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Anoushka B Sep 2015
For all that you could and
could not see
For all that you would and
would not see
For all that there is
and isn't
Is a world where can and cannot can't be
This world isn't enough for me

Maybe in another world
where you can be
I may or may not exist
In a world where can and cannot can be
I'll meet you there

Maybe in yet another world
where you will be and
I just might not exist
In that world where can and cannot may be
I will never meet you
  Aug 2015 Anoushka B
T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
        A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
        Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
        Ma perciocchè giammai di questo fondo
        Non tornò vivo alcun, s’i'odo il vero,
        Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised 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 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.
Anoushka B Aug 2015
You were the forests
birds fled through your *******

you enclose oceans
the earth
the skies

i was just an acetic star
shards of light fled me as i burned
as they disgraced my body

not even the scintillations could linger my soul

i was contained within you
i was only a wave in your vast ocean

i was only a splinter in the earth

only a scintilla in your vast skies

Now Im pushing up daisies in the same wind

Buried beneath the hurricanes
which i would once call gusts

tornadoes which i used to breathe in
now rise from me
as i lay dying
my baby left me and all i could make of it at 2 am was poetry
Anoushka B May 2015
Oh Isabelle, by the time you have read this letter, I will be gone.
Don’t fill up Styx with your celestial tears, dolorous darling.
I was always the heavy volume between dark and light, never the heavens you imagined.
But the tiny fragments of shimmer you saw in space.
I was the Sun, Polaris, Sirius and Vega
You insist to give me a name and meaning
I was Orion, Taurus, Aries, Andromeda,
No longer the withered blossoms of stars

Sonorous darling, there is not much to say
but that I am no longer yours
No longer the array of constellations you made of me

I belong to another
Another Celeste, another Corona
Perhaps I never was the constant Sun
I was the shifting heavens, the voracious tides on Neptune

And now I’m no longer yours
Rising from my astral birth, Im no longer yours.
Anoushka B Apr 2015
I saw the world as bright red
I saw you and the world dropped dead

I dreamt you loved me the way you said
But spring turns away and I no longer hear your name

I should have known you would leave again
Then maybe I would've loved you less

I dreamt you loved me the way you said
But months pass and I keep forgetting your name

Now spring has returned and I see you
But I don't remember you anymore and neither do you
This is probably the worst poem I've ever written. But I decided to put it up anyway
  Mar 2015 Anoushka B
Sylvia Plath
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
Anoushka B Dec 2014
I'm not the raging winds
I'm not the falling sky
I'm not the predatory night

I don't ring thunder

I'm not the fumes of stars
I'm not the fury of fire
Neither am I the rising sun
I'm no longer sinister

I'm the calm centre of the world
I'm the eye of the tornado
I'm the crescent moon

I'm mist, I'm rain
Winds gush through my soul
I'm heaven, I'm celeste

I'm the call to vesper
I'm the requiem of my past
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