs of complicated rhythm. Prose and verses tell a story of my decisions…my indecision. I am skin shaped, in 42 different shades of foolery, a life lover doing my best to avoid an other, but they seem to be everywhere these days. Crawling out from under rocks, or latent in my twisted fantasies. I think I may be terminal with delusional romantacy. A proverbial symphony strung together with sinew and longing. Discordant chords bending into melody when I blink too long or laugh too hard at the wrong moment.
I can admit, I have been the composer of songs that I was never meant to play. Still, I finger at the keys, an untuned melody stretched thin across the vastness of possibility, a quiet rebellion whispered in 3am silences, telling truths I didn’t ask to know, but I can’t help but pick up on the tone. I am every note you thought I missed, the calloused fingertips of my mistakes, still strumming, still singing. Harmony may elude me, but the melody is mine to claim. Yes, I am 1,248 songs of messy humanity, and I’ll rewrite the chorus as many times as it takes to finally hear it in my own voice.
There is music in the silence, in the rest of unheard notes. That is where I hold my breath. Where the universe spins out its code for me to read. I watch as the unfallen sky reveals her mystery. Language unfolds in choreography, dancing between each blink of intention.
But I have questions
If time is not real, then what are we?
Poison and the cure, she screams at crashing volumes. No one sees.
I lay in the soporific sequel, turning over in the concavity of restlessness. Trials of the past collide with warm static forming variations of need. They are all tied to strings. She strums them with shades of night. The unfallen sky weeps. No one is listening.
Stress cannibalizes stones hungry for frailty but each is weighted in expectation. High caloric bites of the unknown. Bitter tones of perceived reality. The answer is in everything we devour. In the stillness of cognition yet all we do is eat.
The mother feeds
The mother weeps
Begging for her witness
As they all sleep soundly in her suffering
A prose poem based on Copotronic love (Scifie)
by Tamanna Ferdous
One day, I was all prepared to test him about his IQ.
After testing him with different questions in general knowledge,
I read him from an antique Bengali poet, Jibanananda Das.
"The resting place placed the restful here
Never certain if the restful is resting here, though.”
Then I asked his opinion about these two lines.
He informed me," A humane quotation with an outlier in deeper introspection."
When he was showed an art piece of Paul Gaugin,
of a polynatian girl,
he tried to perceive the art from different angles and then said,
“A deformed body had a strange reason to occupy the usage of all the colors
used otherwise irregularly.”
The valuation of paul gauguin and the remark,
it was too difficult to control a wild laughter.
After a while I stopped my loud amusement and asked him.
What was I doing?”
“You were laughing.”
“What is laughing?”
“A physical procedure devoid of meaningfulness.”
“Please try to laugh!”
He followed up with a mechanical noisy aptitude, sensible.
Prometheus, he was a machine!
the week passes
miles counted
numbers turn
as I drive
fields of gold
my reflections
of beauty
my dreams
tires sing
on a county road
memories reclaimed
with my favorite songs
the landscape shimmers
as the moon ghosts the sky
in the slant of light
perceived
in the slant of light
the moon ghosts the sky
the landscape shimmers
with my favorite songs
memories reclaimed
on a county road
tires sing
my dreams
of beauty
my reflections
fields of gold
as I drive
numbers turn
miles counted
the week passes
Reality dawns in my mind,a thrread that runs through reason,a repository and reference point in imagination’s flight. Seeing what’s there to see,that single tree in the forest of my mind’s eye.This defining moment where innerfeelings fly free.Seeing things as they really are,sharing the intimate every ready to explore the pathos of things with a blaze of words and wordless lines.Who will deliver me from this lonely path,talking to the poetic deaf.I write to please myself,to corner a niche or an accolade,fly free of this daily toil a loud voice within the clamour of the crowd.T’was ever thus
the unconscious a source of images&action in disguise& gesture with slips of tongue interpreted with simile& metaphor of libidinal desire listening to the unsound made loud out of view of id&ego impulses exposed as universal symbols in the repository of memory by the fiction of dream&myth transitioned into the realm of reality
A birthing moment from the fog that surround,blissful,momentary experiences from a higher radiance, caught,captured and considered. This power to inspire never ceases, breathes in the minutiae of life,where we may be trapped.All or nothing or not at all.This perceptive observation,the now immediacy of wordless lines can recapture the moments of love or suffering and imprint our page to become an epitaph,a footnote in history as we allow faith to inform our work.
Thoughts over and done with we see,touch think and feel that which always is may spring forth as stark silhouettes against the sky,unveiled our words then evaporate upon the wind unremembered ,forgotten, lasting retrospectives awaiting,waiting another tomorrow
The imaginary musings of my mind, experience past & present lingers long,dusted off, re-opened,viewed from time to time, retrospective perspective changes all; maturity's long-sightedness squints aghast, then savours the mellowness of memory; a tear,a smile washes nostalgia's face.Today will be yesterday, gathering dust.
No holding back,keep on keeping on before the well runs dry.a persistence to say something I feel is right. Inclinations and ideals that meet in perfect harmony, form 7 inner sounds.Pulled up from what is above and contemplate the landscape of my imagination,to show but not tell.Then stimulate the underlying unsaid enigma, this poignant pause, spontaneous and satisfying reveals the beauty of our whole being.Having lit our dreams,this solitary approach ,the freedom to be alone enhances talent, allows free expression of temperament
Everything in its season,concentrated and alive stray objects ripple across the view and solitary imagination is its scale.Recollections of things past,so apposite for self-expression sieved to retain the essentials.Exaggeration modified, ignorance contemplated and constrained. Atmospheres of yesterday translated loom & sound so, unique as a snowflake to speak to the ear.Our inner make-up exposed as poetry in pictures,hearing colours,a synthesis of myriad detail &circumstance.With uniquely added value we browse here & there outside our comfort zone where timing is all.making a mark on eternity
Words,verbs,adjectives,aimless,past times made present, amalgams of verse unshaped,until imagination's birth bursts from the spring of my maturity to awake,arise as ideas and fly free on imagination's unfettered wings ,blown to and fro to settle where they will with nowhere to hide, buried deep within long forgotten dreams until becoming clear ,as words floating like petals on a stream;a fragrance that lingers within, as a passage of light to my soul, inspiration to make me whole.. delineated as a pattern of thought ,a ribbon of inspiration as a verse.
Suh tumultuous discussions within ,these images strive for life just as a new-born wriggles from the womb. I merely provide the mute, as multiplied, thoughts trained by the subconscious becomes a workaday drama.The inner made outer.Inherent originality conceived,perceived,crystallised, beneath the now ..in relief.
Shafts of light pierce the gloom inspiration speak Those pictures in the mind paint my private space A well within-images, in the mind dreams and visions and things not known. in visualised expression rivers,rivers stream from my mind spring forth images,to find Within the soul of my experience Unconscious seeds of tomorrow's joy, waiting the warmth of encouragement lay dormant, seeking inspiration's light From this confusion, the mosaic of ideas harmonizes, First an outline,then in silhouette,each unique line,a perceptible signature, and more personal than diary.This spontaneity releases the extrovert squeezed out as rain in an arid world Artistic inspiration paints itself., .A confusion then evolves into the particular scattered here and there,colours everywhere. succinct,complete of itself, never to be reproduced it stays unique,of me,for all to see
image alights as a butterfly in spring,a thought arrives as inspiration on the wing.An idea resides to crystallize and brings each together as one berthing the simultaneous visions,mutli-layered innovative coherence unresolved turns a spark from the tinder of imagination into a flame..a flame that gathers up experience burnishes and refines a nugget of emotion into an image, then crystallize in the seeing eye bursts of creativity...short-lived...a crafting of sensibilities ....incarnate .A now moment,instantaneous, alive .
What intimacy is its cause,perhaps an immaculate conception of words;too swift to comprehend,see or recognise.The moment is there and then is not.Gone with the wind the seed of idea remains, to germinate and gestate,fanned by a mental fragrance of elation.Slow,self-transcending a word into a phrase, a sentence to a strophe;a rhyme rides a waterfall of cadence,into a chasm of verse. Terse or long, the sonnet becomes a little song,struggles to arrive.Thrust forth upon my page;a bastard-born of pain in the realm of the mind,replete with thoughts inspiration thrives,discerns over- spills,to reveal then configure and emerge:a fragrance to dwell,stay and perhaps haunt another
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