Tag: To Poetry

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Lyrical Poetry Ode Poetry

My Ode To Poetry

Red book and cup of tea and saucer
On lock down days read or write poems

A poem is a river, the sea, the largeness
In which I can swim with openness
It is a deck, a station, the purgatory –
The place where the words fly away freely,
It is a landscape where all beauty escape
While the reader’s heart race as it takes a shape.

A hidden pulsating world unfolds
While it’s cold to summer, and summer to cold;
A brisk life rooting out from the void
The strange deknotting of what’s coiled,
And while your treasure chest opens wide
Your vast lagoon becomes mine.

A poem is a deep cave filled of creatures
This dark place leading to light showers
Where the noises rhyme strangely
As unspeakable hearts chant merrily;
Its obscureness, its enlightment, its evasiveness
The poem, it strikes, the everness.

A whole city is born, fiercely
Out of a burning gut, proudly
And while my mind gets high on these words
My whole heart drinks of the world
Under a bed sheet of blooming flowers
There where I forever remain immerse.

The poem is a ship that sails me away
Amidst sea, land, and sky creatures
All spheres of living, within timeless features,
And when I arrive at Harbour on a beautiful day
I lay down belly full, and happily wait
For the next ship, dying to contemplate.

A poem is a river, the sea, the largeness
In which I can swim with openness.

We celebrated poetry day on Sunday, and here I’ve tried my best to describe poetically my feelings concerning poetry, writing about how these lines carry me; carry my feelings towards the want and need for more poems.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Ode Poetry

Dissection Of A Poem

do it yourself wall decor with pictures cut from magazines, handwritten poem, and photography
unconscious personification of the poems I write

There is a big difference when I write a poem and a story. To write fiction I’ll go deep into my imagination as to invent a story; whereas for a poem, well… it’s more of an instantaneous thing, almost didactic; and it’s only when I re-read the poem I’ve written, that I notice some elements of my own experiences and personal thoughts that are embedded into the poem. To me, the poem I write is simply an unconscious cacophonous blend of personal experiences, thoughts, wants, and needs – a dissection of the intimacy of my mind.  

Poetry is an intimacy,

From which I can’t quite ever recover,

All of these subliminal dissections

Of my mind that look so fancy,

Yet that portrays thoughts under cover.

You see the night and the bright;

The bride and its passionate mate

All of the happiness and all of the fright

Something dark, something like fate

All my rearing, all I am, all naked.

I dream of mares –

That wildly run into my nightmares

They are headless and poneylike,

They are all colours and rainbowlike

All living, in these poetries, dissected.

How would I describe all that flows?

They just flow, wildly, as I exorcise

Or perhaps its Mnemosyne, that sows,

Her seeds, which blooms, into nine muses —

Letting all the beauty of words rise.

If the poetry of me is a lie

From which I can’t quite ever recover

For through all of these dissections

Something truthful only to me comes

While all my thoughts, gently flow and fly.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry Ode Poetry

I Think And I Write – A Poem

20190213_192115.jpg

Inspiration ignites as I write

I Think And I Write

I think of galaxies and of their beaming lights, and I write.
 
I think of the rain pouring on my face, and of the winds slashing upon leaves, and I write.
 
I think of dew blurring the window glass of my bedroom, and I write.
 
I think of the sounds of water streams and of the songs of birds on a Sunday morning, and I write.
 
I think of the green grass of the rainy seasons, and of its withered hues when the sun fiercely lights up the summer, and I write.
 
I think of a stranger locking me up in a filthy basement, and I write.
 
I think of all these faces, some formless, some of alien traits, living lives of many, and I write.
 
I think of milk, water-falling from my breast, and I write.
 
I think of the seed of life, erupting from a straightened obelisk, and I write.
 
I think of dimensions and of world to be, and I write.
 
I write my heart away, with a wandering soul left at bay.
 
And when these weapons that I’ve never touch, dwells into the depth of my mind, with flowering ivies blossoming their way, I write.
 
And when lights strangle all darkness in the strange land of my imagination, I write.
 
I write of the poetry and of the peace I would love gifting to the world, to the universe, to you, and to me.
 
 
I think that inspiration is everywhere, suffice that you look deeply, gently bringing your attention to the aesthetic form of things, where even the essence of what our vocab describes as worst and repulsive are beautiful in their own way. So, I do hope that you open your eyes, as to let your mind gaze at the primary essence of things, for you to think, and to write.