"calligraph" poems
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
Believe everything has a life
look deeply into the eyes of it
connect your soul on what you are writing
make a feel of it
flow like a wave
follow the path it takes you to &
get lost into it,
Writing requires no education
it just requires a language to express
writing is a medium where we can express our thought
where every thought can be beautifully calligraph,
Dont write to earn money, as writing is not a profession its a passion
Dont write to gain popularity, as it will disrespect the love of poets
Dont write until you have a deep feeling of it, as deep feeling can be only put into words,
Write like its your lover
Write to cry in the pain of others
Write to be happy in the happiness of others
Write so that every emotion passes through you & every peak can be feel within you,
Everyone has got a pen
Everyone has got a hand
but everyone cant be a poet
a hand may look a solid thing
but under microscope it vibrates energy
and if an energy can be put into power to write
"You writing will be a weapon to make difference"
Be proud to be a poet
Fools may blame you its a waste of time
But a true poet knows, what writing is
Dont let criticism makes you fall down
as only your word can create excellence
you are original owner of your words
which nobody else can take it
And yes
" I am a poet"
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
Calligraph my heart with the bladed tip of your words
Fill your reservoir with crimson fluid and write
Write beautifully your words of pain so I may encase them in a cage of bones
And keep those hurtful writings forever embraced deep beneath my skin
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
sleep strewn loveliness sink in the
silence of this evanescent twilight —
a dream's citadel superimposed
in high calligraph.
shadow's monolith dancing away
from a mutiny of light. there is a gathering
here unknown,
as the moon fathers these
intimations doubling astonishment in
all limpid signs and praised symbols.
i see now clearly,
the lighthouse belle!
i feel more evidently,
the charring of the clammy water!
i ache more freely
as the stones are put in
equipoised trial - nudely manning the
coasts of dread!
to myself alone i sing
where all fires resurrected - here now,
close to dine the coruscation
of the vertiginous star heady on its way
towards the complete blackness of god's
face trilling behind numeral starscape—
small creatures standing on the
shoulders of dreams
mounting the dwarfed ******* of
mountains and aware of the river's
errant split.
against all light are the many toppled
dreams held together into makeshift amalgam, traced in outward light is
the vestige of the unwatched now
obscenely put into picture like the wind's contrapuntal waltz against the interstices of grass feasting in their moveable glee.
o, dreams and what if they are
curtailed to the bottomless notion
of ground's innocuous stare, to crumble
underneath the feet of the giant whom
i once knelt in front of, ravished, keeping worlds together like a mothering tongue
to day-scarred kindred, these words
thrown from the gather of clouds
formless shapes of inimitable rain,
the bells may be out of songs,
cathedrals too, wrung out of prayers,
oblivion yawns waiting for its
next guest— here in the dream
cradled in the shoulder of it
unharmed, untouched and only
deeply feeling for all that is
retained, walking in the Earth.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
getting real, no mere,
yet first, we shall
utter the unspeakable,
sculpt with our eyes
the faintest image,
hear silence's roundness
circumnavigate our mind's
trying verseliterations.
dream a dying thing;
a facelessness
nor a jell - thinking the
unthinkable,
so that in our desperation,
words morph into
anticipated things written
in lighted calligraph -
and with these, things unmoving
shall grow hands and commune to us
through transmogrifications
and cling onto us...
like a thing drowned in love,
or startled, whichever.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC