Poetry in Motion

I woke up late and hardly moved,

The day felt static and obtuse,

The sun was dim but bitter too,

The news was glum and hardly true.

You said no words to me,

That said anymore than I knew,

I refuse to see,

What you wish to show.

I cannot be the savior,

I refuse to be the devil,

I am here until,

You force the choice,

Of your decision.

I do not repent,

My regrets,

Or deny my lies.

With as much honesty,

As I can afford,

Indebted to you,

I hold,

I wash my body,

Of my soul.

The something about Mary

'To be or not to be that is the question;

Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer,

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or by raising an arm against a sea of troubles,

And opposing, end them?

To die, to sleep,

And by sleep to say we end the heartache,

And the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.'

Free from the bonds of choice, I bask in my indecision. Free from the sensitivities of your concern, I retain my character. But well you, as opposed to her, may leave the corners of my mind, unless you substantiate yourself. A wednesday passes.

The Listeners

The disjoint impact of poetry:

'Tell them I came and no one answered;
That I kept my word, he said,
Never the least stir made the listener,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house.'

Walter De La Mare

Confessions of a hypocrite

This is to bookmark another day, where I found out exactly what was at the core of what is wrong with my life.

Is a wrong thing right if compartmentalized?

Ignorance is bliss.

Have you moved in concentric circles? Almost like different charges at a safe distance from each other. Constant in their apathy. The collision of two that weren't meant to collide doesn't really cause an explosion. It decapitates the system.

'A voice said, look me in the stars,

And tell me truly, men of Earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars,

Were not too much to pay for birth?'

Frost(y)

Nobody cares,

No one remembers and,

Nobody cares.

REM

My overbearing obsession with morality, liberalism and chivalry, lies in my darkest secret.

A short poem about love

'Then wear the gold hat,

If that will please her,

And if you can bounce high,

Bounce for her too,

Till she cry,"Lover!

Gold-hatted,

High-bouncing lover,

I must have you."

F Scott Fitzgerald

"Ah Love! Could thou and I with fate conspire,

To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,

Would not we shatter it to bits and then,

Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's desire?"

Rubaiyat

"I cannot give what men call love:

But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above

And the heavens reject not

The desire of the moth for the star

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?"

Shelley

"Suffer love; a good epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.'

William Shakespeare

Bookmark

You know what defines poetry? What gives it 'poetic license' and puts it at par with the rigor of prose. It's ability to soothe you, out of context. Thus I quote, out of context:

Where now is the horse and the rider?

The horn that was blowing?

The helm and the hauberk?

The golden hair flowing?

They have passed,

Like rain on the mountain,

Like wind in the meadow.

Happy Birthday.

Poetry in Motion

Punishment is subjective. My cruelty is defeated by the moats around your fort. By the ingenuinity of their grandeur. Their greatest falling is their obviousness. Yours are pettier. Almost like a howl that comes not out of cruelty, but out of the frustration of avoiding what you can do, for my sake. Your dignity is far crueler than anything I've ever done

Crime and Punishment

I committed a crime to wipe out my sins. And as I watched my absolvation, a new kind of guilt took physical form within me. This guilt is the foundation of my structure. As essential to it's independence as it is detrimental to the very columns that hold the structure together

A thousand little poems

as a sacrifice

to our memory.

A whiff of you

and an ocean

of guilt.

So many stories,

some apologies.

Happy, ending.

The world, they say, will come to an end in 2012. It hardly bothers me. The syllable at which Rolland Emerich, director of the disaster*, lost me was somewhere in the middle of the word 'world'. Shakespear thought it was a stage. But that was almost as disappointing as Rolland Emerich's conception of the physicalities of planet earth being dubbed as 'the world'.

'If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would seem to man as it is; infinte.'- William Blake.

If you hate innane babble then this is about when you should go to the address bar and type www.facebook.com. There, I've given you a link too to make it easy. Because the words 'everything' and 'infinte' may at their very sight cause a psycological indigestion or regurgitation. In that vague, awe-inspiring and possibly random rant, William Blake gives the definition of the world. Everything, infinite.

So going back to the beggining, to 'the ending of the world', and the fear that I should have with regards to it, I must say, that my feelings towards the same are rather antithetical. The world must end. The everlasting nature of something that is everything, infinite, is the origin of sorrow. Everything must come to an end. Everything that begins must end. Only the fatherless can weather time. My greatest fear is that death is not an end. Laziness is an illusion. Apathy to work is (for me) an offshoot of the fact that nothing is ever created. To last. Or to any real purpose. Then why waste precious hours of dying. For the verb used rightly must be dying not living. We are not approaching a ressurection unless the Bible is truely the word of god, and god indeed is what he is meant to be, and there is above all, a consensus on both those facts. Nor are we being reborn, unless the fragment of the soul that lives on really does remember or relate or learn from or have even an intangible relevance to anything pertaining to a previous life. We are heading towards an end. And it isn't half bad. Think of the best movie you ever watched or the best song you ever listened to. Think of the best kiss you had or the most sumptuos meal you ate. Now imagine them not ending. Imagine endless labor to retain a life that even at it's best most people resentfully accept. And imagine an unending afterlife full of penances and hauntings only to be reborn and a rebirth to follow it. Life is arduos. Very dearly I hope, that death isn't. I just hope that sense of being dissipidates and what follows is a blank. One that I am not capable of sensing. The obliteration of all senses is bliss.

Why I'd rather be a recluse

I'm not a teenager that no one understands. I'm not a reject. I don't have the sexual anxieties that would want to make me vent. I wasn't touched as a child. Not in that sense anyway. I'm not a goth. I'm not emo. I'm not really concious of myself. Basically I have none of the problems that I should, in order to shun the creed of man. Let me be direct. I do not shun the creed of man. In fact, I have sporadic bouts of affection for the likes of them. Nonetheless, I am severely disillusioned by daily life. By people, places and the routine that we call life. I cannot make the effort of conversation. Communication is a long lost sin. Talk is an overrate means of solving a dispute. Co-operation is nearly unneccessary. And I am a quasi-recluse. Absorbed by the likes of Hemmingway, Seth, Frost, Fitzgerald, Brown and other absurd men who have no relevance in my life or to this post. For a man so fond of people and their various perils, it is strange for me, believe it or not, to not pick up your calls, or text back, or meet you, or show the adequate amount of concern, but you musn't blame me, because I do not mean to resent you. And you could only blame me if I'd owe you. And I can never owe someone without resenting them in some kind or the other.
People I love are so far away from the people I dream of that the schism sometimes drowns me. And the infinite abyss, unto which I so often give myself, is not half as dark as the other side of the schism. The schism is a void. And more than anything else it is two things: unproductive and peaceful. Not mutually exclusive those two. For production or creation is always the the offshoot of some kind of conflict. In my little void, where I needn't acknowledge you, I am a happier person, with less to worry about, and lesser to disappoint me. The zenith of thought is there, alone. And it's almost incomprehensible. Every time I meet someone I seem to forget my precious reasons for being alone. And when I'm alone again I want to blame company for making me mutilate my solitude. It's funny that we call dogs stray. We're all stray beings. Living in awe of either some superstructure or assumption. The fruitlessness of compliance is evident in every replication of the face in a multitude. I want to spend this lifetime toying with perception. The overbearing nature of the human race will destroy the being. We must listen to music. We must watch movies. We must wear clothes. We must educate. We must get a job. Have a family. Work. Earn. Support. Die. But why must we? If the superimposition of rules and laws and assumptions is neccessary to curb the inherent evil nature of the human being then what use is it? But the Japanese woman must wear small wooden shoes, for otherwise the foot may grow. And well, but that would be ugly. I have ugly feet. I wish not to discomfit myself. And I wish not to explain.