"couplets" poems
Well you see the thing to understand is poetry is a gospel to the world.
At first you feel as if it is oppressive chains tying you down to the soiled earth with every simplistic tick tock.
That is at least until you discover this world has no rules for an adventurer of free verse.
Your words now flow like an expeditious brook as long as you use metaphors with pretentious words.
However rules exist it is plain to see.
Some poems go aabb.
Those are simple ones to find.
Those are the ones stuck in your mind.
Now one more step, aabbc.
Those are a little more artsy.
You draw your crowd in.
Get under their skin,
And finish a little bit different.
And now it's time for set number three.
One that can simply astound.
The great, magnificent abab.
Those make a poet nearly profound.
There are couplets, sonnets, and monoryhms.
And now for the last one, all in good time.
I wanted you all to hear them like chimes,
But all that I had I left you in these lines.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 11:26 PM UTC
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
*Her eyes are a metaphor,
a conceit, fantasy
No shakespearean sonnet
even a lyric, will suffice
to describe the elegance she carries
Her smile, the greatest curve,
all simile will be denied
Haikus and couplets
even the long ones
will not be enough
Her laughter is a song,
a perfect harmony and melody
She is neither a hyperbole
nor full of irony
instead she is perfect rhyme
She is a walking poetry
a personification of aesthetics
Almost an abstract
unfathomable beauty
out of the ordinary*
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
K-popper Psy
Buzzing like a pesky fly
To out do his "Gangnam Style" hit
But you can't polish cat ****
*Clerihew
A Clerihew is a comic verse consisting of two couplets and a specific rhyming scheme, aabb invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956) at the age of 16. The poem is about/deals with a person/character within the first rhyme. In most cases, the first line names a person, and the second line ends with something that rhymes with the name of the person.*
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
As a child I was taught poetry
the quiet writing of feelings reflections
often in a beat with a rhyme and a few examples of alliteration
I was taught that as a woman my feelings
should be hid and kept quiet
that when I liked a boy it was not my place
to ask him whether he liked me back
I was taught to look out for myself by not dressing slutty
not walking home late at night
I was taught that my curvy figure would make people
question my morals my virginity my character
I was taught that as a girl I won't be as successful in math or science
I was taught to give myself to other pursuits
in liberal arts or domestic dealings
I was taught that even if by some miracle I found success in the fields where I "wouldn't be successful"
that I would and should give it up in a heart beat to raise a family
I was taught that I must share my feelings
my emotions my struggles
but not in a loud and open way
I had to remain quiet cool composed
Poetry was to be my outlet, written in couplets sonnets and verse
quiet and held inside written on paper
stored away from the world
to be read inside the mind
by others- men, teachers, parents
in order to decode me
and learn how to
keep
me
silent
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Sweet and seductive
The twilight
Can I come in?
No need to worry
Frustrated moments
Tempting lies
Please don't scream
I'll be discrete
Caresses recollected
Old embraces
********** and bathos
Fur instead of hair
Movements in a mirror
Time for breakfast
The appearance of a peach
Fried sentences
Scrambled words
Rhyming couplets
Tea and coffee
Contradictory conversations
Flee from open mouths.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
My Solace
when every aperture is a tunnel narrowing,
a light pin diminishing when nearing,
when the desk drawer yields up unused theater tickets,
for performances concluded yesterday,
when the denouement is nothing new but worse,
revealed in the coming attractions trailer,
when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,
Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,
I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,
my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
When I decided to write my first poem, I thought back to the days,
when we were studying poetry and the teacher would amaze,
she'd make me write down words and things, I'd be chasing praise.
But looking back at my book now, I know what I should do,
and so here follows my glossary of things I'll write for you:
I have - Alliteration, Antagonist, Allegory and Anapest.
Characterisation, Complication, Convention and Connotation.
Elegy, Elision, Epigram and Exposition.
Free verse, Falling action, Falling meter and also Fiction.
Literal language, Imagery, Lyric poem and Irony.
Rising action, Resolution, Rising meter with Recognition.
Acatalectic, Anacreontic, Amphimacer and Amphibrachic.
Cliché, Common Measure, Couplets and Catalectic.
Deconstruction, Dispondee, Dialect Verse with a Dictionary.
Iambic Meter, Incantation, Impromptu with Inspiration.
Laureates and Limericks, Light Verse poems and Linguistics.
Metaphors, Mock-Heroics, Middle English and Movement Poets.
Oh gosh that seems a little worse, than I had it made to be,
I was expecting just to write a poem 'bout my cat and me.
I guess it's harder than it looks so I'll just give up now;
I'll let those big brave poet people, write them all somehow.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
Translations of Urdu couplets by Mir Taqi Mir
Sharpen the barbs of every thorn, O lunatic desert!
Perhaps another hobbler, also limping by on blistered feet, follows me!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
My life is a bubble,
this world an illusion.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Selflessness has gotten me nowhere:
I neglected myself far too long.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I know now that I know nothing,
and it only took me a lifetime to learn!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Love's just beginning, so why do you whine?
Why not wait and watch how things unwind!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Translation, Urdu, couplets, Mir Taqi Mir, Meer Taqi Meer, desert, feet, life, world, illusion, selflessness, neglect, knowledge, learn, learning, love, India, Indian, mrburdu
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
What's
the difference?
I know, teacher,
wait, I know, I know, I know...
Morphic resonance.
Try it.
No response. Wait, I know,
suffer it to be.
So far, so good.
We dit dit da did it.
Six couplets,
sown as stitches.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
god, words, where do you start?
when i get like this, i just write my thoughts
is that the same as speaking from the heart?
what heart, what heart?
this thing that beats against my ribs
i'm sure it's just a hollow shell;
pumps blood and oxygen
allows me to live through this hell
but there's nothing more to it
i'm not doing so well
do rhymes make pain sound simpler?
i have a bad habit of using them when i'm heartbroken
rhymes are used to undermine meaning, according to my old English teacher
half rhymes and nursery rhymes and rhyming couplets and sentences left open
to interpretation, to ambiguity, to aching wounds and clinical analysis
i'm thinking of pretentious hipsters and all my therapists as i'm writing this
"the mechanism which allows you to feel is broken"
it wasn't the best movie but that line stuck with me
i think the mechanism which allows me to feel is broken
don't worry, Harry, i know how you feel, Harry
i, too, use the adverb; i, too, feel badly.
the sharp things that cut me, the dull things that bruise me
everything i should feel is either absent or agony.
love, they say; let love in, she heals your thoughts and broken skin!
fickle ***** she is, what lies i've heard her spin.
do you love me when you lie to me, darling love o' mine?
do you love me when you trace your fingers over the nubs of another's spine?
love o' mine, love o' mine, that Touch was supposed to be mine,
divine, divine, beloved and reverent and MINE
it's a good thing i don't want to hold onto you anymore
the rope burns were finally sleeping into my core.
my god, these splinters, i'm bleeding from my fingers
as i try to reach out for something that isn't withered,
because the flowers that you bloomed are shrivelled and abused
i refuse to water them, give them life anew
does that make me a murderer?
well you murdered them, too.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
*i see you
in the magnificence of your aura
and in your splendour
a supple aesthetic comma
with cupped hands
i see you
scoop up the water and let it trickle through your fingers
even as the weaver birds chatter ceaselessly outside
i see you
in that magical moment, a rainbow on your *****
as the fine rose sprays your body with resplendent water
in a wondrous fusion of sun, water and glowing inner warmth
i see you
break into a lyrical smile brimming with beauty and belief
and i think to myself
you're the story still to be conceived
the epic poem in heroic couplets in the making
you're the holy grail men have sought in their pilgrimages
i shall create a chant and a mantra in your honour
even as your person and your image vanquish me
and that's what love is
you're consumed by your mate in the fashion of the black widow
a ravenous spider that eats love*
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC
Norman Stevens
Always gets evens:
Reads my stuff on his smart telly.
Go on Norman, give it some welly.
There you have it, a Clerihew,
Oh what an how to do,
Very silly, very true.
Why I love them, I haven’t a clue.
Time now for another brew.
As I’ve said before:
Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.
Paul Butters
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
I love to sit in the bogs
and listen to the frogs
I love to hear the sound
as they hop upon the ground
Their croaks "music to my ears"
it always brings me to tears
The place I like to romp
inside the darkened swamp
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC
Making love to my poems
making memories that last forever,
come sit beside me and let
your words be mine forever,
Let's wipe away the tears
of yesteryears ,
modern words activates the sound of your voice
words of where are.. thou,
and thou shall ....is dead and buried.
Who are you ?
Where did you come from
My shining star
Forgive my grammar,
forgive my nouns
however, you can read between the lines
as you your hands slipped off the key board and onto my legs
and it became long verbs.
my uncontrollabe fingers nervously trace each pronouns
as I cried out "my God, "oh my Lord,
Come into me, come into me,
shield me from all the adjectives
I felt the couplets of a word forming
suddenly, my train of thoughts turn to L'Allegro
A Haiku comes together,
It is very cold
on the dark side of the moon
moon peeks through black clouds:
Or
like burning desires to perform an illusion
of tigers mating under in the hot sun
as the female purrs unleashing the animal within man
Music, ecstasy, is what I am feeling
I am blind my love,
you are so ******* kind to me,
Yesterday is dead
Tomorrow is promise to no one
so there's nothing to fear
hurt me with your words,
like alliterations as I make love to my poems
only my eyes can see your beauty
with each line, meter, tones and sounds
hiding your feelings from others is my destiny
to preserve you,
let your warmth be a challenge
of spoken words as I orchestrated
an euphony...
Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh dun duh
"How do I love thee let me count the ways....Quote
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
It positively affects my mood.
I become more independent of the society, I help people with their stuff and entertain them with my poems, stories, couplets, jokes, essays, songs & guitar.
I also take to first-hand social service whenever possible and I've also taught some underprivileged children & imparted elementary education to them.
I get my poetry ideas from this activity.
I think & feel differently about the world.
I look the others into their eyes with piercing confidence and I think you never had that confidence.
I feel stronger & more in control.
My appetite has greatly improved from being a poor eater in my childhood to a healthy eater in my adulthood.
My virility isn't affected at all and instead, I gain more stamina and manliness; my tool is strengthened.
My imagination power, IQ and hence smartness is also increased - believe me these have actually increased.
I cleared 9 & 10 examinations in my engineering degree two different times at one attempt each and my response time is greatly improved.
I become more confident.
My strength isn't reduced, but I go to the gym and I exercise as good as others.
My power & force are perfectly normal.
My eyes are shining bright, dark black in the middle of pure white.
I have never got any dark circles.
It takes me no more than 10 minutes to recover completely, it depends on the body about how it performs.
Over-use of anything - even oxygen as it oxidizes body & mind - is utterly harmful.
Quality has become thicker & brighter each day I exercise.
So keep hands on your tools than some ****** books blaspheming against the new-found rage.
Consult an expert instead of developing your own stories or believing the same old ****** stories.
Everything has a limit and within that limit, it is extremely enjoyable.
Just one last tip: Keep yourself humane with yourself & don't become a dumb & helpless addict to get embarrassed in front of your family one day.
Now if you feel that I'm spreading blasphemy & bad thoughts, you may please stop reading my poems instead of cursing me in vain.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
1
I journeyed through valleys and over hills
I travelled my whole life searching for thrills.
I walked through forests and followed the star
from my humble doorstep I’ve wandered far.
I‘ve seen sunsets on fire that light the sky
white sand beaches where the palms grow so high.
I’ve seen the wild stag in dawn’s early light
dew covered flora magnificent sight.
I’ve crossed over deserts in scorching heat
sailed the world’s oceans and would not be beat.
Climbed snow covered mountains pack on my back
lived off the land there was nothing I lacked.
I followed the rivers and followed streams
the journey I’ve taken fulfilled my dreams.
2
The valleys were battlefields soaked in blood
nothing but horror souls drowned in the mud.
The forest was burning smoke filled the sky
I couldn’t see stars to be guided by.
My home is now rubble raised to the ground
I wander searching but peace can´t be found.
Red sunsets replaced with smoke blackened skies
war ravaged beaches where young men just die.
Oceans and deserts, just warships and tanks
guns on the high ground fire down on the ranks.
Rivers polluted fish dead from disease
they’ve killed all the wildlife cut down the trees.
This journey’s a nightmare of blood and screams,
War! So evil, it’s for peace that I dream.
3
I cast my eyes back from their autumn days
journey is over but memories stay.
I retrace and relive the sights I’ve seen
back through the forest as though in a dream.
Back to my home where I wish I had stayed
back to the junction where my choice was made.
Back with nature embraced in her splendour
choosing a path without any detour.
We all have a choice which path should we choose
we all choose the one with nothing to lose.
I chose goodwill, love and peace for mankind
t’was not the easiest path I could find.
The other path showed me what would have been
this second path war-torn, and so obscene.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
But I’ve got no rhythm tip toe around the precision of other writers
I get lost easily in the waves of patterns and structure
Rupture my skin in the process
Destroying words and phrases in the mess of my skin and blood
Dragging myself through the mud I am a jumble of words that don’t even fit together in sentences
My types of fetish’s aren’t feet or latex, but poetry
Supposedly everyone can rhyme but
My fingers can find the time from the space between pen and paper
Maybe if i cover my room in wallpaper made from failed poems
I’ll finally get there
Rip out all my hair
I’ve never successfully written rhyme worth sharing
I’ve been in this despairing state for a while
Ran miles on my tongue
Wrung myself dry from all my creativity
Found I have a bigotry towards everything I write
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I ask for an example
Sample sounds on paper
Ending up with ample amounts of couplets
But its never enough, its always going to fall short
Someone needs to take me to court I’m copying the sound of other writers
Profound thoughts never said eloquently enough
It’s rough to be a writer that doesn’t know how to write
But I’ve never been the type to give up
Cover up all my failed attempts at rhyming with free-verse
Curse me, Or even worse
Coerce me into thinking I know what I’m doing
Because whats worse than blissful ignorance
Hand my a fistful of advice and set me free
But I’ll never be the girl who rhymes rhymes
My fingers will never find the time lost between pen and paper
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
Sometimes they nearly get their wish
But all dreams parish in jumbles of words in phrases
Blaze through whole journals trying to write two poems
Crumbling my own thoughts in my too fast thought process
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I still with pencil and paper
Set out on this caper
With a website that gives me words that rhyme
I’ve decided to let people get their fix
Try my hand at rhymes
Take my time
And slow down my too fast thought process
Soak up all my creativity
A rid my mind of every bigotry I ever had
Because the girl who rhymes
Will always be the girl who rhymes
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.
Remember Johnny Giles
A player with all the wiles.
In midfield he did scheme:
For Leeds he was a dream.
Nicole Scherzinger,
What a messenger.
A Friend so loyal,
Regally royal.
Oh Nick Clegg,
Why did you have to beg
For a Tory-led Coalition,
Sending the Lib-Dems into Perdition?
(PS) All hail be to great Don Newton,
Always had a winning solution.
Played table tennis with flashing blade,
A Legend that will never fade.
Paul Butters
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
A midnight poet,
she calls herself.
Because the cascading words,
come to her
wrapped up in shiny moonlight,
served on blankets of darkness,
stars dusted lightly on top.
Her inspiration
rides the midnight breeze
swiftly and gently
to her window,
waiting patiently for her
to lift the glass up
and greet them warmly.
So there she sits,
next to the open window
waiting for the perfect moment
to say hello.
To invite her loyal inspiration in
for some midnight tea,
and although she says
she’s not fond of midnight snacks
She pours herself
a steaming mug of metaphors
and serves couplets
with the drink.
After a comfortable chat,
Inspiration takes its leave
out the window
on the breeze in which it came.
And so the girl
is left lonely once more,
but not truly alone.
She has her words,
her rhymes,
her metaphors,
and her couplets
to keep her company
as she forms it all
into beautiful verses
that capture the heart.
As she sits by her window,
the midnight poet
notices how soft the sky looks,
dark and freckled with stars.
The sweet sky comforts her
as she mourns her bitter loneliness into verses,
or envelops her in maddening, exciting emptiness
as she writes
or simply sleeps
by her window.
The midnight poet
sighs gently
catching the wily night’s attention
And draws poetry from its
calming,
yet sly,
grin.
The girl catches falling stars
made of verses
from her pretty window seat.
She finds lines tucked behind faraway planets,
makes metaphors from the moonlight,
comfortable in the darkness’s embrace.
The midnight poet
coaxes poetry from the freckled night sky
And tucks it into her pocket
For safekeeping.
To keep
as an ever loyal
companion.
A reminder
of her home.
A poem of the night.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:42 AM UTC
I wasn’t born to write
With every bent petal,
and every fallen leaf,
my ma’s sweet kisses
And papa’s gentle smile
I learned to write
A five year old me was once fascinated
by the loop of an ‘e’
and the playful swing of an ‘m’,
The wide smile of a ‘d’ delighted me
Words were powerful and mesmerising,
now they lie discarded and ignored
in broken stanzas of self proclaimed irrelevance
I watch the black ugly marks
That taints countless sheets of paper
They surround me in a sea of ink
That once flowed carefully and slowly
A thousand thoughts with each single word
Drained lies my mind, my breath’s not a whisper but a plea
My heart pumps blood not ink, I’m not a poet, it says
Incoherent scribblings mock me with their existence
As a child, confined spaces scared me
But now, a confined mind petrifies me with just a glimpse
A pen stays gripped in my hand
I wonder what it fears more
My inability to let the ink flow coherently
Or my arrogant ramblings, regardless
And fearless of consequences
While I stumble on disjointed verses
A paper aeroplane is my best accomplishment
In my two hour search for freedom and thought
Who cares for pretty words and mystifying couplets?
When the idea of a paper boat seems much more exciting
-പ്രിയാന്ഷി ദാസ്
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 8:05 AM UTC
Nida Fazli translations
Apni Marzi se
by Nida Fazli Shayari
translated by Mandakini Bhattacherya and Michael R. Burch
This journey was not of my making;
As the winds blow, I’m blown along ...
Time and dust are my ancient companions;
Who knows where I’m bound or belong?
Original Poem:
Apni Marzi se kahan apne safar ke hum hain,
Rukh hawaaon ka jidhar ka hai udhar ke hum hain.
Waqt ke saath mitti ka safar sadiyon se,
Kisko maaloom kahan ke hain kidhar ke hum hain.
Failures
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I was unable to relate
the state
of my heart to her,
while she failed to infer
the nuances
of my silences.
Every Day and in Every Direction
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Everywhere and in every direction we see innumerable people:
each man a victim of his own loneliness, reticence and silences.
From dawn to dusk men carry enormous burdens:
all preparing graves for their soon-to-be corpses.
Each day a man lives, the same day he dies.
Each new day requires the same old patience.
In every direction there are roads for him to roam,
but in every direction, men victimize men.
Every day a man dies many deaths only to resurrect from his ashes.
Each new day presents new challenges.
Life's destiny is not fixed, but a series of journeys:
thus, till his last breath, a man remains restless.
Couplets
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It was my fate to entangle and sink myself
because I am a boat and my ocean lies within.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You were impossible to forget once you were gone:
hell, I remembered you most when I tried to forget you!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Don't squander these pearls:
such baubles may ornament sleepless nights!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The world is like a deck of cards on a gambling table:
some of us are bound to loose while others cash in.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is a proper protocol for everything in this world:
when visiting gardens never force butterflies to vacate their flowers!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I lack the courage to commit suicide,
I have elected to bother people with my life a bit longer.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: Urdu, translation, translations, love, heart, state, life, death, destiny, fate, breath, mrburdu
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 5:16 AM UTC
a scratching modest,
not demanding or shrill,
the need is not great
but persistent,
the urge asks politely
for satisfaction.
if you would be so kind sir,
perhaps my dear,
you could find it within you to,
accommodate a humble request.
write us a poem about nothing,
this bequest,
about this or that,
need not be rant nor praise,
observe, distinguish, or separate,
let It be about nothing much at all.
let a modest whimsy bring rhyming smiling
to many a lip, perhaps a tear or two
would not be out of place,
to keep the inner ear of the soul
straight on the line that demarcates
sanity and sobriety, from the madness of daily life.
couplets and stanzas, irregular, no matter,
iambic pentameter, overkill, too much bother,
perfect simple limericks for a kind hearted fella
would be most satisfactory
-----
Cute but pointless.
No, insufficient, a poem deserves its own import.
So here is the truth,
Here is a sanctified poem
About something!
~~~~
I got friends in this place who deserve better.
They deserve a poem that says:
We are all broken, demonized.
The edge is always near,
But never having laid eyes on you,
You have trusted me with thy struggle,
And I, with hints of mine.
So here is
The Poem,
a
Medal of Honor
I award to us.
A poem about the only four letter word that really matters,
A thousand times more powerful than mere love,
I award to us for bravery conspicuous,
For telling the truth, the hard way,
In words that reveal the persons we are when unmasked,
I award us the
**Medal of
Kind.**
And someday when our hands shake, hard hugs exchanged
And our smiles won't stop
Than I will say unashamedly,
****** I love you...
My men,
My women
My friends,
My comrades
You know who you are.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC