Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘poet’

Some say love is never about speed but a slow

unfurling of beauty- gentle and unhurried.

That makes the difference between the passing

of time and the crafting of masterpiece-

not everyone is interested reading about angst.

 

And you fail to notice that everyone’s engaged

to their own brand of narcissism- they maintain

to survive and keep up one’s reputation.

 

And if you think that poets spend their lives

holed up in their four cornered walls and a window

looking in from the world changing night and day.

Self-absorbed about  feelings or digging of the past

and wanting for love that they never have.

 

Or won’t have.

 

Some say about exiles to another country

or to another time or another space would

make people stalk on your mysticism.

Or the lyricism of recording things-

one have chosen to leave behind.

 

You can be exiled even without a room.

That is easy- while you walk around nonchalant

and pretend you didn’t carry anything.

You must know how heavy it is to bring

one line of a poem and to bravely express it.

 

Who says poetry is a dying art? I say otherwise.

For centuries, poets mined gold, toiling the minds

of men and keep them going on despite travails.

Ranting about their lost loves, lost paradise

or lost keys of their hearts.

Or lost childhood. Or lost future.

 

Art that was losing chances and losing hope.

That made poems became songs sung out loud.

It became pieces of conversation. In the streets.

And in the way people speak. To sell. To buy

affection and things people would want

and impress people whom they would want

to belong with. But this will never be.

Read Full Post »

The chandelier sways a little

when the ceiling sheds its skin

to show its old bones. Paint on walls

reveal its freckles and birthmarks,

wrinkled through the shifting cycle

of Gregorian calendars. You worry

about the constant reminders

from the electric company,

those unpaid bills overcrowding

this three-legged desk. And the

water leaks from the rusty tap.

 

The old photographs dog eared

collecting fungus of memories

dampening happy days like rain.

And the red wine loses its color.

And the window curtains block off

the light, dusty and unwashed.

Breakfast unprepared, it’s another

long hours without eating but verses

of poems you chew in your mind.

 

Here is the knife and slice something

open, now. It might reveal a thing 

that you don’t understand.

Read Full Post »

I can feel it now across this table

in the old diner of this no man’s land,

The sound of shuffling deck of cards.

Or is it the leaves in autumn falling

in September- that he will remember?

 

Do you know what it feels like

to be buried in cans and tins of paint,

blurring away the sun, moon and the stars?

The distance masked from the past

drowned in ebbs and crests of time.

 

He searches his soul among the shambles,

the printed letters fading on the pocketbook.

I sense the mad rhythms and cadences

of cursives and scribbles in melancholy.

The dead poet speaks uneasy like this.

 

He seems to be trapped. A vagabond.

A tyke on his cell who think he’s free.

Swimming away like a salmon

undisturbed by the changing seasons,

lost in migration to the new world.

 

He traded a king of hearts

and settles for a jack of spades.

The wind is rough, blowing in with sand.

This is not the gentle breeze of the prairie.

A tune. Unfamiliar, humming in my ear.

Read Full Post »

Its all about the strict regimented all boys school where Robin Williams play an English Literature teacher who defied the conventions of traditional thinking and methods of teaching.  His character delved deeper into exposing the ills of the educational institution that keeps the medieval   struggle for  prestige and shallow self-esteem among its students. 

It is no different in our present society.  This film carries the obvious. Exposes the classic battles. Of wits and prejudice. And the politics of norms and standards.  What mars the genuine purpose of education is the mediocre visualization of intellectual propensities and ullulations by higher echelons of academics.

They have profited like vultures.  And the carcasses of hapless majority still claiming education as the only salvation lie in wait the doomsday knocking.  Education teaches us to be consumers of vomitted intellectual trash hanging in there for almost centuries. Education miscalculated the need of a society for consistency and diversity of cultures to sustain civilization.

Real education is an expression. A culmination of  life’s experiences. A spirited consumption of the senses. The one that divides stratifications of a human being into a vivid image of self. A euphimism of realistic to abstraction. And the metaphor of plain into ornate.

Who needs irrelevance? Being contained like a fish in a bowl. Living in a four-cornered wall of existence. Standing beside the picket fences of high class rundown. Does irrelevance make sense to those who breaches the edges of sanity to ascertain the worth of this pseudo-learning?

An artist. The one who have been in a kaleidoscopic juggle of uncertainty to pinpoint the certain. Exploring the condition of the society that reflects an era. And where wisdom never fails to connect the future and its simplistic cycle of rebirth. 

If all in this world may decay, the words of the poet will not.  If all the world falls deep into the abyss, the vision of a painter will not.  Theirs is a world who can hold their own against the vagrancies of the hypocritical and the commercialized.

Read Full Post »