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 Apr 2014 Gayatri
Miranda Renea
I close my eyes;
Satin tree breath gently
Tousling my hair in the middle
Of a green ocean; A bright
Globe of smiles placing
One on my face.
I see voices all around me,
Music stretching its legs
While colors dance tauntingly
Around it.

I open my eyes and laugh
At the way I've chosen to see
The world today.
 Apr 2014 Gayatri
Prabhu Iyer
Peace
 Apr 2014 Gayatri
Prabhu Iyer
It used to live on the hilltop
where a lone bell tolled
by the temple:
but the Deity is long gone
and the bell mourns
in the valley wind on empty
afternoons, now.

I went searching for it:
in late summer, the koel
would sunder open the vaults
of heaven and bring
some down for us mortals
haunted by death.
The koels are long gone now.

Peace,
peace.

Lady siting silent in the evening
staring vacant into the sky,
after a day of labour:
can you give some to me?

I thought it was in education.
But that is stored now, in
almirahs where moths
eat way what humidity cannot.

I thought it was in a position.
But they don't matter, now
a ladder ascending
to nowhere,
vanishing mid-air.

Old man, smiling past hope
that has broken like
your lost teeth:
can you give some to me?

I asked the urchin
playing in the ditch after the rains,

he said: 'follow me, I know where
it lives', and he led me to
a ***** pond lined with plastic
and all our civilization's refuse,
and jumped in.

I returned, disgusted.
peace please!
 Apr 2014 Gayatri
Miranda Renea
You're using me. And I can't tell if
You're too stupid to notice or
I'm too stupid to care but
Let me tell you, I am sick
Of this degrading routine.
And I'm the perfect girl, aren't I?
Take the naive ******, so easy to train,
To use so easily for pleasure but
Never give it back because
I'm too inexperienced to know
What I deserve from a man.
But then again,
Maybe you couldn't deliver because
You're just a boy with loose pants and
Lying hands.
Yes, train me, keep me like your pet,
Call me at 3 AM because you just
Broke up with your girlfriend, but
Send me home at 3 AM when
I'm too drunk to stand and
****, I called you my friend?
No wonder you never want to talk,
The only time you want me to use my mouth
Is when you're using it to gag me with your ****.
And even then, you won't even kiss me. Well,
You *******, read these lips;
**** it yourself.
I'm really ****** and needed to get this off my chest. Might make it into a slam?
How him I envy

at age of ninety
he cries like a baby!

It needs not much of a provocation
without a cloud his tears flow
wind's rustle a known birdsong
half moon's glow
bell's ding-****
never ever his overgrown years
made the choice of stopping the tears!

I wanna know in what treasured gain
falls easy eye's undrying rain
leaves' wintry fall time rusted tale
chiming clock rosebud's smell
never held back tears
his ninety years!

In tears never miserly

*he cries like a baby!
true, like all our poems are.
 Mar 2014 Gayatri
Àŧùl
When I confessed my love for her,
She instantly settled back scores,
How well she gels along myself.

Often I weigh the mutual feelings,
Really complex is this truer love,
I come to the conclusion daily.

Not at all felt this way previously,
Truest love is once in a lifetime,
Merrily falls the tide of time.

Now it is her exclusive domain,
A name now rattles in my heart,
Emptiness filled my heart earlier.

Loving her is a mistake I'd repeat,
Not only once but infinite times,
For it is the sweetest mistake.
My HP Poem #597
©Atul Kaushal
Now for years I haven’t seen him
nor know if he is alive or dead
the shadowy man who floated like dream
each moonlight on the roof surfaced!

When from my window his silhouette I caught
saw him on his voyage embark
the moon stalker day’s small-time clerk
wove a magic spell on my thought!

As the moon came over the eastern edge
silver orbed in her glorious rebirth
he would be there lost in his gaze
like a moonman stuck on the earth!

Madly his eyes riveted on the sky
in pursuit of gain unknown
as if once unmoored to her he would fly
leaving this world disowned!

Hours passed by his wonder not ebbed
eased not the moon stalker's trance
it seemed to me moon's waning he grieved
mourned dimming of her silvery dance!

Each full moon saw this unfailing zeal
on the roof two lovers' meet
his eyes sky bound till he had his fill
the moonman on earthly transit!
 Mar 2014 Gayatri
Tim Knight
This body is a poor man's idea of grandeur-
and Talk To Frank says that confidence doesn't come in tubes,
pills nor injections, but when tomorrow morning you
feel like **** with a stomach-pit of methylamphetamine
and a head craving caffeine,
you'll disagree and say to him,

*Look, I talked to a girl I wouldn't normally talk to and we kissed.
 Mar 2014 Gayatri
Àŧùl
Merely Love Is Not So Strong At All,
It Requires Cementing From Trust,
More Hard Work Keeps The Promise,
Inputs From Romance Are Steroid,
Many Failed In This Hardest Exam.

Both Of Us Feel A True Form Of Love,
Happiness Tinkling At A Distance,
Bathing In This Elixir Of True Love,
Helping Live Each Other In Being,
Being Happy Or Happier & Happiest..

You Are My Antioxidant-I Am Yours,
I Am Living This Refurbished Life,
Yes You Are The One Who Loves Me,
I Have Committed To You My Life,
Your Youth Yearns My Experience...
My HP Poem #599
©Atul Kaushal
my woman I possess you in what way
what way I have owned you up to this day
are you just my need's flesh my hunger's food
are you only a play doll that must suit my mood!

my woman I own you in what way
what way I have dealt you up to this day
are you just my resting perch my end of day nest
are you only the banyan's shed beneath what I rest!

my woman I claim you in what perceptible way
what way I have famed you living up to this day
are you just my showcased pride on my finger a ring
are you only the need to be back home at evening!

my woman I say you are mine but how you do I own
what way I have nurtured you on you affection shown
are you just my desire's skin anchorage of my lust
what I have done to possess you your love and your trust!
 Mar 2014 Gayatri
st64
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.

    Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.

    Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.

    His hope: intermittent.

    To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.

    He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.

    He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.

    He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.

    He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.

    Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.

    Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)

    "Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."

    He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.

    Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.

    He has a special attitude towards terror.
Keith Waldrop
b. 1932

Keith Waldrop, who was awarded the 2009 National Book Award for poetry for Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy, has been a prominent voice in American poetry for over forty years.  He is the author of over a dozen books of poetry, prose, and translations.

Waldrop was born in Emporia, Kansas in 1932. He enrolled in the pre-med program at Kansas State Teacher’s College, but his studies were interrupted in 1953 when he was drafted into the US Army.
While stationed in Germany during the 1950s, Waldrop met his wife, the poet and translator Rosmarie Waldrop. He earned a PhD in comparative literature in 1964 from the University of Michigan and has taught at Brown University since 1968.  

In addition to being an internationally celebrated poet, Waldrop is a respected translator of French literature.
Waldrop’s poetry navigates concerns that are at once personal and philosophical by representing a world that is endlessly strange and fascinating.
There is, in Waldrop's work, a steady thought directed to the way that we make our way in the world by thinking and speaking. Where Wallace Stevens gave us the portrait of a man bothered by the march of ants through his shadow, Waldrop gives us the disturbances of the world in its representations.

Upon receiving the National Book Award, the judges said of Waldrop’s poetry: “If transcendental immanence were possible, it would be because Keith Waldrop had invented it; he’s the only one who could—and in Transcendental Studies he has.
These three linked series achieve a fusion arcing from the Romantic to the Postmodern that demonstrates language’s capacity to go to extremes—and to haul daily lived experience right along with it: life imitates language, and when language becomes these poems, life itself gets more various, more volatile, more vital.”
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