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Paul Hansford May 2016
The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony *******?). One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.

A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.
The quotation in brackets is from TS Eliot's "The Waste Land".
Paul Hansford Apr 2016
(based quite closely on The Naming of Cats by TS Eliot, my favourite poet, and one of the greatest writers of English poetry)

The showing of slides is a family matter,
It just isn't something to do to a chum.
Let the family watch while grandmothers natter,
But don't show outsiders those views of your mum.

First of all, at a pinch, try them out on the daily,
But watch for the yawns - you don't want her to leave.
Are you sure your wife liked them? Did she smile, or sigh greyly?
It can cause more divorces than you would believe.

Matching programme to audience you must be particular;
Consider the person, consider the slide.
If your buildings all lean from a neat perpendicular
Can you really expect to keep friends on your side?

The pick of the bunch you may show to another;
If you have any doubts, leave the slides on the shelf,
And reserve them for one who's more close than a brother,
And will truly enjoy them - just view them yourself.
Shruti Atri Jan 2016
She takes a breath;
A big one--
The kind that lifts her chest
Reaches her stomach.

She holds herself,
Steady little birdy,
5, 6, 7, 8...
Then unleashes
All of her raw wild grace;
As they sit in awe
Of the most beautiful animal
She brings before them.

She embodies the maelstroms,
The typhoons, the hurricanes,
That have destroyed so many,
As she devastates her audience
In subliminal bliss.
She is purely a creature of light;
A force of nature, so absolute,
So fragile;
She could break herself,
Have the world shatter
In but a flex...

The melody
Of her expression will run out soon.
As the last few bars thunder down,
She recedes;
Her energy smashed
And scattered
With those who saw her
When she was in her space,
Where they could not touch her
Or her spirit.
They were helpless in the face
Of her fire--
So hot, so bright,
It blazed in the brilliance
Of a thousand suns,
Before the last flame of the candle
Lost it's light...
Not with a bang, but a whimper

A coldness takes hold,
She realizes she has to come back
To their world.
She will miss
Her own little dimension
Where she is Queen;
Her space where she can fly,
Where she can move mountains,
And reign over thunderstorms...

The curtains start to draw
As she prepares to leave the stage,
Taking hold of the memories made
Only to be forgotten and remembered;
Thinking of her time in the sun,
She takes a last breath
And bows out.
Her grace, now a dim memory
Forgotten, only to be remembered
In these eternal phrases,
*When you read them.
Grey May 2015
He once asked me, “Do I dare?” To which I reply
with quivering hands and wide open eyes
“How do we disturb what it is that we are?
After all, you yourself are not unlike a star.”
You see, all our lives we spend burning away
We give others light till the end of our days
And everyone else is of star-matter too
so can you not say that the universe is you?
So yes, we must dare to disturb our own minds.
We never know what possibility finds.
It may be art or a universe new.
The outcome depends on what you will do.
So dare if you wish and dare if you will
and dare the world until you have had your fill
because one of these days all our daring must cease
as we turn back to star-matter, reaching our peace.
And we flow on and on to the end of all time
and the universe finally frees our minds
and the mermaids are singing a song just for you
and there’s marmalade, teacups, and fresh peaches too
and the crest of your life has just truly begun
because if you’re a star, then you can be the sun
and the light you give off is a beautiful flare.
It inspires a young boy to ask, “Do I dare?”
Inspired by T.S. Eliot's 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock'
Jaanam Jaswani Apr 2015
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
Recollecting endeavours drives her to a dry pain
Throbbing, throbbing
Hamlet's hamartia discards her to *the lowest of the dead


His vanity requires no response;
Her life on the line and he's got nothing to lose.
  So much more the eye can see
Caressing, caressing

Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass;
  Leave me, carbuncle:
Words she has never been able to utter . . .
Loudly, she thinks it
It doesn't translate
Shivering, quivering

Brittle monster bestows one final patronising kiss
  I must exercise some form of self control

Hardly aware of her departed lover,
She lays in a yellow blanket;
Phosphenes in the emerging light of day.
Honestly, half this poem is T S Eliot's "The Fire Sermon"
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
I've weighed the pranks:
Pulling out a chair;
Flooded fairways;
Skunky beer;
Onion candy apples;
Mayo in cream-filled donuts;
Lubricating jelly in handwash;
Polyurethaning soap;
Baking soda in ketchup bottles;
Flushing while the shower's in use;
Sending a welcome card on behalf of your friend to Kingdom Hall;
Eliot was right,
Snow in April is the cruelest.
****, it's snowing here today. So cruel.
Kia Apr 2014
I don’t remember much, Sugar Ray told me.
Yesterday is tomorrow. Tomorrow is the same.
He told me this isn’t what I wanted to be,
I would tell you but I forgot your name.

It crept behind the corner. Bats. Cobwebs.
Dusty. Proof was needed to believe something
Of such filth. Barbaric
aBsURditY.
The memories crawled back into the cave.
Music played.
Rita rocked back in her chair,
“That sound, I knew it once”.
Once was a while ago.
That’s forever.
If you knew it and then lost it
Consider it dead.
“It was never a memory if it can’t be remembered”.
That’s what the nurses told them, Rita didn’t believe.
She knew that sound from somewhere.
That’s all to be retained.

Hope Springs Eternal.
I wrote a five part poem in high school based off of The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot, this was the second part. I'll upload the other four soon.

Enjoy

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