The hallowed turf is a six-seasonal
always one step ahead on Earth.
So exceptional a land is out of the box
acutely drawn down the Moon
and sublimely unique is written in stone!

A patch of land every star loves to touch
so much so the Mintaka know they can mirror
the pyramid on the surface of the earth
but not the tucked away zenana here
the planetary gem, the earth's gold dust:
Matches the lead Prophet's birthplace!

Open and globular star clusters
up above the mundane Himalayas peak look
diagonally into Sylhet down the Meghalaya stardust
eying on for a shortcut to Earth's gold dust
that only gushes out elixirs Abe Hayat.

Lovely sought after by the water nymphs
that won't tarry scurrying to the waterfront of paradise
in Ma, the space between, while the waxing moon
takes a waning pause only to roll down and croon
in deep tranquil, thaws the midnight moonlit blue pond
amidst silhouetted bamboos, the sun after a night pause,
there it blooms new again bathing in the morn!

Boarding in such a serendipitous moment, they dream,
carried out just these hidden elixirs in their pitchers
before Queen Fathima The Queen of Heaven.
Perfectly spherical she zeroes in the cosmic loop
and spills in the open sea one more colourless scoop
without a pinch of salt there the sunrise and set troupe
pause and lay in once again the most colourful swoop.

Up above heaven's Saal Saabila River
on the empyrean Moon, she hops on one foot
and down the evergreen Earth's spring dips a toe
without a shadow without a footprint, tone on tone
ties both worlds forever in bloom!

Blow the wrap off, score a preserved geometry
somewhere in Sylhet, even the Hebrew King David here
would offer his thousand and one melodic symposium
and King Solomon princely his whole affluent shebang.
'Cause the prevailing sun from heaven this time
could roll down on a palm simply like a handful of earth!

Oh, what will it land in Sylhet, the pearl of the earthy depth?
Art in light, the spark from the Earth's foundation stone?
Eyes gaze on so firm like the solid sky yet surge like kite
in the air looking here over a truly pristine drop of water
with the ocean is inside until it shows up down the blue sky
though rainbows oft pop out tantalising every looking eye!

The fairy that ascends then is a stealer no hand can touch
seven colours shine on a patch of blue unspoiled untouched
took on a meaning for Sylhet in a handful of earth
matching the soil of Makkah the centre of the Earth
the birthplace of the lead prophet Muhammad (PBUH)!
One who is in the know hops on the foundation stone
and rose to heaven in the Night of Ascension.

How a regular soil mirrors the very pivotal one?
The labyrinth is out of this world, relates to Queen Maab
let alone a native maestro that no genie can describe!
Every atom loves to discover the meaning of that
it knows the constant vibrations of the never-ending dance
keeping it on its toe the choreography comes from outside.
The feet are most polished and motions are butterfly dance,
still the canvas is blank, light one more candlelight!

Light a candle in Sylhet I wonder here the moonlight
spills through even into an atom's black canvas and the sun
lovely drops down on a handful of earth on the flipside!
Meet here the open future shows up at the Earth's hub
the moon's anew rallying to the untouching-sea
the Indian subcontinent's corner to the ancient wind!

Go with the southern breeze on play with the sun
here it colours the wind, gives it its Midas touch
and strikes a deal to part a silhouetted cloud.  
That a beauty spot raises the eyebrows of the day on a high,
on the shining face of the golden Bangla in broad daylight!

Hark the morning birds, follow singing deep in the midst
mellifluous-shrills fill the air unveiling the dream scenes!
Ah, the deep footed earth how mystique,
every morning the sun off the heaven's hill
lays in a new diaphanous gold-light-rug beneath it,
only to loose its colours in a colourless magic
let alone painting its footprint!

Every time is new numerates the bounties of our land
craving to sip in a dew-potion on our blossoming rose
cirrus clouds dancing over the seas here they drop
banish the midday blues singing the deep sea's song!

Nestled amidst the Rivers Surma, Kushiara and Monu
perched on the shades of the trees, each one is a canvas.
Returning melodic birds crescendo by the downstream  
hail from the autumnal breeze on the upstream.
Six seasons rebound alike leap and swing on the trees
unpacking their intricate and mesmeric fluid designs
often make a meal of the obvious and work of art alike!

Stunned angels on their way heaven taking one more sunset
potted in the starry bowl look back here at the wee hours.
They can hear pianissimo on this preserved perennial land
it never falls asleep is awake with a perfectly round
360-degree circle of spiritually impowered dynamos
dead but live on a different level Dervishes
keeping an ear on the hallowed Sylhet's ground.    
A deep-seated truth, rock-solid Shilahatta in Sanskrit
clothed in an enduring vesture minted Sylhet loops in
with the Hebrew Bible's Shalet, a ruler, a shield!  

A little drop makes the mighty ocean
likewise with one single word on the lips,
the maestros' great epics begin to be told.
Just with a mundane handful of earth
pristine Sylhet's masterpiece begins to unfold.

With the whole ball of wax keeping us onboard
lo, before the face of the Earth, it unveils the mirror!
With the whole nine yards on her least hold
believe it or not, Sylhet is cherry-picked chosen by God!

Sitting alone
in the hush of the bamboo grove
I thrum my lute
and whistle lingering notes.
In the secrecy of the wood
no one can hear --
Only the clear moon
comes to shine on me.

The Great Flood swallowed up the dark hosts and guests,
They had played havoc to His holy Sanctuary:
Pigs and snakes had their ransom set at stake,
Mimicry and mockery of His Plan had played rampant,
They had believed in the knowledge of wealth and pleasures,
They had stamped the wisdom from Above,
They had swallowed the poison of the forbidden fruit,
And had shrouded themselves with the attire of the serpent.
But the Great Flood buried them with their wealth and pleasures;
Yet the chosen ones were left in the Ark of Christ.

The serpent propped his head with venom on earth,
And he laid the red carpet on the way of mankind.
He crowned mankind with knowledge and philosophies,
And man multiplied his generation with multiple deformities.
He broke the Chain of Heaven and built chasm with the serpent.

‘Let us build a tower of protection from a great flood,
And shake the scepter of Heaven WHO shook our wealth and pleasures,
Let us call our king of the chasm and teach a lesson to Heaven.
Let us be united with one tongue to combat the Mighty Power,
Let our tongue be the whip of unity and take revenge ‘gainst HIM,
For He hath killed our ancestors who had strolled in wealth and pleasures.
Let us make the world ring into philosophies and superstition,
And found an empire on the logic of the skeptic ruler of earth,
Let us proclaim the tongue of the universe and rule the cosmos,
Let us make new creed and dogmas with the altar full of aroma.
The tower shall be the lasting umbrella beneath the flood of rains,
And we shall not be swallowed by the wrath of Heaven,
And He shall be ashamed of His act against His creatures.’

‘Let English rule the cosmos and reach the unreachable,
And all nations bind together with the knot of communication.
Let the Chinese prepare war; let the Japanese trigger robots;
Let the Europeans stroll in their obsolete glory;
Let the Africans brandish the swords made of bamboos;
Let the Indians realize ‘unity in diversity’.
We shall build an empire on English and bring unity,
And the cosmos shall utter the word of globalization,
And here, let us, believe in the strength on universality.
We shall reach the sky high above the clouds of rain
And rule the moisture and the breeze and save the earth from floods.’

They shoot arrows in the air in void and vain,
They shout of universality breaking the ties of individuality,
They remind the tower of Babel, and boast of their weakly strength,
They launch satellites and missiles and build the space centre.
They install the globalized lingua franca into computers,
They raise the flag of ‘victory’ and shout at laugh at ‘defeats’;
But they know not what victory and defeats are.
They land on the tower of Babel and brandish their swords,
They drown in the quagmire of sensuality and drink pleasure,
They build castles on the summit of terrorism.
The game of death hath begun, and every soul counts its days.
‘Where shall I go? What shall be unto me? What is the earth’s destiny?’
Questions arise from the deep of the deepest looking for answers.
The world studies mundane philosophies, but fails to understand the WORD:
‘Heaven and earth pass away, but MY Words never live from Eternity to Eternity.”

The head losing itself
A rainforest
Lake in the heart

Hundred tombstones
Named Narcissus
They Echo

Icy, bluish lungs
Pallid violet nails
Lips still yet loving

Salty bamboos
Necrophilic whistles
Siren's footsteps

Illegal loggers
Burying selves alive
Love, love that is

A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.

THAT HE SANG AT THE COUNCIL ROCK WHEN HE DANCED ON SHERE KHAN’S HIDE

The Song of Mowgli—I, Mowgli, am singing. Let
      the jungle listen to the things I have done.
Shere Khan said he would ****—would ****! At the
      gates in the twilight he would **** Mowgli, the
      Frog!
He ate and he drank. Drink deep, Shere Khan, for
      when wilt thou drink again? Sleep and dream
      of the ****.
I am alone on the grazing-grounds. Gray Brother,
      come to me! Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there
      is big game afoot.
Bring up the great bull-buffaloes, the blue-skinned
      herd-bulls with the angry eyes. Drive them to
      and fro as I order.
Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan? Wake, O wake!
      Here come I, and the bulls are behind.
Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his
      foot. Waters of the Waingunga, whither went
      Shere Khan?
He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that
      he should fly. He is not Mang, the Bat, to hang
      in the branches. Little bamboos that creak to-
      gether, tell me where he ran?
Ow! He is there. Ahoo! He is there. Under the
      feet of Rama lies the Lame One! Up, Shere
      Khan! Up and ****! Here is meat; break the
      necks of the bulls!
Hsh! He is asleep. We will not wake him, for his
      strength is very great. The kites have come down
      to see it. The black ants have come up to know
      it. There is a great assembly in his honour.
Alala! I have no cloth to wrap me. The kites will
      see that I am naked. I am ashamed to meet all
      these people.
Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan. Lend me thy gay
      striped coat that I may go to the Council Rock.
By the Bull that bought me I have made a promise—
      a little promise. Only thy coat is lacking before I
      keep my word.
With the knife—with the knife that men use—with
      the knife of the hunter, the man, I will stoop down
      for my gift.
Waters of the Waingunga, bear witness that Shere
      Khan gives me his coat for the love that he bears
      me. Pull, Gray Brother! Pull, Akela! Heavy is
      the hide of Shere Khan.
The Man Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk
      child’s talk. My mouth is bleeding. Let us run
      away.
Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly
      with me, my brothers. We will leave the lights
      of the village and go to the low moon.
Waters of the Waingunga, the Man Pack have cast me
      out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of
      me. Why?
Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is
      shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?
As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds so fly
      I between the village and the jungle. Why?
I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is
      very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with
      the stones from the village, but my heart is very
      light because I have come back to the jungle.
      Why?
These two things fight together in me as the snakes
      fight in the spring. The water comes out of my
      eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?
I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under
      my feet.
All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan.
      Look—look well, O Wolves!
Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do
      not understand.

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
      And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us
      At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
      Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
      Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.

Bamboos
Bend lithely
To strong winds

Sparrow's eyes
Speak of admiration

You may fall
But this, I tell you:

Broken reeds
Play great music

Hark Pan's story
Of his syrinx,
Beloved.

A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?

Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride
while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning.
We have at last seen the face of our god
which you have not even learned to utter
or never will at all.
Your intelligence gave you power that
failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers.
You built humans in just a sprinkle of *****
on to the skin of alligators and ants
on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant.
And you called them your sons
And you called them your kind.
The burrowed earths have no more riches
and they are left unpalatable to worms,
no more worms even
for even these decomposers
learn to tire feeding on your greed
no more shades of blue in the putrid waters
to which this bottle was thrown,
to which this letter longed to swim with your same species
that can never be in our family tree
for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil.
How we wished that your sons wished they
were with us in the time when
sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when
wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when
the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when
the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen.
How we wished they wished they knew.
How we wished they wished they saw.

fumbling callow lovers
clumsy and all too eager,
sit in the bamboo grove-

he tries to give, the first kiss,
on her trembling lips.
prankster wind's hands
vigorously shake
the bamboos in the grove.

bamboos sing in ecstasy
pining lovers  by and by
find the shore of pleasure,
merge in that symphony.

After rain the empty mountain
Stands autumnal in the evening,
Moonlight in its groves of pine,
Stones of crystal in its brooks.
Bamboos whisper of washer-girls bound home,
Lotus-leaves yield before a fisher-boat --
And what does it matter that springtime has gone,
While you are here, O Prince of Friends?

For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.

Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk’s bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.

Where wine flag catches the sunset
Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light

Comes then snow scur on the river
And a world is covered with jade
Small boat floats like a lanthorn,
The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin
they are a people of leisure.

Wild geese swoop to the sand-bar,
Clouds gather about the hole of the window
Broad water; geese line out with the autumn
Rooks clatter over the fishermen’s lanthorns,

A light moves on the north sky line;
where the young boys **** stones for shrimp.
In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.
A light moves on the South sky line.

State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?
Thsi is infamy; this is Geryon.
This canal goes still to TenShi
Though the old king built it for pleasure

K E I M E N R A N K E I
K I U M A N M A N K E I
JITSU GETSU K O K W A
T A N FUKU T A N K A I

Sun up; work
sundown; to rest
dig well and drink of the water
dig field; eat of the grain
Imperial power is? and to us what is it?

The fourth; the dimension of stillness.
And the power over wild beasts.

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning's white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,
We'll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.

Sky Afire

It started as a tendril snaked
And quickly caught my eye
That beckoned me to come partake
The bright majestic sky

From turquoise into indigo
And all the shades between
With molten lava spreading slow
As far as could be seen

With orange and corals juxtaposed
Against the deeper blues
And silhouetted trees in pose
Amid the great bamboos

The clouds were piled in tumbling flow
And darkened as they fell
To charcoal black, blood red aglow
At meeting with the swell

And as the skyflow met the sea
And seemed to melt within
The sea took on its vibrancy
And flow began again

And as the skyflood reached its peak
Engulfing and aflame
It seemed directly to retreat
As quickly as it came

The ashen grey began above
And slowly spread below
Till all was left in pumice drifts
Within its final glow

And now the show has ended
With the sky once more a sky
And the clouds and sea appended
For a witness such as I

3 Oct 2000

I am not a work of art. I don’t have that much beauty in me to help me create one. I’ve always wanted something that might help me with my works. Whispering trees, mocking buildings, silent pavements, weary soil; everything that used to work simply drives me numb now. Being too absorbed into my works for these past few months, I failed to notice a change so near that pretty much sparked me.

Who needs trees with their leaves of wire under the smoking mid-day sun to inspire your art if your standard of beauty lies near to you?

My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair, it went under his shoulder and always managed to fall graciously like  confounded summer leaves. The temperate air would sometimes brush it away from his face instead of his own two hands. My hair is short, dry, and plump. Hanging like a rope up to my chin only. One of the sole reason his hair is the thing I started to cherished the most, and had started to become my favorite object to paint. I still can see the shine glimmering strand by strand; framing his smile in a grotesque manner.

My sweetheart had a long, beautiful hair. It was a pity he did not like it as much as I did, despite taking care of it in the best way possible. I can still remember the unsettling shadow whenever he looked down and was darkened by the dim complexion of his soft raven hair. Always the peculiar inspiration to my art. He was a work of art, an original beauty.

My sweetheart had a breathtaking long hair, it had been an oblivious month or two since the last time I saw him, before isolating myself with tons of faded colors. His long hair ignited me, but gradually it tortured me, tossing me unimaginable fear for I could not paint it in its natural beauty. All I could think of was:

I might ruin beauty.

What a shame, I was filled with spirit before being frustrated all over again.

My sweetheart had a heartbreaking long hair, which he promised to cut sooner or later. My sweetheart had a melancholic long hair, a beautiful thing that led us to a mouthful argument and rough doublespeak. He shouldn’t have planned to cut it, I practically begged him to not to. I am lost within my mind, how am I supposed to continue working if the only thing that I was trying to paint went away?

I had a sweetheart who had a gorgeous long hair and I was a selfish imbecile and a stray soul.

I wouldn’t bear a single thoughts of seeing him without the dark curtains wrapping his head like the parlor of an old fortune teller.

How am I supposed to work with him?

The only things I have are these empty canvases, paint in the colors of tears, and paintbrush.

Paintbrushes,

Gather your material, prepare for the bristles.
It could be made of various materials,
Animal hair,
Such as:
Horse hair, from the mane and the tail,
Or any other kind of animals with long hair,
Needle trees and grasses,
Synthetic hair,
Human hair.

Second, prepare the handle of your brush.
bamboos, sticks from one's own yard are recommended,
For a professional look, we suggest doweling.

Next, select a strong adhesive to attach the bristle to the handle. You would have to spread the adhesive glue to the tip of the handle and attach it with the bristle.

After that, wait for the glue to dry before you carry on to the next step.
Find a strong material like metal or rope to bind the handle and the bristle together.

And there you have your home-made personal brush.

Despite making it in a rush and on a drunken heart, I pretty much loved the result.

If only you did not argue to cut your hair.
If only I could think clearly, better than this,
I could still see my sweetheart’s eloquent long hair in its most proper and beautiful form, to ignite my heart even more.
Not in the form of this ******, hellbound paintbrush I made myself in the most abhorrence manner.

I should not have gnashed your head to the tip of my easel after you told me your little desire of having a shorter hair,
I should not have been that ill-tempered, overflowing your head with warm red liquid.

Ah well,
My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair and a fresh thick blood.
At least I would still have the chance to work with him though I can see him no longer.
I have his soft hair attached onto my paintbrush, giving me the wildest dream,
And his blood in the color of blooming red Chrysanthemum,
It should not have happened,
But what could be better than this?

no man has seen him, but
when here, when making his grand appearance
the world prepares for him.

the trees are first to bow down,
bending their trunks and shedding their leaves
and swaying about their roots to royalty

the half-damp clothes on hanging bamboos prepare
with its fabric flapping to play a fanfare,
then sound off with a fluttering finale as he whistles by and leaves.

the angled windows then, as if by unanimous consent,
slam themselves painfully into perfectly parallel
posture – like soldiers in a straight file.

and in mirthful defiance, a wandering page of the news leapt
and caught the wind like a kite, riding the city
on its crests and troughs

When you’re off the shore there is an empty recap,
The mind who fell from the moon
And thoughts that struck the deepest of the depths
With memories and stories and a whole lot of emotions
Streams a new location for this resonating soul.
When the rooms get smaller and the boundaries –
Make no sense, there is the field you spoke about
We can go back, sip some tea and talk endless
Till the morning breeze kisses the red spot of your sky.
We were total strangers until the first lazy scribbles
But you spoke of bamboos and the music that flowed
With similarities and glee coupled with few lines of poetry
That you made me realize, life is worth living.
I know your son, your mom, your wife, your dad
I know your little girlfriend and your dear little diary
And I know the person who is ageless and nameless,
I know my friend, you are someone unusual.
When it rains, I know you’re coming to talk about-
Ganges, journeys and cravings and feel so excited
When you get the touch, that somebody is there
Destined to share the same feeling and the exact thrill
Of every moment and cherish memories.
Let us go back to the days- you the song and I the poet
And our days that we never shared
But we will someday meet at your ranch
Talk endless without the distress of judgement
And walk a little longer and paint red, red and white,
You can drive me home and I can drive you to endless letters.

Sun slowly peeps
sunbeams, yet to waken
sleepy eyes, minds

sky is gray this morning
several hours past a tremor

no wind to stir action
bamboos, fruit trees
are stilled

currently
awaiting movements
worse than 5.4
it's crazier,
awaiting aftershocks...



Sally

Copyright May 26, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

i'm sorry, embracing darwinism is an abandonment
of carpe diem: there is no way that
the anglophone world will ever fully embrace
existentialism, the anglophone world is
orientated around up-keeping their golden
quack's worth of the goose that laid
golden eggs in a grimm's tale -
    it will not pass me, even though i'm drunk
and half the spectator's worth of chant,
you're not getting "one" past me...
             why? it's simple!
            the english speak more shakespeare
than dante...
             and that's for starters...
     whenever i look at english t.v.
i'm less glutton & more anorexic,
    less political & therefore more docile...
the ******* nodding brigade.
  nod, sneeze, nod some more,
pretend it's head-banging, you *******
tickling peckham *****...
          *******, and **** your
ellie charlie and prince albert whatever you
******* call him of edinburgh
who could play that vampire, like he always
plays a vampire, that charles dance:
****** has a 11" ****'s worth of voice...
now come on, darwinism is nearing death...
    i'd prefer the idea of nibbling on bamboos
like some panda; you sure we didn't
evolve from bears, instead monkeys?
mono-apparent diet though...
come on, take it to ease up life...
             seems i has a lost sense of humour
running rampant...
     even the russians are laughing:
**** me: that's a joke in itself...
          moscow giggles?
    that really ought to come from a *******'
**** joke philander of breezes
smoking a cinnamon ridden pipe
with a jew on the side...
               kippah for a bowl?!
             what, jews are careless when saying
a joke, you being anti-semitic all of a sudden
while i say mine?
       chinese never slurped a noodle soup
while utilising chopsticks?! you sure
you didn't see grandpa ying-ju slurp
that chicken broth up?!
they didn't! bring in the french cuisine experts
regarding au jus!
*******, gonna boil them like,
wide-awake,
oh i've seen a chicken get decapitated on
a stump of wood, with the cannibalism
that ensued, while the decapitated head
rolled off the slub, lazy eyed while
the other chickens made a religion,
and pecked at the blood...
           silence of the lambs had its hannibal:
time for a caesar:
       concerto of lobsters....
           shrill... itching with a chalk pecker
on a blackboard...
so what's absurd with coupling darwinism
with continental darwinism?
well...
  man gets the monkey,
woman? she gets the black widow & the mantis...
that's what!
            i'm not not up for that sort of
gamble...
          someone should have said:
english darwinism does not couple well
with continental existentialism,
to be honest darwinism is the enemy of
existentialism...
   the two can't co-exist!
          we already have the thematics in
place with women:
the upper hand, given the numbers,
man resorts to monkey, woman?
   a black widow spider & the mantis...
   who has the upper-hand?
   english "existentialism" i.e. darwinism
is crude, obsolete, hardly revelatory -
tell you what's crude about "reality"
one man who just sat on a toilet,
another who sat on an armchair,
and another who sat in an electric chair,
walk into a bar...
                  what? there's no joke,
the joke is already stated in the disparity!
you don't reach the heights of existentialism
with a shortcut akin to darwinism...
you don't get that benefit!
        come on, get with it:
you already have enough fickle people
playing peanuts and gherkins with:
             god is dead: enter the dietitian;
you're busy, make a move at imitating
the icelandic peoples,
and incorporating an app. that tells your
mating partner, if you're at least 5 times removed
cousins: you know, so we don't get anymore
orangutan reminders in human form
(downs, eyes really close together,
can't miss them: the mad call them: 'ere
by god's grace... or that strange form of love
coming from a psychotic *****);
no, darwinism is really ******* in terms
of "trying" to catch up to continental existentialism...
darwinism in comparison to existentialism
is a neanderthal...
   oops...
       man gets the drumming monkey,
a girl gets the black widow & the mantis -
       and then we inherit the nag hammadi
trans- of everything without exception sexuality:
boy gets pink, girl gets blue...
and we're all happy gleeful
  passing st. peter with a ***** strapped to his head:
**** me... these "pearly" gates, look
    just like those gates of auschwitz!
can i just have the fate of those
concerto lobsters, please?
    i'd like to sing a song while boiling
within the zenith of a castrato exclaiming:
          i lost m'ah *****! yet i kept on singing!

She, resting on one leg
maybe
watching him

He, lying on grass
alive?
Could be dead

Breeze, waiving water
searching
bamboos and canes

They, doing nothing
are,
hours and hours

By Nabs

Cacophonies of sound, greeted us to this world.

For you, an angry guttural rumbles of disappointment.
Made courtesy of your father, whose glare would make your heart harden into steel but rot on the inside.
For me, was a choking silence that sounds too loud, too empty, too there.
But it was familiar and it was better than being completely alone.

The rain had been coming for a while.
Seeping into the marrows of our bones.
Drawing bitter smiles and bared teeth.
From two strangers that happen to collide with each other.

I want to say it was beautiful, but It wasn't.
War is never beautiful.

You were made from the finest china.
Crafted from ivory, patterned with delicate blue bamboos.
Your bones creaked at night, hollowed because life it self was nothingness to you.
So why would you let your self be filled with hollow?

You would rather let them filled you with glass
Shard of sharp fragment of others, pushing everything into your cup.
You tried to not mind how it gots cracks lining its smooth surface, how at some place it's chipped, and how it always on the verge of breaking

I can see you long for it, to just shatter.

I know I wasn't what you wanted.
I am not made of cotton candy or sunshine.
I am not full of the sweet words you long to hear.
I am not capable of being your light nor your saving grace.

But I can see you for who you are, isn't that enough?

"No it isn't", you replied with fury in your eyes.
"You dont know me", you spit.
"Dont pretend like you do!", you growled
As we battle each day, gritting our teeth and slamming our soul.

The noises that was buzzing in my ears sounded almost like a prayer.

You hated the cracks on your tea cup with vehemence.
At night when you feel asleep, tired from hating the world and yourself, you would dream of a world where you do not exist.
"Please", you screamed.

I find that too painful to know, so I just stabbed my self in the heart.
Bleeding out the warmth I felt, leaving me feeling like winter is coming.

"Do you remember how long this war had raged?"
I asked to you, when a sliver of peace wedged itself between us
You looked at me, and I looked straight back at you
You went quiet, lip pursed, shaking your head.
"There's no war".

It's raining bullets, a gift form you to me.
I cracked a smile, one that so very brittle and hungry.
The smell of gun powder eloped me, and I pretend that it was a hug from you.
I almost didn't catch your whisper,

"It felt like eternity".

The bullets felt more like flower petals, now.

We often dance this odd waltz of our.
Broken parts of our self, steps that retreats, pieces that are incomplete
Yet when we dance, you flashed this rare smile of yours.
The one that you tried so hard to forget because you told yourself, you don't deserve to.

So I wound you closer and closer, wishing that we could meld like this forever.
But forever existed after death, one of the thing we don't agree upon.
And this felt like eternity too, I wanted to shout.
But I didn't, and you walked back to your empty castle.

It's too cold outside for angels to fly.

Some day, I see my self splintered on your floor.
Lying beside your shattered mirrors.
Blood staining our hands as we gripped each other cages.
I wish this would be over, but I know Im lying.

We are caged, You and I.
Shouting pleas and prayer to be let out.
Soul stuffed in a heart shaped box.
Beating against our ribcage.

No amount of clawing could get us out,
for the keys have been lost in the mist.

The day I asked you to abandon your castle,
You got angry until I asked you to move in with me.
You had this awed look on your eyes
When, 'yes', slipped out your tongue.

A truce.

One I dearly wished would last beyond time.

I find you breathtaking.
A contradiction of shattered and whole.
An universe caged inside a fragile vessel
And yet you never realize that.

You always said that you are a monster.
One that said I shouldn't get close too, one I should have stop battling.
One that said they should've stop clutching me.
"I'm scared that I've decided to never let you go"

"I wont leave you"

When we lay beside each other,
I would trace your spine down to your back
Wondering how can't you see how beautiful you are?

The way your eyes are warm, despite your insistence that you are a cold *******.
The way your kindness shown through your mercy.
How tender your heart is and how you cannot hate God for chaining you to life.

You hated your self instead, as a form of repentance.

We are always walking on eggshells,
Of boundaries and blurred lines.
Playing skip with each other,
Waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"Why are you still here?", you said while cradling me in your embrace.
"Because I wanted to", I replied.
I didn't say the other reason.
The one that want to say it's because that you do not realize when you cracks, gold will ooze out to fix it.

I closed my eyes and inhale the scent of coffee, robust black coffee with a hint of mint.

" I'll always have your back, no matter the road you choose", I said when you got back to our home with red tainted feathers clutched on your hands.
You stared at me, gaze searching.
I stared right into your eyes, hands poised to knock at your window.
I knocked.

You took off your tattered mask,
I looped my hand around your neck.

"You do not need to shatter your self more just to be perfectly broken"

Sitting in a room 
Where only echoes are stored 
Thinking that without echoes 
All the voices on this earth 
Might have been dead at birth. 

You can wipe out all the voices with ease 
But what will you do with echoes? 
I know now why the bamboos are in the valleys.

Hills without a voice 
Gathering the echoes 
For a time drowned in silence. 

late comer did not hear the flute playing 
She only collected its echoes and left. 
The butterfly has gone 
The flutter still remains on the petals 

Listen to the stars carefully 
Their echoes have golden hues. 

Even when all the sounds are wiped out, 
The earth might live some more time 
By spending the echoes frugally. 

A truck have been spotted in the city 
Carrying echoes 
For making them impotent. 

It is impossible to predict 
What will happen to the voices 
Mortally wounded with bullets. 
All the dungeons of this world 
won't be sufficient 
To imprison all their echoes. 
00 
Poem By Veerankutty Mehfil

The day I lost my voice
I did not cry
I rejoiced.

The day I lost my voice
I gained an ear
I listened.

I listened to flowers’ whispers
To bees’ chatters
To bamboos’ laughter
To children’s banters and giggles
To moon’s  cries
To sun’s admonishments

If now, you plead me: speak
Please,
Don’t cry for me
Rejoice
Gain an ear
Listen

If now, you plead me: speak
Please,
Allow my heart to do it.

The new normal feels similar but not quite,
It’s a little bit of what was with what might be.
With it being neither wrong nor right,
It’s also full of what is and todays, the self now - me.

Indeed there’s the sensation of nothingness and everything,
Fluctuating yet definitely not flatlining.
The waves are complementing and not cancelling,
With it brings a whole new kind of vibe and ring.

As this is temporary, a trial, some sort of planned practice,
I hope to learn what I need to.
May I find some semblance of real and actual peace,
As, in this hole, I jump and hopes to come through.

Dawn prevaricates-
reluctant to break

But mynah beaks open
their cacophany amongst
rustling bamboos

Dogs stretch and yawn
nuzzling to run in the
relative cool

I wait

Let light encourage
Snake to slither home
to burrows, fat from
night feed
in they squeeze

Full moon round as cheese
sinks stately behind
the promontory

On turning
sun drips honey
over greened mountains

Five islands sit-
their time will come

As mine, alas
has gone

The west wind
whistle through the bamboos
A sharp stars
look through us

A memory of you
echos in the system
like truth;
it goes through us

Enter your collective and inner consciousness
Seek, deep inside, the energies within.
Take a deep breath and expect this rebirth
That this new era is slowly paving in
Be a part of this revolution. Breathe in.

Pénètre ta conscience collective et unique
Cherche, au plus profond, les énergies cachées
Respire profondément et espère cette renaissance
Que cette période est en train de mettre en place doucement
Fais partie de cette révolution. Respire.

Your body is light as a feather
Floating on a silver river
A delicate cherry-blossom petal
Trusting the wind to propel it forward
To the edges of eternity, for this voyage

Ton corps est aussi léger qu’une plume
Flottant sur une rivière argentée
Telle une délicate fleur de cerisier
Qui fait confiance au vent pour la mener à bon port
Aux confins de l’espace-temps, pour ce voyage.


Birds of a rare rainbow plumage hum a prayer
A song of gratitude and joy
Your eyes marvel at the sight
Of this inner zen garden, made home

Des oiseaux dotés d’un rare plumage arc-en-ciel
Murmurent une prière
Un chant de gratitude et de joie
Tes yeux s’émerveillent à la vue
De ce jardin zen intérieur, fait tien.

Emerald-hued bamboos form a cathedral
Of protection and wisdom that you pass
Cradled by the fresh stream on which you rest
Light, free, you continue your journey deeper

Des bambous de la teinte d’une émeraude forment une cathédrale
De protection et de sagesse que tu découvres maintenant
Bercé par le frais courant sur lequel tu te trouves
Libre et léger, tu continues ton voyage profondément

And deeper, moved back and forth by nature
A vivid orange koi carp salutes you, undulating
You feel her breath create air bubbles underneath you
And from within, you become a calming mantra

Au plus profond, te mouvant par la nature
Une carpe koï aux vives écailles orange te salue, ondulant
Tu sens son souffle qui crée des bulles d’air en-dessous de toi
Et, de l’intérieur, tu deviens un mantra apaisant

Resonating throughout this luxuriant garden
Alone and well, encountering your own self
Meditating in a pure, regenerative slumber
Stay there, don’t come back up into the world

Qui résonne à travers ce jardin luxuriant
Tu y es seul(e) et tu y es bien, rencontrant ton être propre
En méditation, dans un sommeil pur et réparateur
Restes-y, ne remonte pas dans le monde

For a few more instants of silence and unity
With nature and everything that vibrates within
You are carried to a waterfall of turquoise waters
Become part of this whole, color your own soul

Pour quelques instants de plus de silence et d’unité
Avec la nature et tout ce qui vibre en dedans
Tu es porté(e) jusqu’à une cascade aux eaux limpides
Deviens une partie de ce tout, colore ta propre âme

Vibrate an echo that is yours only. Let it resonate
As you come back up refreshed. Throughout the Earth
Be a channel of joy and happiness for the planet
And close your eyes, go back, to this enchanted place.

Vibre un écho qui te définit. Laisse-le résonner.
Alors que tu remontes, rassasié. Autour de toute la Terre
Sois ce canal de joie et de bonheur pour la planète entière
Et ferme les yeux, retourne, vers cet endroit enchanté.

Nancy, April 15, 2020. 12 :45 pm. 15 Avril 2020, 12h 45.

Hey, you.

I know you.
Aren't you the one who always lose her phone?
The clumsy girl walking around with a humongous stack of papers
Always everywhere at any given time
Making such a ruckus on the front seats,
blabbing and laughing loudly with your friends

You are all bright smiles and dead eyes

I know you.
Of course, I know you.
You're the creepy girl who always give smiles to a stranger
Always saying hello first
The one who tries so **** hard to stay awake in class
But never fails to snooze out on the fourth slide.
The girl who always lends an ear, a shoulder and a heart
Not for once get them returned back to you.
Have you ever wondered why things break more easily in other's hand?

Hey, you.

I care about you
What's the matter with those bags?
You are practically a panda.
Have the 7-day-straight all-nighter finally taken its toll on you?
You look so weak, sweetheart
A 19-year-old girl should not be this weak
You should be outside drinking sunlight
Wrecking the world with your group of little troublemakers.
Your eyes are tired and so does your brain.
Those arteries and veins, fraction ejection and all the types of arrhythmia
The numbers and words and pages and books to read, chapters to review, questions to answer
They will not go away
But you can.

Hey, you.

I am scared
You are slipping farther and farther away, I can barely recognize you anymore
When I see your face and stare into your eyes
I find broken shards
You feel bad for letting the day pass without turning a page
Beat yourself up for the hours went by without the facts memorized
What are you doing this for?
You used to love learning
Now, it's hard to breathe among the questions
You used to be alive
Now, nothing resonates within

Hey, you.
Please.

Take a seat. Wash your hair. Splash in puddles. Drink some tea.
Go hibernate like a polar bear!
Chew the bamboos, but get rid of the eyebags
Swim in the bathtub for hours and no one will disturb you
I will turn up the music so loud you cannot even hear your own wavering heartbeats
No one will hurt you
I will fight tooth and nail for your peace
When the world betrays and demands
My hands will bundle up your heart with the softest blanket
When the world whispers words of hate
I will scream declarations in your name
I promise I am here for you

The world can wait for your love
Your body should not
Shower it with attention
Drown in with care

Hey, you.
The girl in the mirror

I love you
I really do
Or at least, I'm trying to

Now the time and I are wasted
hell no, I'm trying to be good enough
to save your ******* respect
**** I'm not ready to disprove it
The world minds me when I saw your fault
I dont wanna lie to the lier
even I'm bad but acting be nice to you all
nothing is permanent
not even my heart
you wanna see the ****
so take my soul away
every one looks like innocent ****
no one helps you though
your bamboos are spreading
but let it be in legal
so unethical loyalty
I'm so dizzy
I'm a drunken yard you can spill your ****
and leave like nothing happened
cause your matter doesn't matter
my poor heart.