Friday, December 24, 2010

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.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

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.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

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

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

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?'

Nobody cares,
No one remembers and,
Nobody cares.

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

Sunday, December 19, 2010

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!
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?"

"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?"

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

Saturday, December 11, 2010


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.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

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

Saturday, December 4, 2010

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.