"derive" poems
(for Christopher Isherwood)
Seated after breakfast
In this white-tiled cabin
Arabs call the House where
Everybody goes,
Even melancholics
Raise a cheer to Mrs.
Nature for the primal
Pleasure She bestows.
*** is but a dream to
Seventy-and-over,
But a joy proposed un-
-til we start to shave:
Mouth-delight depends on
Virtue in the cook, but
This She guarantees from
Cradle unto grave.
Lifted off the *****
Infants from their mothers
Hear their first impartial
Words of worldly praise:
Hence, to start the morning
With a satisfactory
Dump is a good omen
All our adult days.
Revelation came to
Luther in a privy
(Crosswords have been solved there)
Rodin was no fool
When he cast his Thinker,
Cogitating deeply,
Crouched in the position
Of a man at stool.
All the arts derive from
This ur-act of making,
Private to the artist:
Makers' lives are spent
Striving in their chosen
Medium to produce a
De-narcissus-ized en-
During excrement.
Freud did not invent the
Constipated miser:
Banks have letter boxes
Built in their façade
Marked For Night Deposits,
Stocks are firm or liquid,
Currencies of nations
Either soft or hard.
Global Mother, keep our
Bowels of compassion
Open through our lifetime,
Purge our minds as well:
Grant us a king ending,
Not a second childhood,
Petulant, weak-sphinctered,
In a cheap hotel.
Keep us in our station:
When we get pound-notish,
When we seem about to
Take up Higher Thought,
Send us some deflating
Image like the pained ex-
-pression on a Major
Prophet taken short.
(Orthodoxy ought to
Bless our modern plumbing:
Swift and St. Augustine
Lived in centuries
When a stench of sewage
Made a strong debating
Point for Manichees.)
Mind and Body run on
Different timetables:
Not until our morning
Visit here can we
Leave the dead concerns of
Yesterday behind us,
Face with all our courage
What is now to be.
13.9k
What Hope Remained?
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
When putrid plumes dulled morning into night
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent,
As mortals wept and earthborn angels went
With downcast eyes to clamber heavens height.
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
When panicked sirens wailed a lost lament
And backs were bowed beneath ungodly weight,
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent
As boots bore souls up treadmills burnt and bent
To scale a void devoid of dawning light.
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
For those in sight of angels heaven sent
Atop the world to aid their mortal plight,
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent.
When wingless brethren conquered feared ascent
To gift last hope to all who saw their might:
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent.
In The Fall
I chanced upon a stranger in the fall,
Cosmetic garb of office black and white
Portraying calm demeanor of his plight
As shadows panicked on a stricken wall,
And oft' I find my mind in numb recall
To look upon that helpless human kite
Who tumbled from the terrors of a height,
Yet graceful as an eagle in a stall
Before it plummets earthward -- 'Neath the pall
Of twisted steel rended by follied flight,
That stranger lives forever in the light
Suspended in iconic timeless sprawl.
I wonder, in the briefness of his fall,
Did he derive the meaning of it all?
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Contentment is for people who are satisfied to stop thinking.
To turn off all those parts of your head
That constantly generate questions
And continuously probe the accepted.
To hush the cells jumping up and down
To show you a new way to approach a topic,
Begging you to acknowledge the incredible plans
That could be birthed from the impossible way
You see the ordinary.
But I have an obligation to my mind.
Yes, sometimes it feels more like shackles than duty,
And yes, sometimes I want to abandon my notepad and paper
On the bedside table to have a "me day"-
Whatever that's supposed to mean -
Or halt the carousel of whirling thoughts for a nap,
But I can't.
I will always be curious, at my roots.
I grow from the dedication to my thoughts, upward.
A tree straining towards the light of innovation.
Why would I forsake the places my thoughts can take me,
Or the adventures my pen can take in translating them.
For the gifts this head gives me,
I must always be on call, on edge, on fire.
Contentment: unattainable.
Even if it weren't it would interfere with the very process
That would allow me to derive what meaning lies in contentment.
So that's my secret.
The Hulk was always angry, which is how he controlled and dominated.
I'm always searching, which is how I find and thrive.
I can't drown out my thoughts just to soak up the sun.
That's not contentment: that's complacency.
And complacency is not in my vocabulary.
How funny-
I am content with losing that one word
For the chance to be brilliant.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Existence is not life. Existence is not 'to be'. Existence is not something we could derive. By itself, Existence does not mean anything. Existence does not exist.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
Where goes the time when it flies?
Simplified by expression, and stained by clarity.
Smudge by lucidity
smeared by simplicity
tainted by intelligibility.
Tempus fugit as in time flies.
Sharply distressing with painful feelings
to the point of mental instability
morning or night
we become possessed with its mystic dealings.
Where goes the time when it runs?
Not a solitary explanation is found.
It happens and it won’t stop
until life terminates as well
without cause.
Derived of rationalisation
lacking understanding
short of justification
bursting with vindication
persistently and with conviction.
Where goes the time when it sails?
From the second that we’re born.
Where were we existing?
We cannot be so sure
Cannot recollect the past
Not for the first five of our years
Memory so blur, so shadowy
Hazy with distortions
obscure and confusing
Unit our mind starts slowly to recollect.
Where goes the time when it escapes?
The chronology of life so mysterious.
Nothing can solve its ambiguity
for time is a complex case
with an infinity of secrets.
What’s the obsession when we have so many setbacks
drawbacks and obstacles
obstructions and conundrums
to take care of before time perishes away
and leaves us stranded in oblivion.
Oh time, you magnificent of all mysteries,
the high and mighty of ambiguities.
Show us mercy and explain
we are not detectives of secrecies
your spell with us reflects on the whodunits.
Oh time of things past and yet to come
give us a clue as to what is to derive!
“Remember”
it softly replies “Make most of your lives”
“Once I fly away no one can have a replay”.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
don't let this title fool you
as it would have fooled me
into ignoring this poem.
if you ignore this poem, it should be your own decision,
not some title's influence.
but that really gets away from
what this alphabet soup means.
or does it?
I know that I derive joy from breaking my own biases
so why not share my joy with you?
oops, already did
(see above)
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Here I sit upon the grass
I look about, one moment’s pass
A fleeting peace that once takes over
Much like a kiss by one’s true lover
As I stand and look upon
The world around me under the sun
How life so simple, mediocrity
How men accept their life to be
Not I, for I cannot accept
The bland, the white, how I have wept
I do not wish to take a part
This little role dealt from the start
It is not me, I cannot be
Inconsequential, I cannot see
For I look more outside the line
And hope to gain that is not mine
Not yet, the chase I come alive
Imagination, free heart derive
Disdain at those I am surround
With pity to all who has not found
That life is not what comes to thee
But to seek that which will make you free
Of chains that leave you bound to rock
No movement, wonder I doth mock
I cannot love one who takes hold
Of only what not makes them bold
The plain is not what I achieve
No less if so, then I will grieve
Go forth, be gone, if you cannot share
The spark, adventure, compelling dare
I cannot exist to only be
Defined as mediocrity
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 2:29 PM UTC
When we think about the choices in our lives
When we fight and we bicker and become bitter
When we think there is only power or powerlessness
If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness
Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness
In that instance haven't we began the process of choice
That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness
To those who have only lived powerlessness
And know nothing else
Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness
That you have ceased to be one of them
Or your mere power has denied one of them
That there is no choice for them
Because they haven't birthed that consciousness
And if you choose power they'll remain powerless
Because within you there is no loyalty, right?
It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation
It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense
This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer
Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering
But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness
This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power
That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to
That a mind and body can cultivate power
That can be harvested, shared, communal
For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self
That that can survive in this world is impossible
Its antithetical to the modes of production
In which our societies operate and thrive
How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts
How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor
How can any community in any corner of the world escape
The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism
When will we reclaim our escaping humanity
When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor
How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine
And don't think that you are safe when you have made it
When you have entered the circle of dominance
Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die
It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes
Just as dispensable as that of the powerless
Because to maintain that circle of dominance
Requires a total conversion to misanthropy
The rigor with which your power will be required
To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break
And when you become useless, it will replace you
So that we must realize that the modes of production
That we allow to exploit us
In powerlessness, or the semblance of power
Can never safeguard our humanity
How much further will we allow power to be concentrated
So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice
Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Eyes stare...
Into nothingness,
The jigsaw of to be’s,
Arranges and rearranges;
Into an appeal of mirage...
Swelling the oasis of life!
And when the glare pierces,
Eyes blink;
The jigsaw settles,
Synchronized with reality;
Strengthening my mind...
To derive the quirky balance -
Between the could be’s ;
And the one that is!
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:51 AM UTC
Derive the joy, magic and warmth of addition by connecting your soul to another's, yet remain independent as singular souls.
Meet the interference of envious, bitter and resentful subtraction which gives the process of separation from the souls you have connected to.
Both opposing forces with obstinate motivations coordinate unconsciously for the creation of an entrance-exit cycle in human interaction.
The pinnacle of human interaction is interceded by multiplication who compounds the congregation of the independent souls into a cohesive unit called groups and eventually society and nation.
Nevertheless met by the malevolent, destructive energy of division which ruthlessly breaks apart the products nurtured by multiplication, smashing them with propaganda, discrimination, and segregation.
O' how I exclaim that division is the truly nefarious power.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
ೋღ❤ღೋೋღ❤ღೋ
*Walking down a wooded path
tall flowing trees all around,
I came upon the river’s edge
and sat down on the ground.
Sitting at the edge of the river
I stare at its ongoing flow,
I start to give it all my pain
a release with each little throw.
My hardest pain is fear
that I’ve had from so long ago,
of never feeling good enough
that’s dulled my inner glow.
It eats at me like a cancer
each and every day,
the fear of never being good enough
and again being thrown away.
Years of disappointment and abuse
only being property, nothing to love,
but always trying to make things right
so everyone else could rise above.
I throw this fear out into the river
sit back and watch it pass slowly by,
I wrap my arms around myself
feel the release, let myself cry.
I throw out all the other pains
betrayal, heartache, loneliness and more,
I watch them drift gently way
these last tears will be left on this river shore.
Noticing as each and every pain
slowly floats down the river away,
I observe at a distance
as they fade into the suns sparkling rays.
Walking down a wooded path
tall flowing trees all around,
I came upon the river’s edge
and was surprised at what I found.*
***And ever onward shall we strive
and from the circle peace derive.
The sea in robes of mossy green
and blues the eye has never seen...
In grays that mock the stormy sky
and depths that hold the tears gone by....***
*A sweet release we give our heart
from pain of past that tore apart,
relief that only one can find
when hearts we let, become unconfined,
to leave behind those stormy skies
letting self-love baptize…*
***A tide of tears resides within
and waits to overflow.
i greet with a smiling face
so others will not know.
How feeble is this masquerade.
Transparent are the games.
Emotions should be given room
without the chides and blames.
The time will come to open up
and let the dam release...
my will, the pressure stop.
my soul will be at peace.
Weep when grief prescribes.
Laugh for humor's sake.
Love with everything you have
and forgive, all your mistakes.***
ೋღ❤ღೋೋღ❤ღೋ
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
When you are attacked by boredom
You are invited by devil's kingdom
In case you yield to the pressure
You stand to lose Divine pleasure
Every job will bore one at last
We must with dexterity outlast
Fun may be absent many times
Expected joy, soul never claims
None can win ever or lose always
All have surely their glorious days
When failure comes and attacks
A shrewd soul, prayer alone backs
After doing a particular work or task
We must ask for more and not bask
We must derive peace and celebrate
The Almighty is there to compensate
Let us make up our mind to hard-work
Surely our life will never at all go berserk
If our motto is to do duty with sincerity
Our mind is given by Heaven true clarity
Today, make up your mind to do the best
Do your portion skillfully by being honest
Rewards and results will stun your life
God will rescue you from every strife.
mvvenkataraman
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Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 8:32 AM UTC
Just an equation,
A Simple theorem.
A little misbehaviour,
Outside the decorum.
.
I add and provide,
Hoping we never divide.
At the geometry, I stare
Just a mindfuck of a square.
.
A slight cross multiplication,
To bond upon this attraction.
To help develop the postulates.
Of your mere subtraction.
.
I integrate & derive,
It's the formulae I'm deprived
Of. The questions always lead to me and you.
I always end up in my four sided cube.
- Aks, in math classes.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous hypotaxis apomixis strive
Rainbow mare aura roan exude emote derive
Syntactical propinquity habitation harbinger harangue stoic hive
Colloquialism vernaculars prurient adage jargon idiom clichés jive
Mirador bartizan panorama stalwart bastion bulwark tableau live
Canny cleaver crafty cunning furtive sneaky stealthy connive
Poignant cogent piquant ephemeral effulgence temporal refraction arrive
Paradoxical dichotomy greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts survive
Hectic mayhem , proximity parameter perimeter peripherals , annihilate rive
Zingy zesty zany zenithal azimuth entity zeal alive
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
It was my best friend who asked me
what I'd choose to be in my next incarnation.
Honestly, she caught me completely off guard,
intellectually dumbfounded by a prospect
I'd never considered, nor felt I deserved.
That night I wracked my brain searching for
a suitable chakra from which to derive an answer.
I know she believes everything is renewed,
so, deferring to her convictions,
I chose a jaguar, as suitable for my solitary way.
She's always had a knack for surprising my existence,
deflecting the metaphysical, steering for spiritual shores.
I recognize this power she exudes, though she dismisses me.
The jaguar I'm evolving divinely subsumes her virtues,
is cognizant of the heroine from Mumbai ashrams.
I'd like to tell you I hear rumblings in the sky,
that there's a certain path beneath my feet,
but my destiny eludes all outward signs,
striving for that inner love that has no name.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
A cosmic ray dispersed into creation
Tail wagging upstream with elation
So many victims fallen to ************
Anxious seed sprouting with incubation
Privileged To exist
we have no choice
Growing like a cyst
No time to rejoice
Cognitive effort to grasp us being alive
Ponder the place from where we derive
Reasons for life and why we must strive
Are we honeybees with earth as our hive
Pray to the heavens for when we"ll arrive
Greeted with a smile and god"s high five
Effortlessly we all continue to live and be
Subconsciously evolving the human tree
Temporarily renting this vessel of a body
Surreptitiously evading death to be free
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
The dragonflies and meadow-sweet
Follow the banks of ‘The Wandle’
Allowing what is hidden and not heard
Behind posted iron railings
To be noted, found on a map, imagined
Its very name conjures up the river’s journey
Drawing one into its currents and flows
A place of beauty where time seems slow
Rippling the edges of thought, living as a space,
Exploration, given by inclusion and exclusion
Forever to ‘wandle along’ under the sky
Between the gaps in the real
And what finds itself from what
Came before in experience and words.
Love Mary x
The River Wandle is the largest river of the south southwest sector of London, England. Its name is thought to derive from the community around its mouth, Wandsworth. About 9 miles long, it passes through the London Boroughs of Croydon, Sutton, Merton, and Wandsworth to join the River Thames on the Tideway..
Mouth: River Thamesnn
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
If anything should happen to The Hague,
if someday they abandon Amsterdam,
philosophers will take these strange and vague
descriptions, and derive each tree and tram
by mathematical necessity:
should nations shake their fists across the seas
with words of war, it follows there must be
a middle ground, a people loving peace.
And is this scrap alone a netherland?
Not so: we spend our nights beneath the sky,
and every country's low for us, who stand
a thousand miles below the lights on high;
if only I could learn to live as such,
and count myself as kindly as the Dutch.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:07 AM UTC
tiara
you call your cuts failures
and your blood a testament
to all the times you didn’t succeed
but living is an art
and you are clearly an artist
so don’t tell me there’s no reason why
you are still alive.
when the cops came
you swam through a crack haze
to the window
and jumped
i wasn’t there but i can see it so vividly now
you thought you’d land like a cat
but your legs gave out and snapped like popsicle sticks
you shrugged off the pain
and choked on blood
as you dragged yourself across the lawn
there was a warrant for your arrest
you decided to give up
and wait for them to find you
collapsing in on yourself on a moment’s notice
is your specialty.
laugh about the man who cheats on you
dream about stabbing his ex-girlfriend
tonight i will not give you knives girl
you know the world is a harsh place
learn to navigate it with no razors.
you are not a crown
to be worn by others
you like to make sure people know
you are a tiara
and you will weigh heavy on their heads.
tell me you are stupid
say the methamphetimes made craters in your brain
as you peer at me over your physics textbook
that you call light reading.
lament about the classes you failed
as you strap jigsaw puzzles together
with the scarred arms you carry
the split skin you once opened
out in the open.
are you calling me stupid
by playing this lying game?
tiara
you are all cat eyes
a frail body with an endless appetite
we both secretly derive joy from the money i spent
slipping you candy bars
and the flowers i left by your door
that you dried between the pages of books.
you have not been outside since december
i want to bring you more than flowers
i want to bring you grass and dirt, trees and roots,
birds and mice and worms
i want to give you life
i want you to run your fingers through it lovingly.
you shoulder pain so indifferently
i want to make you cry
for more beautiful things
i want to grab your tender wrists
and fill them with the sunlight.
when i left i hugged you so tight
you said you’d see me
all the big plans you had
i knew you were lying again
i know you cried that night.
tiara i love you
you are someone who needs to
bear the weight of those words
not the pain of never hearing them.
that is what you needed to hear
why did i never say it.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
It's easy to see why you fell in love with him,
It's easy to see why you hoped you found forever
But you didn't.
And that disappointment felt like a death
and you have been trapped between anger and denial
for four years.
You think you must bury him in order to bury your grief.
And convincing others of this too
has become a game
where you sleep and play
inside your litter box.
Now the feces of hatred and revenge
stick to your feet wherever you go.
You must turn him into a monster
by telling anyone who will listen
that he is haunting you—and you really want this to be true
because that would mean he was still interested in your life.
But when you are alone and still…you remember...
coffee and stories, genuine kindness
and you know, his only crime was breaking your heart.
I understand your heartbreak;
you saw your knight in shining armor,
The answer to your loneliness.
Your pathway out of poverty.
His demeanor is gentle,
his quiet, listening face
hears your words with truth and interest;
every sentence is allowed to live its full life
until you are validated and understood.
He is your biggest fan, a loving caregiver.
Children and animals are drawn to him
like a shepherd or a father or a friend.
We both know he gave 8 years to a child,
a paraplegic who wasn’t even his own.
Bathed him, carried him, wiped drool from his chin
and in between all the doctors, made him laugh.
He offers himself to everyone this way, so
I understand why losing him hurt you so wholly
I know this, because I love him too.
But I think you and I define love very differently;
I wouldn’t want someone whom I had to threaten to make him stay.
I wouldn’t derive my identity from an unspoken contract
or imaginary promises that I insisted he owed me.
I wouldn’t try to destroy another human being
for the sole purpose of hiding my own embarrassment.
You see, love would remember his beautiful soul
and love would sincerely want him to be happy
Even if that meant he found happiness without you.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
There is an electric hum from traffic lights
Barely audible to the people waiting at the corner
Overwhelmed with confusion over the former
Condition of the economy in spite
Of the surplus of traffic signs
So they stare at traffic signs
The signs don’t mind
They stare right back and watch and contemplate crossing, too
But the signs will stay behind
Because people go
As they please
Under an ashy sky
And flickers
Of lightning
Appearing in the clouds
Consider the aerodynamics of taxicabs
You wish humans were so streamlined and yellow
We’re not so bad!
Said a fellow
Accountant using an algebraic formula to attempt to derive
Why you smile for us and I’ve
Noticed, though no one else has, the electric storm churning
Miles above
Polarizing the sky
In silence
They tremble, these, the not-so-poor
It’s that fearful tic, the one we’ve seen before
But you tremble, too
Do you see me quiver
We’ve got that quick jitter
Like a prickling under the skin that’s pulsing through
Our blood the way that caffeine does
Or the wattage exploding in death throes or birth throes
Above us now
Hypnotic
And powerful
Though I cannot tell
Exactly how far away
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC