Strange voices and images often visit
my sleepless nights,and in
days too-without light-
to incite my sensuous pleasure,
but they speak naive tunes-
I, being a literary-blind
set forth my reason
for the newly vocal and graphic trends and to pensome odd emblems.
They say Homer did write eloquently
and Iliad was a masterpiece…
O, but I’ve seen
more Afflictions in recent times and Helen’s Troy is just a middling rhyme.
And If you take away from me
this harsh helplessness
that sicken my Art,
then you will see my words
danc a tango
on the harvest’s wind.
The mind of a Man is prolific
but if your words are snooped
and vision is deterred, then you must encrypt your thoughts
and immerse your Art
in a land
where only love lasts.
what ail thee?
oh grieve not, days die
when the nights fall, and
no form of love is perfect
or wrong. Let’s love
no matter how many skies
may fall, or winds get stormed.
Listen, darkness is playing
a song of the instincts,
let’s not make our night
full of regrets. XK
”There is the view that POETRY should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.”
An old man’s saga
when twilight falls
and dyes the sky
with stygian view, and turns
the blue and white
into an orange hue;
till the darkness declares,
the night’s feasts and fears.
(surely a teasing play of Nature,
where all feelings and fears of man
are figured like in a theatre)
This often travels me back in time,
when we used to sit or thrashing around
(in such state of frenzy)
sweetly we hymned
some loving rhymes.
and the licking breeze, gently caressing your reddened cheeks)
But don’t know how and when,
we got our hearts
cracked and coiled;
and had masked our smiles.
(who cut that string and
let our passion spoiled)
all those revelries had gone
that proved our flirting wrong,
(in these yawning hours,
sitting alone by the fire
and staring at the dying embers)
i find myself, only talk to myself,
and i wish
to resurrect the past
and wed again (my heart insane)
to those mirthful sights and strains…
(what else an old man can do
on such cold, misty eve)
nothing but echoes the past.
Sweet as Homeric rhymes
she was, but had a life not sublime,
far away from vanity
and as sacred as the Trinity.
Dwelled in a harsh countryside
belonged to a barbaric tribe;
she was like a wild rose, but
was deprived from her sweet repose.
” What ail thee O! Fairy Queen?
such woes and pain i had never seen”,
upon my plaintive query
she unfold this story:
” since got conscious, was
Immersed into this life noxious;
Ah never had a second of any sweet willing,
but always been threatened of honor-killing.’
‘Neither joy nor certitude, I had
but been blessed with demeanour bad. ”
In sobs and sighs,many a time
She had versed her past in melancholic rhymes.”
Alone like a polar star, and
helpless too,to wage another
Trojan war, and her wild bright eyes,
Make my dreams full of cries.
According to Jefferson Carter – American poet and critique-
” line-breaks or using plain language doesn’t guarantee a good free verse poem. it should reflect some fresh imagery,diction and unique snytx:
Only a good play of words makes a poem interesting.
A reverie happened last night… when
i met the mythical Muse.
what poetry is or what it should or should not be.
Glad to see you Kan, at least someone remembered the heavenly Muses.
a symphony in the solemn temples,
or a painting of Angilo and Vinci-
that’s felt where
feelings sweetly express in metres,
and inspires souls and culture.
it surely veils in beauty,
begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
But what about the new(contemporary) one,
as many of my DEARS love it,
Ah! its nothing but volleys of non sense, a chaos of FORM. that
sparks annoyance among heavenly muses.
this is no art but
a swings of
slangs and unusual phrases,
in a tortured ,fractured tone.
(like to play Beethoven in hip hop songs)
And its rhymes defies
all the poetic trade,hard to wade and
full of scorns.
again my ignorance revolt:
but we have some great good minds,
who created some fabulous rhymes
Never mention them please…
their ART is abhorrence to the mind,
with flippant rhymes,
And how daringly they fashioned it as a
And deems themselves as sages.
u mean writing poetry is discovering
the conflict with ourselves
an echo, a rhythm, make nature
to dance as well.
yes, and Yours…ah!
nothing but a ‘gore’ hosting scuzz.
And buzz of bees;
snarky and fusty.