Unshaped Poems

Lotus Spins

A sitting takes me to an attic of raw light
bestowing  quiet glow for travelers
unyielding to a precise compass
of direction, a spaceless space nourished as it
were, losing the self to Bodhi-like clouds
and nomadic lotus spins.
 I release this soul buried 
in the kundalini to a congregation 
of ambient tunes saying nothing,
taking flight unto a hymn of
unknown center , balanced
and steadily grounded--
no more weight or cities divided
united by forms of  one core,

My malleable flesh dissolving into tiny
breaths; it  floats with  grace 
ascending the next chi
as I go deep, deeper..high, higher
until this my body- mind- spirit marries
in a ceremony of quietude,
the airiness of journeying
through this unshaped season 
fed by something
unbidden in my life so blessed:

I step outside my body, somewhere,
without a trace that lightbeams 
expand my journey to higher dimension 

searching for a mantra of stars....

modern

I used to be blind, how could I not see,
So many shapes around me, changing endlessly.
How beautiful the stars in the sky’s embrace,
The moon swaying gently on its swinging trace.

We don’t understand the speed as it flies,
Engrossed in our daily lives, we don’t realize.
We fail to notice the world turning around,
Like an unshaped jar, without a sound.

We have white ice, while on the other side, flowers bloom,
For life, everyone fights, for hope they resume.
The march of time spins like a spinning thread,
It’s hard to keep up, with the future ahead.

Art and knowledge give much to mankind,
But the ignorant live in their homes confined.
The traveler left behind in the march of the crowd,
Holds a grudge against those who’ve moved ahead.

Those who lag behind are seen as worn and weak,
Those who outpace others, from the rest they sneak.
The best place to be is right in the middle,
For civilization reaches, its hands to the sun’s glitter.

DOGGEDNESS

Unshaped by parental care,
He rose, a phoenix, beyond compare.
Life's struggles molded him with might,
Resolute, he faced each endless night.

Education's flame burned bright and true,
His passion, a beacon, shining through.
Menial jobs couldn't dim his stride,
Determination drove him, side by side.

Sugar Boy, a graduate, proud, with degree in hand,
His struggles faded, like shifting sand.
Employment beckoned, a new dawn broke,
His future bright, no longer bespoke.

Love arrived, "My Dear" from Adeboye's line,
A skilled gem, naturally divine.
Together they stood, a unified force,
"The Sugar" boy, with a loving course.

With harmony, their bond took flight,
Blessed with children, shining light.
"My Dear" explored the world's vast stage,
The UK, and beyond, their footsteps engage.

Now the world lies at their feet,
A testament to love's sweet treat.
Their journey, a tale of trials and might,
A shining story, in morning light.

On the floor of the future, she twirls, dancing through the boundless

On the floor of the future, she twirls, dancing through the boundless,
In contemporary moments, still unshaped,
She carves her path through the fullness of time,
Until it becomes one with her present.
An ethereal dance, spiraling into destiny,
Moments merge, battling with eternity,
Each movement, a step into the unknown,
A leap among stars, constellations of unmade memories.
Now she says she owns moments, not hours,
In the symphony of time, she is both composer and conductor,
Seconds are notes on the infinite staff,
A journey through the corridors of an open mind.
Each petal a possibility, an allegory,
A story without beginning and without end,
Her existence woven with threads of light and shadow,
A labyrinth of thoughts flowing through the fluid present.
Time is not a wall, but a vast ocean,
Where she swims freely, defying gravity,
A soul singing its ballad under the changing sky,
Her moments measured not by clocks, but by the heart.
The deep breaths of the universe,
Heard through every whisper, every rustle,
A magical melancholic poem, an ode to undefeated life,
The river winding, seeking the endless sea.

The Sublime in Poetry

Just past 
where the world of the atom ends
there are spaces that we try to fill
or pretend they don't exist.
Hollows that harbor silence 
or an unshaped need, 
the imprint of something 
the mind can't conceive.

Music makes its way there
and knocks on the door,
takes its seat to hear
the sublime and capture
in glorious notes
what can't be said
in words. The chords
of creation sound
in the chambers of the ear.

Poetry goes there 
with its clumsy feet, trying
to fit the formless into a cage,
give beauty a face,
fumbling to shape shadows 
into three dimensional space.
And yet it is the word 
that brings things into being, 
gives each its sacred name. 
Language the blunt instrument
of the poet's art, 
the poem a sanctum
to house the holy embers
of creations spark.

Across a Field

Across a field,
the tips of tall grass tremble
in the moonlight. There are
silent wings gliding the dark,
soft callings way off in the distance
and occasionally, glowing eyes
seen high in the trees. 

Secrets are kept here
sealed from sight, mysteries, 
a cache of wonders
hidden under a thick silence
fencing off the borderlands between
dream and the oblivion
of sleep.

Here too are desires
still unshaped in their nurseries,
soul shadows rummaging through
old remains, fears, childhood,
the unanswered pleas echoing up
from somewhere, looking
for an opening to get
inside your head.

Sleepless

A raw quiet
stretches like a membrane
across the night.
Pulled tight it waits to amplify
the slightest sound.
Each passing minute dials up
the volume of a nerve
strung to snare
the powdery whispers of a moth
or the faint ticking wheezed
out of an old wristwatch
kept beside the bed.
Others sneak the outskirts,
undeciphered, just out of reach
of being named.

Then in time
thoughts take over
and chatter in an aimless
dialogue of the brain.
The past is replayed
again and again
in regrets or unhealed shame
or bent to shape
itself another way as if
a choice was had
to change what happened
into what should have been.
Or the mind stammers, afraid,
paused on the lip
of what's to come,
a dull dread
of something unshaped
palling over the days ahead,
or plucks some planned event
for it to fill
with imagined pleasure
of what might be.

A distant siren
tunnels the dark
with its urgent wail
then thins to silence.
Unease lingers in its wake
and slowly tightens
until all distills 
to just the sound
of a muffled pulse
beating in the chambers
of an ear.
One day it will stop.

Love Stood Apart

Some yearn for the return of friendlier times,
a time when innocence was valued:
and computers didn't run our lives.
But change is the catalyst for improvement:
and time is the crucible that creates change.
Unlike an unshaped tomorrow;
yesterday was molded into permanence
and, thus, unchangeable.
As memories sweeten with age:
images of youth, retrieved from fond thoughts,
are brought to the forefront of our minds.
Life is a series of memories.
And though they're not always joyful:
they are, nonetheless, welcomed.
Unlike the emotions they evoke,
conflicting feelings feel insignificant.
Yet, how we deal with them
shapes the way we choose to live.
Upon opening our eyes for the first time at birth,
we experienced a world filled with emotions;
like trust, fear, anger, love, and hope.
But love stood apart from the others,
penetrating reality's shadow;
and guiding our hearts toward our souls.

Inspiration

WHITE FLOWERS OF BEAUTY

Within
    the soul of my experience
unconscious seeds
      of tomorrow's joy
waiting 
      the warmth of encouragement

lay dormant
   seeking inspiration's light

words verbs adjectives
     aimless    without form

Times past   times present
              amalgams of verse
unshaped
       'til imagination's birth
 from the spring 
      of my maturity.

repostfrom 2010

Counting Your Absences

Dark night is closer, after your
Callings, callings from the half -seen trees.
Night owls are crying. A smile is 
Ominous dancing in the branches.

Of  slow time, night unfolds
Its  ranges of stories, night’s regular acts.
All dead voices are laying ice cold.
 My  prolix is a wakeup call.

Night’s mysteries are awake with my poem
After a long cold sleep at Tirupati.
Foul smells hard, ghostly.
Time is decaying mundane trash.

One uncouth face conjures up,
Other unshaped faces, wild  dark. 
Only the hooded eyes, a simpleton
Strange sounds of howling. What a loss!

The art is moonshine.
My reason is homeless.
A few seeds have life.
My dead brother is back.

Nobody is awake  at this odd  hour
only a child’s unmasked   hooting.
 Spirits of the dead have a night out
for an appointment with the unknown.

The emperor of words, “Take care.”
No matter, how high you fly in the sky
You rain somewhere beyond a known order. Farmers 
are waiting. Your water carries a bread of hope.

You paint houses with poetic colours.

Dismissed

The unshaped foggy veil on the eyes to the sun today
The morning as if a left corpse covered in white
 
The raindrops could not wet my river, rather it
Flying today to the unknown like the wind

Today the autumnal wind is not blowing on my verandah
It flowing down like the tears on the chin of the heart

Moments are not in the decaying, rather stopped in my heart
And standing like the steel, like the second hand of a watch

I live in the forest of loss at the time of this Covid-19
Dismissed from a job I am confined in a suffocating cage

12.11.2020 Chattogram

Prose Poem the Poetic

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.

Too High To Reach Or Nothing

the heights - too high - can't reach 
the head, the hands over the emptiness 
it stands like the earth pole line - unshaped 
dead all beneath the roots of it 
running - driving - tuning with the stormy winds 
and then losing - and then disappearing 
the heights - too high; none can reach 
but the mind - the imaginative mind -
the confident faith - all in one day will be
Faded glory 


04.08.2020 Chattogram

Illusory Hotchpotch

So many paths
Reflecting on broken mirror of certainty 
Someone asks- who is poetry?
Reply comes- God!
Whining- what is poet?
Mumbling- to know the nothingness!

Original is always pronounced unseen
The vowel is influential with consonant
Consonant carries a shaped with the unshaped 

Who and what is truth?
Neither vowel nor consonant! 
Neither poetry nor poet!
Sliding on so many paths
Wrong and meaningless the truth is
if have nothing in the Shape!
Illusory hotchpotch!


27.07.2020 Chattogram

In the Middle of This Time

I read that poetry will not be quiet, so I am writing my heart without false glibnesss.  But with hope!

One can be a hermit and should be
In the city of black and white,
Groceries are delivered, masks cover faces,
Yonder is a neighbor, hey, 
Out of town children stay there and 
We laughingly say “Thank God for Ma Bell.”
Toenails grow and hair unshaped,
Ordering is not a splurge, nor is to be sanitized.

As for me I have been to my church the last,
No longer to see the carvings to crave and inspire,
No longer to hear the music live,
For in the meantime, church is on the lawn,
In the meantime, too, I am too old to praise on the grass.
Little children miss their eggs and little parties we  knew
And electronics with pretty heads speak for us, 
“Speak cheer, the bad won’t last. ’The innocent world will return.”
Someday.

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