Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the
exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!”
Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types!
They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time?
How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones?
>
<
>
time is over
time is up
time is running
time flies
>
<
>
Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up?
  I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum?  
>...O darlings...<
…motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around,
>.. not stars..<
>...O… no..<  
Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind.
O…no…
Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever…
they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure.
<
<
<

The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise!
they laugh
and
laugh and
laugh
since
>
<
I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height.  shout, scream and cry, they were innocent,  don' t want to die.  I can hear them.
>
<
They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…
"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" is a poem by Thomas Gray, completed in 1750 and first published in 1751
when I saw you for the first time you were a dove on the branches shuddering with the sudden breath of sprite as white as pure snowballs
and………………………………………………………………………I
................................­.................................................................­!
days after visiting you reminding me a nightingale on the same branches singing glamorously although  comprehensible on some occasions and not very tangible on other times: hovering you upon the sky, upon the roof  was enchanting somehow
and......................................................­........................................................I
.......­.................................................................­....................!
later on, a tornado encapsulated the flight of a swallow in habit of severe immigration from the land uneasy to far and far while seeing the branches empty and songs silent tortuous the sight
and.............................................................­.................................................I
..............­.................................................................­...............!
years past and considering those days make me to reproach myself  that how wrong I was. only a butterfly sat on our written scriptures for a while never promise to stay a bit longer. Born  by spring will be die in winter night,
and.............................................................­...............................................I
................­.................................................................­.............?
when the  rivers green early in the morning of obscure season fountain up to weave the clouds blue, and the roses rouge give the arrayed passengers solemn hello, mild adores from Narcissus and lilacs make wild grass rhythmically flew,
when sun spatter gold ness to heart of people coming through
and  humid on petals remnant from past night rain shrewd  
to  make the robust mountain shine under occasion to give the blinking eyes clue
I will let myself to think upon you.
considering our doings during years like ghost forlorn comes and go
while it is neither spring nor summer day that smooth breeze opening the door to bid the winter’s storm out…out…
memories long, long… breaks out by strong typhoon, so…
I would be persuaded to assess:  my hard-hearted angle, on some occasions, maybe it is possible to forgive you!
Shall we stay for a while in the midnight on the bridge, the river beneath is dried?
Without you disturbing me further, annoying, or injuring my heart.
Shall we?
Shall I ask you don’t say even a word about being cruel or galling of love?
Neither do I  expect the romantic situation with burning stars, or smooth blowing breeze to pamper cheeks inwards…nothing … I expect for nothing.
What I wait for is only staying for a while. Be patient and calm enough to look at my eyes, someone whose crime is only loving you and ask yourself …why?
Why nightmarish tortures appropriate to her?
why?
to whom deserves the best
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade# English# poetry# about love#
Fill in the blanks with those vocabularies never ever found in usual discussion, daily comes and goes, never existed even on imaginary world of movies or books.
Fill in the blanks with noise.
Tumult of hallucination whizzing the sound of ambiguity through the sound of the gait of a man galloping smoothly in the long yellow brick route surrounds with fences never expose the way of redemption.
Fill in the blanks with choice.  
The last track of nightingale, maybe, dwells on the far branches of novel blossom tree of best spring with no worrisome regards countable, uncountable, passives, actives, adjectives or nouns.  
Fill in the blanks with skylarks of no boast.  
It is causative by its own, Imagery flying over the untrodden lands inspires the eyes overview the long hair singers hadn’t been observed before. Access is denied!  
Fill in the blanks with liberty of boost.
Aurora …aurora…. Some body calls. Pretending to be wise whole life, how nonsense it was. Being lunatic is secret of joy.
Fill in the blanks with wandering ghosts!
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade# English grammar#
The whole hills of high mountain are covered with pure whiteness, very shining gazing the eyes…
It is ****.
The pearl-like dandelions, I mean, cunning coming, cunning coming …dance and sing with the wave of whizzing band.
It is ****.
the land so far, remote and inaccessible, mountains are far elegantly standing upright,
I can't see exactly
where
pure whiteness carpets softly the zest…full of ****.
I was there if I exactly remember…
I was sinking in depth…
Walking…
Watching…
Running…
1000 miles around me had been surrounded with
****.
Now I’m here, in the land so far, remote and forlorn,
but I know on the zest…
there is  ****!
**** means snow in Farsi language
I want to wait, come and join me here until it becomes so
LATE
like a last moon of light in cloudy weather never burning bright
and disappears: never comes to its premier shield.  
Don’t be wandering
Wondering
Or in
Misbehaved shape. I want to be
LATE
till ...an event... destroys all fences
play the role of barriers between us.
Then
love bursts in spring reaction of a sudden blossom
and tears, non-stop
flowing on the land of juvenile since it is
LATE.  
we dance
On the spring rush of glancing love,
Gazing permanently
under the shadow of your silvery eyes,
where
No one has remained except you and us!
.
.
  To be a last singer, to be a last dancer…
in the scene of eternal love
wait...wait... to be
LATE!
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade#
Next page