Bête Noir
Security, modern man adores
you! There is no storm
nor pestilence nor poverty
nor even the deadly beast
lurking behind every door
that scares us more
than freedom.
Photographiaphobia
Maybe God is
not dead at all,
just camera-shy.
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Bête Noir
Security, modern man adores
you! There is no storm
nor pestilence nor poverty
nor even the deadly beast
lurking behind every door
that scares us more
than freedom.
Photographiaphobia
Maybe God is
not dead at all,
just camera-shy.
I think I've posted this somewhere before, but it is sort of tiny.
Press
If we
had no books
only ourselves
what would I
read in lines
of your face
how long
could I browse
the corridors
of your eyes
where would
I not hear
the echo
of your voice
even your heat
would speak
and we would
learn by embracing
and the press
of our fingers
And Today, They Found the Spoons
Now and then someone
would ask, “Where does–
did- she keep the scissors?”
“Closure” is a door that
seldom slams, though inevitably
inches away from “open”--
with each item recovered,
reclaimed, a short-lived
memoriam.
Aunt Shecky
All rights reserved.
Firefangled, I like the word-playi in title of the piece, "Press" and the premise -- what if we had no books--
is a provocative one.
Well done!
Yer auntie
Testily,
it's still oblique,
she says, "play me"
Aunty, this is so very subtly done and so true. The door never really closes for a loved one.
Thanks for this.
did not mean to hurt
you(did not mean to hurt
me)please say
you did not
I
for once i thought of......
to be forlorn forever.
faint tears on painting.
Unpick the locks
from my eyes,
I'm tired
of the darkness.
Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
Uh, then I guess the poem fails, in that according to your reading of it, it doesn't say what it was meant to say.
I said the door never slammed, but that it inevitably inches itself AWAY from being "open." With time, thoughts of the deceased gets pushed back into one's memory, which isn't piqued unless the subject -- i.e. a missing object -- comes up.
No, your poem was successful, Aunty.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I'm back again! I thought I'd lost this thread( or had it been started anew?) whatever, I'm just happy to see the thread again and put a piece of junk:p
Raining on...
It rains on...
crafting myriad cosmoses upon the soggy surface of the grimy roof,
speaking in circles of lives untold...
It rains on...
your bushy hair, on the gloomy pits under my eyes
one by one they mutely creep down...
It rains on...
and rolls away the green bottle with her last breath;
It rains on...
laying the last pledge of life on death's relic...
I think I need to mention that it's a part of a raw translation of the poem that I wrote yesterday in Bengali. I know that the translation is hideous as ever.I have never been a good translator:(
Magical Walk
Wildflowers grow
In fair Rivendell—
Not the home of the Elves
But a waterfall I know…
The Ancient One fell,
Not a God from the sky,
But a tree on the trail,
Couple hundred years old…
The Council is called
And they circle around,
Stones not at Salisbury—
But in the depth of the woods…
Mystical places like Avalon
Exist for you somewhen—
But you’ll just have to discover them
All for yourself…
Pendragon
© 10/8/07
Chick Sal Sand
Note how
in the dankest digs
someone remembers to water
the plants struggling
through lack of light.
It’s helpful to catch
the briefest spark of humanity:
the pedestrian’s grinning shrug
when the “Don't Walk”
sign won't change;
the abbreviated
lunch order scribbled
on a little green pad.
Aunt Shecky
All rights reserved.
Poem
Sometimes in this light,
a poem rises like dust
and I must hold my breath
and fill its spaces
with my words.
This is beautiful, fire.Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
my heart swings with joy
when I see little toddlers
playing happily
on the Literature Forums
with imagery of words