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As crafters craft and artists art
all things Beautiful were once apart.
Brought together by Work and Pain,
Perfection is sought again and again.

But it is only through Agony and a convoluted sense of Direction
that Man and the Universe can create Perfection.
Accidental masterpieces brought daily into being,
Beauty is not only Seen through seeing.

Tears that cloud our jaded sight
make that once unclear terribly bright.
One view of the World is never enough,
it is the Visions of others that make our Works tough.

All labours of Love, do not always Love find,
but that is because to Love we are blind.
Love is an ability that colours our emotion,
thus, a single man can move an ocean.

A river, an ocean, a dam of time
each human is given his Voice to rhyme.
A wave, a ripple, a tsunami effect
that changes in magnitude only in what we expect.

These clashes and crashes, shatter and break.
It is not our Strength that determines how much we can take.
It is our Determination and Perserverance alone
that distinguishes a boulder, a pebble, a stone.

The cracks and tears,
the pleasures and cares,
mean that Beauty through Perfection sought
with Tragedy and Imperfection is wrought.
 Nov 2014 Fatih Gul
Jasmine
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
     So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?
     And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
     And should I then presume?
     And how should I begin?

          . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

          . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
     Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
     That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
     “That is not it at all,
     That is not what I meant, at all.”

          . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
This is not my poem, hence why the copyright logo is missing. This is one of my favourite poems :)
O black beauty !
o wayfarer, unaware of destiny !
anguish,how long ?
like an ancient river challenging the stars?

come, come with me
will collect the shells of dreams
quench our quest of melancholy

going to loose nothing, come!
at all , will rest in the ocean of time
will copulate with harmony

when the thoughts of beloved are sown in my body
the wisdom of passion spreads like moonlight,
when the grim reaper smiles
glittering memories and tears are left on shore,
when the fallen leaf sounds like her anklet
the belief of spring and faith of life are restored

come, come along with me....
o black beauty !
under this moon only
siddharth became buddha
in the lap of this moon only
omar khayyam tasted the nectar
the same moon
i am walking holding you under the same moon !

o black beauty !
the ancient wayfarer !
come, come with me.....
 Nov 2014 Fatih Gul
Harley Oliver
beyond my time
beneath your still
paralyzed my mind
against my will
pink lids, bruised lips
all down to your fingertips
ruined me from the start
no time to clench
or protect my heart
rocking me in the hilt of your spoon
toxically spilling
too fast, too soon
i am lost to memory and
sketches of passing time all in just a split
and i wanted to be loved so badly,
i would have let anyone do it
 Nov 2014 Fatih Gul
Lili
The dark sky is pierced with stars
I hear the soft rumble of cars
In the day time goes so fast
Yet when it's dark every minute will last

All your troubles seem to go away
When the sky begins to turn ash-grey
For half the day the world is asleep
When the night is dark and deep

A full moon glows shiny and bright
The warm breeze on a Summers' night
With its compelling darkness
And voice of silence

I can forget all of the stress
Forget my head is a mess
When you can just listen to the nothing
And do your thing

Slowly the night slips away
Although I wish it would stay
The night must turn into day.
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