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T O P I C R E V I E Wtaureau20Some of my poetry books - (rest are flying out the window) poem 1:some people, they do a lot of skin shedding, or pencil sharpening,or what goes by menstrual poetics – as though the writing of poetryitself were a biological function like eating or brushing your teeth –unfelt, unthought, routine like cutting finger nails. dickinson, i feel,is an example. i can see her in my mind: washing her hands, dryingthem with a white towel, then sitting on her desk to pick up a penand write. when I was small there used to come every saturday toour house – as in the lane where our house stood – a certain type ofbeggar called as ‘Shani Maharaj’;grandmother would ask me to see my face in the little jug of oil ‘ShaniMaharaj’ was carrying and, saying a prayer, put a one rupee coin in it.by doing so, one can supposedly part with his pain. well that was thatand now it is today and here i am in the middle of the night, scratchingthe bark of a tree which reveals nothing but families of ants in its folds. poem 2:so yeah, it is essential that there be a window that looks out to the street if one is living a solitary life, cut away from society, friends, etc. a window to while away time by leaning your self on the sill to see what the next person is doing. on that I am totally with Kafka. say, have you seen those petroglyphs in the caves of Edakkal? they haven’t been able to make any head or tail of what all those carvings on the back of rocks mean, have they?taureau20if you must knowif you must really knowi am not awareof these wordsskimmingon this white floori am not awareof this dancingdoori am not awareof mei am not awareof this womanin frontof me i am not awarei am herei am not awareof anythingexcept this grating soundsomewherei am not awarenoi am nottaureau20sorry, don't wanna show taureau20sorry, don't wanna show taureau20sorry, don't wanna show Cancer/Scorpio729Tagore, Hughes, Kafka, I think we'll get along just fine And lovely poems Heart--Shaped CrossTagore is one of those artists whose work seems to have been plucked from the earth, like the grass. There are images so simple, so seemingly obvious, one cannot imagine they have not been conceived before. And he keeps going. Prolific, like the grass.I think Kafka's books were written by a machine.Your poetry is astounding, to me. Especially that first one.Can I share one of mine?Smittenso now i am smittenlove-swollenclinically insanedropped into a second world created by youstunned and sun-burntsacreddisorientedmeditating on your presence in my lifetasting your nameyour graceall that happens to meno sun and no moononly the sudden radiance of you to discoverand thistaureau20That was a nice poem, HSC. "Tasting your name" is a very deep and personal expression. I wrote a poem too on being smitten - follows the ghazal format i was so smitten with some years ago. A bit amateurish but I still like it.... Like they sometimes say of a film director who has gone overboard with his movie - they say he "crawled the camera up his own back" or something like that. Poets do that all the time. spilled inkit was that moment when i'd slept bitten that i had spilled the bottle of my ink smitten on the table and had dreamt the flowing ink to be a new poem i had written when it was not there to be found once when it was behind the drapes hidden it was not there once it went away from the eyes;none ever return, from that depth alive, when bidden it was not to be found in the neighbourhoodor behind the drape or out by the middenthere is no use of crying now for what is written is written i left myself at that moment when the first i picked a pen and was written i reached her door step, she opened and wept but i was forever gone and hiddenwhen she dreamt of me in the silent night by the bell-flowers i was bidden Heart--Shaped CrossThat's a lovely poem.It makes me sad to hear your constant self-criticism,or, at least, your criticism of your work.I hold two truths to be self-evident:1. Even the masters are amateurs.2. There is no such thing as a bad poet.Now see here: quote:I stopped to listen, but he did not come. I began again with a sense of loss. As this sense deepened I heard him again. I stopped stopping and I stopped starting, and I allowed myself to be crushed by ignorance. This was a strategy, and didnt work at all. Much time, years were wasted in such a minor mode. I bargain now. I offer buttons for his love. I beg for mercy. Slowly he yields. Haltingly he moves toward his throne. Reluctantly the angels grant to one another permission to sing. In a transition so delicate it cannot be marked, the court is established on beams of golden symmetry, and once again I am a singer in the lower choirs, born fifty years ago to raise my voice this high, and no higher.When I left the king I began to rehearse what I would say to the world: long rehearsals full of revisions, imaginary applause, humiliations, edicts of revenge. I grew swollen as I conspired with my ambition, I struggled, I expanded, and when the term was up, I gave birth to an ape. After some small inevitable misunderstanding, the ape turned on me. Limping, stumbling, I fled back to the swept courtyards of the king. 'Where is your ape?' the king demanded. 'Bring me your ape.' The work is slow. The ape is old. He clowns behind his bars, imitating our hands in the dream. He winks at my official sense of urgency. What king, he wants to know. What courtyard? What highway?I heard my soul singing behind a leaf, plucked the leaf, but then I heard it singing behind a veil. I tore the veil, but then I heard it singing behind a wall. I broke the wall, and I heard my soul singing against me. I built up the wall, mended the curtain, but I could not put back the leaf. I held it in my hand and I heard my soul singing mightily against me. This is what its like to study without a friend.After searching among the words, and never finding ease, I went to you, I asked you to gladden my heart. My prayer divided against itself, I was ashamed to have been deceived again, and bitterly, in the midst of loud defeat, I went out myself to gladden the heart. It was here that I found my will, a fragile thing, starving among ferns and women and snakes. I said to my will, 'Come, let us make ourselves ready to be touched by the angel of song,' and suddenly I was once again on the bed of defeat in the middle of the night, begging for mercy, searching among the words. With the two sheilds of bitterness and hope, I rose up carefully, and I went out of the house to rescue the angel of song from the place where she had chained herself to her nakedness. I covered her nakedness with my will, and we stood in the kingdom that shines towards you, where Adam is mysteriously free, and I searched among the words for words that would not bend the will away from you. taureau20Cancer/Scorp729, sorry I missed your reply! Thanks for your lovely words! yeah I think we'd get along! Gimme your number. XD Do you write too? ---HSC, yeah, earlier this week someone introduced me to Cohen. I am a Dylan person but Cohen seems cool too. Well I self-criticize because I think that a sense of the ridiculous is very important... Am glad you guys liked my poems.. I ll share some more soon.. mirage29^^^ wow!... you are ALL awesome!!... i am not worthy! i am not worthy! Heart--Shaped Crossmirage,Best response yet! taureau20 BlackSwanLove this thank you <3RandallBump!mirage29Taureau20 was a REALLY cool person. So Kind! RandallBump!
poem 1:
some people, they do a lot of skin shedding, or pencil sharpening,or what goes by menstrual poetics – as though the writing of poetryitself were a biological function like eating or brushing your teeth –unfelt, unthought, routine like cutting finger nails. dickinson, i feel,is an example. i can see her in my mind: washing her hands, dryingthem with a white towel, then sitting on her desk to pick up a penand write. when I was small there used to come every saturday toour house – as in the lane where our house stood – a certain type ofbeggar called as ‘Shani Maharaj’;grandmother would ask me to see my face in the little jug of oil ‘ShaniMaharaj’ was carrying and, saying a prayer, put a one rupee coin in it.by doing so, one can supposedly part with his pain. well that was thatand now it is today and here i am in the middle of the night, scratchingthe bark of a tree which reveals nothing but families of ants in its folds.
poem 2:
so yeah, it is essential that there be a window that looks out to the street if one is living a solitary life, cut away from society, friends, etc. a window to while away time by leaning your self on the sill to see what the next person is doing. on that I am totally with Kafka. say, have you seen those petroglyphs in the caves of Edakkal? they haven’t been able to make any head or tail of what all those carvings on the back of rocks mean, have they?
if you must really knowi am not awareof these wordsskimmingon this white floori am not awareof this dancingdoori am not awareof mei am not awareof this womanin frontof me i am not awarei am herei am not awareof anythingexcept this grating soundsomewherei am not awarenoi am not
And lovely poems
I think Kafka's books were written by a machine.
Your poetry is astounding, to me. Especially that first one.
Can I share one of mine?
Smitten
so now i am smitten
love-swollen
clinically insane
dropped into a second world created by you
stunned and sun-burnt
sacred
disoriented
meditating on your presence in my life
tasting your name
your grace
all that happens to me
no sun and no moon
only the sudden radiance of you to discover
and this
I wrote a poem too on being smitten - follows the ghazal format i was so smitten with some years ago. A bit amateurish but I still like it.... Like they sometimes say of a film director who has gone overboard with his movie - they say he "crawled the camera up his own back" or something like that. Poets do that all the time.
spilled ink
it was that moment when i'd slept bitten that i had spilled the bottle of my ink smitten
on the table and had dreamt the flowing ink to be a new poem i had written
when it was not there to be found once when it was behind the drapes hidden
it was not there once it went away from the eyes;none ever return, from that depth alive, when bidden
it was not to be found in the neighbourhoodor behind the drape or out by the midden
there is no use of crying now for what is written is written
i left myself at that moment when the first i picked a pen and was written
i reached her door step, she opened and wept but i was forever gone and hidden
when she dreamt of me in the silent night by the bell-flowers i was bidden
It makes me sad to hear your constant self-criticism,or, at least, your criticism of your work.
I hold two truths to be self-evident:
1. Even the masters are amateurs.
2. There is no such thing as a bad poet.
Now see here:
quote:I stopped to listen, but he did not come. I began again with a sense of loss. As this sense deepened I heard him again. I stopped stopping and I stopped starting, and I allowed myself to be crushed by ignorance. This was a strategy, and didnt work at all. Much time, years were wasted in such a minor mode. I bargain now. I offer buttons for his love. I beg for mercy. Slowly he yields. Haltingly he moves toward his throne. Reluctantly the angels grant to one another permission to sing. In a transition so delicate it cannot be marked, the court is established on beams of golden symmetry, and once again I am a singer in the lower choirs, born fifty years ago to raise my voice this high, and no higher.When I left the king I began to rehearse what I would say to the world: long rehearsals full of revisions, imaginary applause, humiliations, edicts of revenge. I grew swollen as I conspired with my ambition, I struggled, I expanded, and when the term was up, I gave birth to an ape. After some small inevitable misunderstanding, the ape turned on me. Limping, stumbling, I fled back to the swept courtyards of the king. 'Where is your ape?' the king demanded. 'Bring me your ape.' The work is slow. The ape is old. He clowns behind his bars, imitating our hands in the dream. He winks at my official sense of urgency. What king, he wants to know. What courtyard? What highway?I heard my soul singing behind a leaf, plucked the leaf, but then I heard it singing behind a veil. I tore the veil, but then I heard it singing behind a wall. I broke the wall, and I heard my soul singing against me. I built up the wall, mended the curtain, but I could not put back the leaf. I held it in my hand and I heard my soul singing mightily against me. This is what its like to study without a friend.After searching among the words, and never finding ease, I went to you, I asked you to gladden my heart. My prayer divided against itself, I was ashamed to have been deceived again, and bitterly, in the midst of loud defeat, I went out myself to gladden the heart. It was here that I found my will, a fragile thing, starving among ferns and women and snakes. I said to my will, 'Come, let us make ourselves ready to be touched by the angel of song,' and suddenly I was once again on the bed of defeat in the middle of the night, begging for mercy, searching among the words. With the two sheilds of bitterness and hope, I rose up carefully, and I went out of the house to rescue the angel of song from the place where she had chained herself to her nakedness. I covered her nakedness with my will, and we stood in the kingdom that shines towards you, where Adam is mysteriously free, and I searched among the words for words that would not bend the will away from you.
When I left the king I began to rehearse what I would say to the world: long rehearsals full of revisions, imaginary applause, humiliations, edicts of revenge. I grew swollen as I conspired with my ambition, I struggled, I expanded, and when the term was up, I gave birth to an ape. After some small inevitable misunderstanding, the ape turned on me. Limping, stumbling, I fled back to the swept courtyards of the king. 'Where is your ape?' the king demanded. 'Bring me your ape.' The work is slow. The ape is old. He clowns behind his bars, imitating our hands in the dream. He winks at my official sense of urgency. What king, he wants to know. What courtyard? What highway?
I heard my soul singing behind a leaf, plucked the leaf, but then I heard it singing behind a veil. I tore the veil, but then I heard it singing behind a wall. I broke the wall, and I heard my soul singing against me. I built up the wall, mended the curtain, but I could not put back the leaf. I held it in my hand and I heard my soul singing mightily against me. This is what its like to study without a friend.
After searching among the words, and never finding ease, I went to you, I asked you to gladden my heart. My prayer divided against itself, I was ashamed to have been deceived again, and bitterly, in the midst of loud defeat, I went out myself to gladden the heart. It was here that I found my will, a fragile thing, starving among ferns and women and snakes. I said to my will, 'Come, let us make ourselves ready to be touched by the angel of song,' and suddenly I was once again on the bed of defeat in the middle of the night, begging for mercy, searching among the words. With the two sheilds of bitterness and hope, I rose up carefully, and I went out of the house to rescue the angel of song from the place where she had chained herself to her nakedness. I covered her nakedness with my will, and we stood in the kingdom that shines towards you, where Adam is mysteriously free, and I searched among the words for words that would not bend the will away from you.
---
HSC, yeah, earlier this week someone introduced me to Cohen. I am a Dylan person but Cohen seems cool too.
Well I self-criticize because I think that a sense of the ridiculous is very important...
Am glad you guys liked my poems.. I ll share some more soon..
Best response yet!
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