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You have every right to desire it            
             You are selfish for accepting it
Let them take care of you                        
               They should not be bothered
It's okay to be vulnerable                        
                  Dependence is for the weak
Life did not go easy on you                     
               Stop fussing over everything
You are doing the best you can              
               You are nothing but a failure
Be kind to yourself                                   
                                  S-u-c-k it up loser

marianne Dec 2018
I will her to put her feet up, my mother with swollen ankles
She’s been standing all morning in a hot kitchen
making borscht
I bring my lawn chair close
We three are sharing lunch, the breeze
through thick cottonwood shade
cools us

“I would lock him in his room”
says my daughter, “I would kick him in the shins
and spit”

We pretend not to hear, but her words linger and I taste them,
sweet vengeance

“Stop fussing. He’s a crazy old man”
“He’s been your husband for sixty years — he should know better”
“I would hit him over the head with a frying pan”

I watch as my daughter tends to Emo the caterpillar
She adds fresh grass to the jar

“He’s had a hard life”
“We all have pain”
“I would mail him back to Siberia”

Of course she is listening—
always an ear for a good story,
for injustice

“Betrayal is learned”
“So is kindness”
“I would poke him in the eye”

I leave the zwieback for last—always best for last
Butter melts in the hollow

“It is our destiny to learn love”
She does this sometimes, shuts me up like nothing …
“I would wash his brain out with soap and …”

She stands bewildered, jar in one hand
Emo lifeless in the other—
So there we are, holding two complicated, conflicting truths. And love is always the answer.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.

A change
to be better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.

A change
to be smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.

A change
to be clearer
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.

But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.

l­ike the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.

for her
A Rivers Aug 2018
People refusing to let go of imperial dreams
Allowing laws to follow draconian themes
Posh toffs front modest behaviour while consorting with models in brothels
Squatters reck hovels on streets lined with chip cones and empty ***** bottles
Tribal influences come from across the water and is fuelled by reporters
Forming fissures between mothers and daughters to leave our communities smaller and smaller
Framed in the forties as resiliant civilians of a dominion that saved millions
Yet we haven't died the hero so have we lived long enough to become the villain?

Regional differences exist with no damage to unity
Friendly jips and jibes create dialogues of behaving co-operativley
As much as they want you to believe this is a land of strife where your as likely to meet a greeting as a knife
Tolerance is rife and social progress is the direction in which we all try to strive

Oh and the West country is the best place in the world and London can lick lick lick my *****
Äŧül Oct 22
I am a qualified post-graduate engineering degree holder from NDRI Karnal now and I am trying to complete a PhD program. I completed my Bachelor of Technology degree in Biotechnology from MDU inspite of a terrible road accident that imposed a partial physically challenged state in my life. I already wrote one inspired by my life till the 4th semester of my B.Tech degree and imagining the extreme consequences of the unfortunate caste-based (instead of the only economic criterion) reservation fiasco which are about to take place now.

I am guilty of wasting my precious time in the untimely search for love. I wrote about it in a creative form.

It also has some situational poetry in English and Hindi apart from few dialogues in languages other than English.

You will be surprised to know how accurately I predicted the fuel crisis and the protagonist named Akshant Kautilya Sharma does his research towards developing better supplementary fuel to help the economy.

Akshant’s search for love ends in a girl who loves him since their childhood days.

Akshant Kautilya Sharma teams up with an unlikely ally to defeat the hijack attempt by the currently only-fictitious anti-caste based reservation system terrorist organisation named Shuddh Rakt. 7 Seconds: A Typical Guy, Atypical Life eBook: Atul Kaushal: Kindle Store
Ask me for the link to my novel.
AditiBoo Jun 16
I will not let another pen
Script the dialogues of my life
Muse me into its version of Mary Magdalene
Turn me into my biography's silent wife

So let it be said
Black on white
Rumours are not to be fed
Gossip will be rooted before its flight

Take your actions, make your bed
And sleep with whomever you want in it
Live by the rulebook you have written and  read
None will breach this intimacy to headline it

In times of solace, you stand alone
Comfort comes from your sense of self
So many unattended messages on your phone
When you decide to prioritise your mental health

They say stories are forgotten in time
But those are also the birthplace of legends
Say enough catchy verses that slyly rhyme
Create an ageless story from fraudulent confessions

Slowly, surely, steadily
The story is shared far and wide
Bored ears latch on hungrily
Passing it on with twitchy lips now preoccupied

Like an ill-fated game of telephone
Corrupt facts easily replaced by others
Listeners adorn themselves as judges and condone
Forgetting that fiction disguises the reality of another

Laptop screens populate with invasions of privacy
As public debates forget to respect any sense of secrecy
But let the story make you its main character
And feel how suddenly your own life becomes a disaster
SassyJ Jul 2018
I though he carried the light
where words would illuminate
driving me to a euphoric ******
a man without a face or a trace
unhindered in a double live and lies
a bubble of psychotic psychic surety
his passion was an addiction
my reservations moved a notch
addicted to a body of ideology
the stances of philosophical terms
uncovering ancient possibilities
the unfelt mysteries of history
veiled in icicles of pretence and lies
as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise
The stoicism of present bargains
questioning Socrates and morality reasons
a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined
as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow
he was lost in sad and low dialogues
afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows
yet his spirits moved deep within mine
and it paralysed and fed on my energy
and his delusion became my seduction
but he woke my inner poetic tongue
letting it caress all his inner wounds
A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s
a sly monster who lied to my eyes
ghosting in with the a pen that weakens
romancing with letters of a fiery doom
a penpal whom I met within my lowest
but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry
his warmth I could never ever tell
his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Switch off the hall of candle light,
Have you seen those whispering genies?
Gabriel asks to Madeline,
‘In fact, I could understand their coded dialogues’
Madeline replies with pinky red face
‘Can you tell me what you hear?’
Gabriel blinked his eyes with curious wonders.
Which Clarinet concerto is your favourite pieces?
By: Angel. XJ/ 04/07/2018
zebra Jan 21
I do believe all poets must not only read a lot of poetry but read a lot about poetry. Of my 50 favorite poets, there is not one who has not written about poetry, the philosophy of their work and of the craft. That in itself is fascinating- and difficult, like the depth you find in NY Review of Books. I do about 2/3 (poems) to 1/3 (being books about poetry) From the most philosophic works of archetypes by Northrop Frye to the most public and basic questions of Zupruders good seller "Why Poetry?" .
That last book opened up a new reality for me, to I ask myself all the time who am I writing for, in context to all this reading...I realized I was really trying to communicate the poetic truths of living, of my own small life in the world so full of beauty, horror, paradox and death. I realized to do this I had to make compromises, to not try to impress or amuse myself with poems that could only be understood by me. The craft and presentation became as important as the message. That is currently my direction, I'm writing "collections" of poems with themes so a reader could enjoy a concrete theme. (The last book I just read, a signed collection by Ferlinghetti ( nice and cheap in a used bookstore) was just that- the theme of light in "How to Paint Sunlight." Accessible and very full of several poems about light)
So you are stating two different issues:
I don't like being not understood, Having people throw up there hands perplexed, I'd rather be popular.... Its lonely
But I cant write for others because than it would be feeling like a commercial venture My motivation would be destroyed.
Id rather be desolated and write for those few who get the twinge...
Well, first of all, we poets are possibly lucky because we ain't making beans for our poems. Forgetaboutit. Even our most lauded poets end up teaching to get the health care and severance. I suppose there may be 3 poets in Amerika that make a living on just writing poetry....if that many. Who's buying? I didn't see much word "poetry" once in this weeks NY Times review of books. Only some letters crashing last weeks review of Leonard Cohen, who the critic called a wonderful lyricist and performer, but an awful poet. These dialogues are important to me, but really, quite a small audience. Either way, lyrics and song paid the rent, not Cohen's books of just poetry.
I'm sure there is no immediate cure for your paradox. If you want to be popular you have to make compromises. If you don't want to alter your vision, you can get the joy of a smaller readership and forget the rest. You have to manage expectations is a world that hardly notices our craft.
It's hard to be both, I suppose you should stay true to your motivation. And if readers like me don't get it, **** em. Let it suffice we acknowledge the craft, and that we will get closer to some poems more than others be enough. For me, accessibility, the ability to engage a reader into whatever poetic truth I am feeling, is more important than in any way hiding the meaning in the poem in which I alone can understand it.
I want people who never read poetry, which is most people, pick up a poem by me and feel the poetry power without feeling intimidation which is what most people feel when they read most poems published today. For me its that fine line between letting the imagination do the work, and the poem setting up the narrative to allow it by inviting a reader into it. I get great joy reading my poems to non poets who are scared by even the idea of it, and get them to feel something new, that wonderful way Aristotle put it- that poetry provides an ultimate truth that is found beyond the boundary of philosophy.

Admittedly I have gone off the rails focusing on the meta or man as dreamer. Are we not dreamers first before descending into the material, deadening the faculty of imagination or as the I Ching says "a darkening of the light"
I want to bring the reader up and when I read I want to have the sensation of ascending I try to give what I like to receive which is to be brought into greater fluency and light
Have we abandoned our inner life to such an extent that when confronted with it we find our selves strangers to it; reinforcing and amplifying a kind of cognitive dissidence?
Are we in a sense a stranger to our selves having lost the lucidity of our magical youth
Do we see the world as vacant utilitarian stuff and other humans predictable lusterless cogs in a wheel like cued robots?
Witches Seers, Voodoons , Hermeticists, Kabbalists and Occultists of very stripe know and use objects as essential to their operations and craft because they have hidden meaning and power.
Has the life of fantastical creative cognition been sacrificed to inveterate congenital pragmatism?
"Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality".
Andre Breton
To transgress is to process ones madness as opposed to the customary botched behaviors of repressive modalities we hide behind . It seems to me that poetry is a great ground for that exploration.
Perhaps Its a good thing for a reader to think about what the writer means, albeit a difficult pleasure as opposed to the instantaneous and facile modes of naming and claiming Reading towards the abstract can be a mystical experience Most people who read are shallow readers Shall I than aspire to be a shallow writer?
What surrealism (Detailed descriptive language unmoored from linear rationality) affords the writer like pure abstraction to the visual artist is a great opportunity to explore the musicality of language ie the musicality of form ie the energetic configurations of architypes.
Part of our craft that makes things crackle as you know well remains sound play ie the strategy of syllables ... Long vowels / short vowels...the length of words and sound of words in relationship to one another
As you know Mark to analyze the subtle abstraction of sounds ie words to the ear is just like music and like music although not wholly translatable has an undertow of non verbal meaning especially if exploited out side the linguistic necessity of linear prose like poems ie a device that most never use consciously and strategically or certainly to its fullest potential
So when we say a poem is beautiful do we impart mean its those amazing tintinnabulating sounds that ****** with their musicality? Poems that do that well stand out to me.
Further I think we are in error when we confuse the realistic with the materialistic. It seems to me realism has magnitudinal underlying meta elements that need to be felt in poetry and to think other wise in my op[inion would be a dull conceit
A good example is thought itself
When we speak our ideas thoughts impulses we have no real sense of where they emerge from The processes are so meta their incomprehensible even to neuro science and scientists have little if any understanding of consciousness or its meaning as far as I know
So perhaps the surrealist has a place of worth too; and that is to remind people of their inner life out side the cage of end product think. After all what is a life and what is a poem?
Best Z
LonelyPoet Apr 6
Alone, lonely, dispersed, sola, isolated, estranged, departed, emptied, hollowed, alienated...echoes inside a house that was never a home.

There were two rooms, no, three. One was lived in, one uninhabited and the last one was empty. The third one filled with clutter and failures, hopes that never took flight and goals that wilted. This one was cold. Life can't flourish during winter, this room never bloomed. A room attached to the house but navigating on its own.

Boxed inside a body, chained with crippling thoughts. Walking among many and forever pacing alone. Everything moves so fast. Face down, avoid their eyes, move faster, lower your tone, talk less, less! Don't speak at all. Don't smile, never laugh. Don't make eye contact, that's an invitation. The room will be too crowded if there are stares. Winter hates company, it thrives on solitude.

Watch it again. Create their world, recreate their dialogues, dive into their sphere. Turn the volume louder, read the subtitles. Float away from the room and become their space. Erase. Erase. Erase. Leave no trace of the self. Imagine another life, run someone else's dreams. They speak in riddles, walk away. Create a fort. Be locked away. Now there's a sound, a loud silence. Can it be heard?

It's the scream of isolation announcing its stay.

— The End —