Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
my highway of regrets (only love poetry)

a transcontinental roadway connecting across oceans,
only in time measured, decades in length, he, distances,
adds daily, mile markers flying in, landing in factual order,
a differentiation, chapter headings, incidents and accidents
regretting the good, the bad, and the very ****

collection of mixte memories, carefree happy, some
funereal deaths, due, & yet outstanding, stone & steel,
miles & kilometers, trips of consequences, many are the
languages, seasons, and faces associated with
regretful tunes of longer agoes, highway markers of regrets

faces mostly all gone, some from this earth dead wet wiped,
some, in faint residuals soapy bubbles of the mind,
undecided if, when to dis- or reappear, or just forever burst;
these pinpricking triggers, some shiny, more rusted, fingers
target images/spheres that over fill the hippocampus

oh god, the greats, regrets, the faces of lovers/escapees,
driving from Genève to St-Tropez, on Route Napoléon,
unknowingly selecting  Bastille Day for our back country tour,
the stone mile markers gave no warning; making history, our own,
upon a yacht in the Greek Isles, the crew, our own, ours to command,
now ashamedly, I cannot remember the faces, names, the  lovers
now, called only with uncoiling sadness,  my own, my owned, them,
whose, when, and why, and how I regret my forgetting

the children lost to bitterness and feud, silenced by a wailing wall
double thick and impenetrable, living in an apartment whose walls
are photo albums of curses and lives poorly acted; oh god, why?
are there no exits on this highway, no rest stops for bad coffee,
we drive slow so the blurry memories seen in HD sharp living color,
all are billboards on my highway of regret,
a poem completely forever incomplete




10/9 ~ 10/10
2019
nyc
this is a poem was commanded every time I hear the words
“highway of regret”
“poet, it’s your day,” she says.

groggily growls the growler,
“what’d ya mean?”

“the sun came up today early,
but partly cloudy interrupt-us has arrived subsequently,
worse, the Great Swami Interpet predicts rain comes
heavy this afternoon on our journey home.”

he reflects upon his craggy, scraggly image that is
reflected upon the cold brewed black coffee.

replies carefully without thinking,
“today I will commence writing under
a new guise, a new name, a different persona!”

“whom shall we be today then?”

come back to bed revelation poet
how poems get plucked from trees of passing conversations and new poets
come into being...
writing poems of love from the lost and found

you go to the closet in the school office,
for having been realtime been schooled in the mischances
of ill-iteration of life enhancing love stories, teach says:

the only peace now to be find from another lost soul
in the cardboard box of one right glove and one left sock,
**** scarfs, mismatched two left ventricles, hats with lice,
sneakers good for nothing, but maybe some comfort for the lost,
for in the midst of the other miscellanies tales of lost one’s,
a match, good enough, can be found


makes no sense but perfect in its nonsensicality,
a word perfected script of his life, the chest pains too real,
to the gathering of the found, then lost souls, he retires,
perusal of assorted messes, textiles of the human variety,
a good enough accident will be stumbled on, hope restored

it is December and school is closing for winter vacation,
going home with one hand and one heart unsheathed
is not tenable, parent-able and just impracticable given
the coldness of isolation, a mismatched mitten selectee chosen

the yellow hell-o bus ride home is full of tortious interference,
the mismatching hand covering is an announcement of
‘please ridicule the loser’ that will be great, great fun,
I considering doing the undone, that hiding in the
lost and found for two weeks is mighty tempting and
a realistic possibility

slings and arrows of verbal definition slung and spat,
the general hysteria to his Travel & Entertainment account expensed,
but the gentlest shotgun tap of a hand upon his back, reveals a
folded scrap of a notebook page cornered in a cashmere gloved,
in her hand container, taken and secreted for in private-perusal

an address, an email unspoken written invitation to please contact
if you’re home, not going vacationing anywhere (ha!), me neither,
let’s get together, get married, have three kids, and get the hell
out of this frozen hearted land of misery

so I would like to tell you that is indeedy what happened,
so that is what I’ll tell you in fact, that,
that is exactly
what occurred with two more trips to the L & F
for different colleges, different coasts, different continents,
more lost and founds of accidental lost luggage meetings,
long distance loving worn down, too hard, lost, time eroded

till came the realization that love from the lost and found
might be a meant to be message, cause those words always end in
found
Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Th­is poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled " कौन है वह" published in Hindi Literary Magazine 'Himprastha' in July 2010
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

­Who stitched the moon and the stars on the sky sheet?
Who filled the *** of the earth with such a huge ocean?

Who grew the colorful flowers in the courtyard garden?
Who brought different kinds of creatures in the forest?

From where the butterfly hovering on the flowers came?
From where the beetle flying around the roses came from?

Who taught the birds to twitter such sweet sound notes?
Who made the cuckoo sung a melodious song from neck?

Where the force of gravity in the earth did came from?
Where the water in the flowing rivers did came from?

Who inhabited so many living creatures in the deep sea?
Who made the birds flew even at the height of the sky?

Who gave the cuckoo a sweet and the crow a husky tone?
Who gave heat to the sun and a cold shade to the full moon?

Who gave light body to the ant and a heavy body to an elephant?
Who gave wisdom to the wise and much wealth to the greedy?

Who plated the mountain peaks with multiple layers of snow?
Who made the diamond mines in so much depths of the earth?

Who filled the clear waters in the chest of hard rocks?
Who induced the innocence in the small little children?

Who is he? How is he? who made such a beautiful world
He is GOD, self-proclaimed, who made the whole world

He has no end and has no beginning, he is omnipresent
All this is God's Illusion. This is Illusion of the Almighty

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^^^^^^^^^^^^^
कौन है वह ?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^^^^

अम्बर की चादर पर किसने टाँके चाँद सितारे
धरती की गागर में किसने भर डाला सागर

उपवन के आँगन में किसने रंग बिरंगे फूल उगाये
जंगल  के प्रांगण में किसने भांति भांति के प्राणी लाये

पुष्पों पर मंडराती तितली भला कहाँ से आयी
फूलों पर मंडराते भौरें भला कहाँ से आये

पक्षियों को कलरव गीत किसने है सिखलाया
कोयल के मधुर कंठ से किसने गीत गवाया

पृथ्वी में गुरुत्वाकर्षण का बल कहाँ से आया
नदियों की बहती धारा में जल कहाँ से आया

सागर की गहरायी में भी किसने जीव बसाये
अम्बर की ऊँचाई में भी किसने पंछी उड़ाये

किसने दी कोयल को मीठी, कौए को कर्कश वाणी
किसने दी सूरज को गर्मी और चन्दा को शीतल छाया

किसने दी चींटी को हल्की और हाथी को भारी काया
किसने दी ज्ञानी को बुद्धि और लोभी को भारी माया

पर्वत के शिखरों पर किसने हिम कि परत चढ़ाई
पृथ्वी कि गहराई में किसने हीरे कि खान बनाई

चट्टानों के सीने में किसने भर दिया निर्मल पानी
छोटे-प्यारे बच्चों में किसने भर दी नादानी

कौन है वह? कैसा है वह? जिसने सुन्दर जगत बनाया
वह तो प्रभु है, स्वयंभू है, जिसने सारा जगत बनाया

आदि न उसका, अंत न है, सर्वत्र वही तो छाया है
यह  तो  माया  है प्रभु की,  प्रभु  की   है यह सब माया

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Let's Find Out, Who is HE?????
"I LOVE YOU"
is not enough,
It should be shown in the pattern of devotion for the things you do for each other.
15/9/2019
~for Sreetama Chatterjee, granddaughter of Pradip Chatterjee~

A first time grandfather observes,
“that one path ends, a new one begins”

A philosophy, an observation shared,
one that I am, in multiplicity acquainted

Sources inform me that Sreetama is
of Sanskrit origin, the meaning is
“gift of god”

how wonderful are the mysterious coincidences in this world!

For my Hebrew name,
Netanel, given to me at my birth, the meaning is
“gift of god”

Sources inform me that name of Sreetama has given you
the desire for creative, artistic or musical expression
in an original way.

I can pretend to be surprised, but who would I fool?

you, granddaughter of my friend, an esteemed poet,
Pradip Chatterjee,
who delights in you,
you, an exquisite of the small
you, so powerful already,
that he has shelved his writing,
(temporarily I suspect)
to tend to your upbringing

You, so powerful already,
you, will break his will, command his attention,
demanding, bringing out his issuance of a thousand poems,
all revealing and reveling in your mastery,
over him!

You, so powerful already,
in secret concert, listening secretly,
already composing silently, smilingly,
awaiting the arrival of your fine,
very fine, motor skills,
to grasp, own! his writing utensils,
with the strength of a child insistent

You, feeling the power within those instruments,
sparking a commencement and a continuation of
the generational gift residing in your senses

I await those artistic creature creations
most impatiently...

—————————————————————————————
“the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,
poems.”

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3299027/pradip-im-a-charming-man-with-a-fragile-patience/

<>
छोटी की उत्तमता
[ *~ बालिका श्रीतमा चटर्जी के लिए कविता ~
]

प्रथम बार दादा ने महसूस किया,
"एक पथ पड़ाव तक पहुंचता है, एक नया प्रारम्भ होता है"

एक दर्शन, एक अवलोकन साझा करता हूँ
जिससे मैं भली भांति परिचित हूँ| कई गुना

स्त्रोत बताते हैं कि शब्द 'श्रीतमा' संस्कृत मूल का है,
जिसका अर्थ है - "ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद";

दुनिया में होने वाले रहस्यमय संयोग, कितने अद्भुत हैं!
मेरे हिब्रू भाषा के नाम - 'नेटानेल'

जिसे मेरे जन्म के समय, मुझे दिया गया
उसका भी अर्थ यही है - " ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद"

मुझे, सूत्र बताते हैं कि 'श्रीतमा' नाम ने तुम्हे
रचनात्मक, कलात्मक या संगीतमय -

अभिव्यक्ति की इच्छा दी है
बिलकुल नैसर्गिक और मूल तरीके से।

मैं आश्चर्यचकित होने का नाटक कर सकता हूं,
लेकिन आखिर मैं किसे मूर्ख बनाऊंगा?

तुम, मेरे दोस्त, एक सम्मानित कवि,
प्रदीप चटर्जी की पोती हो

जो तुम्हे देख कर प्रसन्न होता है
तुम, छोटी हो, श्रेष्ठ हो, उत्तम हो

तुम पहले से ही इतनी खुशनसीब हो कि,
उसने अपने लेखन को रोक कर दिया,
(अस्थायी रूप से, ऐसा मेरा मानना है)

केवल और केवल
तुम्हारी अच्छी परवरिश के लिए

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम उसकी इच्छाशक्ति को मोड़ सकोगी

उसके ध्यान को अपनी ओर खींचकर
अपनी महारत से उसके भीतर

हिलोरें मार रही हज़ारों कविताओं को
रहस्योद्घाटित होने का अवसर दे सकोगी

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम चुपके से धीरे धीरे सुन रही हो

तदात्म्य स्थापित कर रही हो
चुपचाप रच रही हो, गढ़ रही हो

इंतज़ार कर रही हो, समय आने का
अपनी मांसपेशियों पर नियंत्रण होने का

जिससे तुम लेखनी को पकड़ सको
सुदृढ़ता के साथ नियंत्रित कर सको

कुशलता से उसका उपयोग कर सको
एक बच्चे की ताकत और जिद के साथ|


तुम उन उपकरणों में निहित शक्ति महसूस कर रही हो,
जो शुरुआत से ही निरंतर तुम्हारे भीतर,

स्फुलिंग उत्पन्न कर, तुम्हारी इन्द्रियों के भीतर मौजूद
पीढ़ीगत उपहार को जारी रखते हैं

मुझे तुम्हारी उन कलात्मक, जीवंत कृतियों का,
इंतजार है, अधीरता के साथ, हाँ, पूरी अधीरता के साथ|


Many thanks to Shiv Pratap  Pal for his translation, advice and exquisite attention to the smallest detail.
Next page