IN PRAISE OF POETRY

Poetry needs to come back. Practicing my broken english since mid 2017

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Time is the Enemy

The days won’t go. Like a storm in Spring, I wander aimlessly around the room, entertaining thoughts, spiralling thunder.  Longing. Longing... Like a storm in Spring I bring dust from wastelands away I am the dusts from wastelands away. What am I other than ashes that think inside? What am I other than dust blown through time? Aye, there’s potential, Aye, there’s being, but so hard is the tiranny of time, that we are part of it and cannot be without it. But like us, even the moon is dust, and even the gods are not particle entities, they rest ashless in a past that never was. Dust. Dust. Clean my dust of days, Time Allmighty, show me with the rewards of longing and waiting, show me love, show me fulfillment, I wish to see them. I long for love. I long for my dust to do what it wants, free me. Let all dust be the earth still and eternal in bliss and fruition.  Time is the shadow, Time is the enemy.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Morning will come

Morning will come - Every day is a wasted day, a day thrown to the past, cast away: so it is that time is the coinage of being. We linger on for an unknown sake, uncertain of our actions and thoughts, but we can never escape our inevitable way of life. We repeat, we return, we cannot escape ourselves, sometimes we try, but we fail, always. We think that we can forfeit our idols but we only make them stronger, changing them. Tomorrow will bring us the undeniable truths of evermore and the sun will rise again, and speak: «Morning has come...»

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Channels of Communication

Silence was broken by empty figures,  Masks, shadows, small images of the otherself, But still the channels of spoken words  Were playing the music of emptiness. Answer me, answer me, for I know nothing more, speak of nothing more, my mind is ravaging the muffled sounds of a storm.  And the machines kept working, fed and refreshed daily, beeping, breathing, systematically, winding, working silently. So whole dimensions were between us, in depths before unknown. Despair, despair, despair... I might as well drown deep in forgetful bliss. deep in the bottom of a glass away from the machines.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

On the void within

Emptiness is the vessel of all future love.

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Fireless Hearth

The road is long and I am tired. The winter is harsh and the hearth is out of fire. Fire, cracks, burns... There’s a rattle of warm in the room but the house is empty without the fire of you. I fall to the flames, but it is still cold. I die and meet hell’s blaze and it is still cold. The engraving of your eyes in remembrance are cold too. For your memory is but a shadow of the greatest of forest fires that have ever plagued my world.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

The Fly and the Spider

Loud rain loudly scared  the silent little fly, flying now inside to drier rooms not knowing ‘twas its place to die.   But where else could the fly have flown, if not inside for the rain kills little creatures too? So in goes the little fly, flying from side to side - it’s warmer here, what could go wrong for the fly’s ride? Well, the little fly was caught  in the silky veins deep a web so darkly deep in the dark oubliette. So the sinous spider black and shining vested the struggling little fly in a slimy shape so silently. Now the fly was still but gone too, only the singular spider and the shapeless form, that silky ball, remained. Poor little fly, we will see its wings flapping no more. But the spider is happy, though without a smile, only by toying with her prey further.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Fruit

I wander and I am lost. Tell me what  to do I must, Or how should I love or lust. I am nothing but your words so tell me now, should I surrender to our faraway past or to your pressing hand   and bite the dust? I bring this heavy world on my aching back, And I deliver it away to you in the many colours of passion. The passionfruit is yours,  so devour it as you may.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Eternal Poetry

They try to kill the will of poetry inside me By rushing the earth’s orbit ‘round the sun. I see the great star rising and falling, And my sleep ushers in accordingly. They try to kill the gust of poetry 'round me, But even though my hand is quiet, And no new pieces hit the wall, This essence of poetry shall never bite the dust. With, or without me, The form, the idea, Of poetry, will never die. They try to kill the spirit of poetry in me - in us! But they don’t understand metaphysics: What is written, has undeniably been written, So the poems live on. They’ve spilled in to existence, For they’ve transcended becoming one, to become part of being, to be the case, forever, and for ever long.  - http://inpraiseofpoetry.tumblr.com/

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Tidal

You Are a Tidal Person. You are the stuff of seas: a changing thing, a thing never the same. Like the waves, like when the moon embraces the salty waters that waver in ways sometimes feeble, others too strong. Sometimes, You kill little lifeforms Poor small beings by the shore gazing in  to your infinite abyss. They’re pulled down to eternity. Others you look deceptively peaceful, you retreat to somewhere unknown. Elusive, like you provoked no tragedies before, as if you’ve always been some innocent force of nature. You are a Tidal Person. Someone that comes and goes by  like the sea, and that can only speak to others if they too speak in your arcane language of mutability. You are welcoming as you are cold, wrathful as you are calm, a deathtrap. Now you speak of retreat, But, as the sailor that I am, I know that you will return again, and possibly as strong as never before. - I see you. I will not be fooled I will cross your sea above it.                                  For I am not much of a sailor above                                        as I am the eye of a storm your                                            that cares not for waves, tidal                                         Only for ended quarrels person.                                         And our hearts reborn.

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In to the limelight

Loose threads and silent talks, Empty letters and inkless feathers... How, how did this happen - For us to become like dead and silenced? Our quiet hearts are opened ajar, For are not as close as we are far, But memory flows still have a word to say A past to smother, and a future to flutter away. Fly to me, blow the risk, break the wordful silence, Breach in to dim limelight of the hour by, And let the shining night begin As your tomorrow reign of splendid power nigh.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Et in Arcadia ego

So long have I missed the falling sun Or the fading day on the noisy streets, The filled glass and the breeze gone by, Lukewarmed by lovers delight. O, I too have lived in Arcadia! And can still remember the pleasures, and pains too, of really living, Of enjoying love, food and drink. I too have lived in Arcadia! Woe is me! For such times are gone, But blessed me for have feelings none, And for doing all I could have done. 

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Sing

Sing to me, Fool me, Drown me, Confuse me.  Tangle me under the waves Like the siren or mermaid that you are. I forget all things holy, they matter not, And let myself be under the sea, Alas! Dead if needed, or in pain, It just matters not.  For such music is alluring even beyond the shore, beyond the grave, I only wish to know where is hither, Hither for me to go.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

The Wait

I can wait, Yes, I can wait. I can wait until trees are grown, Until the soils are fertile and healed, Until the rains pour enough And our hearts are mended. But only if trees grow And soils become healed anew. And only if drought does not follow, And our hearts aren’t in two.   I can wait, I can, though The purpose of wait Is to wait for something to come in reprisal, And we only wait, if we have the hope of arrival. For now the time is nigh, And other problems are at bay, So either I want to wait or not to wait, Wait I must, in bitter contempt. There’s some strange thing sleeping inside me. A passive voice that still  entices everything in me to act: It whispers me to wait. But the tempting voice must continue Like a curse must be kept, A part of me That to wait must be taught and fed.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Apparition

You flourish in a thousand words Written, left behind, or in hidden places. Strong words they are, bold ones too, Maybe you understand your own power. Yet you still live like a shadow, Empty, unseen, more than discrete. Nonexistent mostly;  Awaited totally. You say a thousand things, Upstand a thousand images, But I still can’t find your                                      Apparition. The absolute saying, The: “I know.” the: “I am here”; Or even, an also true and also bold statement: “I made you this way”. Dear, my dear, I was shaped to make poetry, music to you. Made to measure the The murmurs of your mood. Still, You don’t exist;                         you but subsist. All signals are faint, Maybe you are myth. But O, I do still fall.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

The Rapture

Today I had a dream, I was returning home as always, My path, being all the same, It could’ve been real.   It was late, Night had fallen, And the cold streets were empty. Too empty for quarter past nine. I did what I always do, Stroll up the avenue, but In came, with the sound of devilish symphony, A familiar figure, a dark silhouette. She grasped me as birds grasp their prey, And I too felt lifted in the night skies up high As do all things low to be eaten by birds  Kissing the earth underneath goodbye. But this flight was no common way of travelling, I felt terrorized and soon felt strange Like my guts were poisoned By forces unseen. I felt the need to act and run away, But could only remain still, Blinded by the night: A warm night now. It was like fever. Never before had I dreamt of being blind but, No colours or forms could I see, so indeed I was Taken by something beyond me, and whatever of me was, had been replaced by such fatal fantasy. Then I felt falling, trapped by forces and webs unknown, Devoured by processes impossible to understand, Drunken with strange poison once again; And suddenly, I was free.

She was no more. I challenged the night But the nightmare was gone. Then I missed such an impossible state of being, Then I was too simple for myself.  Unbearable. But how could she have left, If she never came? Realizing the dream, I woke unsettled. But ready to make the journey again and again Till the lady takes me blinded.

[inpraiseofpoetry]

Absinthe

Absinthe - in the face of the abyss, Yes, that is only how  It can be called Absinthe. and in the absence of common sense, And in sad totality of glory, We shall drink and cheer our share of green ignorance.

Absinthe is to be drunk on the dark, for it lights the streets with revelry, and warms that heart forsaken from romance. - Today I will go downtown, and in sight of the beaten path. I’m going in a moment!, And the glass will be green and golden then empty, like the meaning of the night. And I will fly my way back home, Or to some other dimension of dream or the dream will fly to me. And then place my grief  In one more green liquid monument.