"enquiring" poems
Hi, below I copy a humorous hiabun, which I shared as an exercise to mentor enquiring and inspired poets to learn, so they might adopt and try different techniques and then give critique together with awesome comments... Yes, I used the words *** ****** and **** for context the rest was left to an individual imagination as in good poetry!
It included reflective commentary encompasses innocent classification terminology used in the critique, reading, examining, appreciating, understanding and writing of poetry for example: POETIC DEVICES (enjambement, duality, keriji, images, collocation, semantic, oxymoron, repetition, listing etc.), STORY (personification, characterisation, subject, context, voice etc.), IMAGERY (synaesthesia), STRUCTURE ( lineation, breaks, syntactic etc.), SOUNDS (syllables, rhyme, alliteration, pace, musicality, phrasing, beat, assonance, onomatopoeia, mouthed rhythms, patterned) and WORDS (preposition, determiner, verbs, adverbs, lexical, nouns, adjectives) used by poets, critics and academics...
And here it is :
**** tongue-in-cheek haibun - a reflective commentary on writing a popular tanka
Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile
My first inspiration was *** passionate life squeezing screaming *** the thumping wall musicality of *** exhaustingly inventive sweaty and wet.
I wanted to make it a senryu but for duality the female characterisation demanded two more lines each extending to seven syllables.
Arousing images captured her moaning splashing loneliness in unusual collocation.
I was first excited by the placement of a hovering extended enjambement to give life to my final line, whilst also considering the satisfaction in using noisy mouthed rhythms.
I believe I easily hid the wet aroused context with a watery semantic field, that suggested she would choke and drown.
So in my last line I had ‘pleasures’ as a cutting keriji to make clear the dominating ****** context, having previously used a preposition and determiner to maintain duality!
Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite
**
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
I saw my world again through your eyes
As I would see it again through your children's eyes.
Through your eyes it was foreign.
Plain hedge hawthorns were peculiar aliens,
A mystery of peculiar lore and doings.
Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes
Emerged at a point of exclamation
As if it had appeared to dinner guests
In the middle of the table. Common mallards
Were artefacts of some unearthliness,
Their wooings were a hypnagogic film
Unreeled by the river. Impossible
To comprehend the comfort of their feet
In the freezing water. You were a camera
Recording reflections you could not fathom.
I made my world perform its utmost for you.
You took it all in with an incredulous joy
Like a mother handed her new baby
By the midwife. Your frenzy made me giddy.
It woke up my dumb, ecstatic boyhood
Of fifteen years before. My masterpiece
Came that black night on the Grantchester road.
I ****** the throaty thin woe of a rabbit
Out of my wetted knuckle, by a copse
Where a tawny owl was enquiring.
Suddenly it swooped up, splaying its pinions
Into my face, taking me for a post.
7.9k
im a week clean
mostly because
of the two lives
that i have to keep going
two kittens
a boy named cheshire
and a girl named dorathy (or dot)
their gently enquiring eyes
checking to make sure
the tears have finally stopped
tracking down my face
their life as they
know theyve done
something naughty
as they sprint around my room
how they fall asleep
heads resting on my chest
because they need me
theyre keeping me going
more than people realise
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Every now and again I like to sit down,
On a park bench, pew, or a bar in town.
With a cup of tea, let my worries untie,
And give a moment for each passer by.
I drift from out of the fore to the scenery,
An extra within the biopics of humanity.
Each person has a vivid and complex life,
Someone they love: family, husband or wife.
Within each person is an epic untold,
Each a vessel of the tales they hold.
Some are of loss, some are of love,
Wandering nomadically from up above.
And in each of these stories I play a role,
Sitting on my perch, warding off the cold.
I am but a tiny part of their life's narrative,
At most a stranger they exchange a glance with.
And I wonder, how ignorant am I?
To let each one of them to pass me by,
Without stopping them and enquiring,
What each of them is most desiring?
They are all chaotically unique,
Each one of them a kind of freak.
All a bizarre consequence of nature,
Chemistry, and their family's nurture.
Wide eyed as this realisation becomes clearer,
I'm sitting here and out of focus in your theatre.
In the wings for my cue, not yet a factor,
To step on and become your lead actor.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
From fields of sunshine
To dark and dusty basements
I followed you to the edge of the atlas
Yet I do it no more
Our paths will remain apart
As we've seen the edge
And you still choose to return
Enquiring why I do not
As you'll always have my back
Alas,
I know your secret
I saw the blade tucked
Away in your fist
You've got my back
Only to hoist your blade into it
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
She made a show of hesitating on the threshold,
Leaning against the doorframe.
She regarded him with a small, false, enquiring smile,
He said nothing, merely looked at her.
And still she advanced, still smiling,
The expanse of skin about her collarbone was mottled.
And there were hairline cracks in her make-up around her eyes,
Stop at the window, consider the view.
The sun shines on a glitter of green,
And summer strides up the hillside.
He watched her where she stood with her back to him and her arms folded,
As if she were holding another, slightly self clasped tightly to her.
He noticed her poor bare feet with their stringy tendrils,
Once the world had seemed to him, a rich, coloured place.
Now all he saw was the poverty of things,
And the ghost of a love past.
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 10:26 PM UTC
tree once was i
tall straight and true.
growing reaching
grasping for the blue patch of sky.
felled by men, all called Jack.
taken, stripped, naked
and beaten till no bark left on
my back.
slashed at torn shredded,
beaten to a pulp.
no way back,
to fresh air and blue sky.
flattened to skin's width,
stretched, rolled and dryed.
thirst, a memory of blue and
pearled sky.
blank without leaf or seed
barren and denied.
tattooed with wisdom deep
and scribblings inane.
cut into pages, windows
for enquiring brains.
words, that penned by
poets speak of forests
mighty,
of oaks and acorns,
growing.
places of intimate knowings.
tattooed, on my flesh,
stolen, rearranged.
reminiscent of recalling,
times of grace and falling.
book now i be.
but,
rather,
tree standing tall
and growing.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 7:41 AM UTC
NO EXPECTATIONS
tiers & tiers
tiers upon tiers
of tears
like a great wedding cake
of grief
a Miss Havisham for real
cobwebbed expectations
setting one's self on fire
in a blaze of loss
by Marylebone Station she
sat down & wept
a policeman enquiring if "...Miss is alright?"
she gathers her
self together in a compact mirror
"Yes, I'm...fine. . .fine?"
but inside her
self is a. Dickens
of a tale to tell
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 5:35 PM UTC
*it doesnt matter where it all started
it doesnt matter that the first conversation
we ever had
started about me enquiring
over some parma violets
what matters is
the first time he came to my house
he laid on my kitchen floor
and complained about the weather
what matter is
him complaining
over me
wanting to watch the notebook
what matters is
me feeling like
this whole thing is
slowly slipping
until he grabs me
and steadies my feet
and tells me
i was stupid
for walking on ice
what matters is
the lack of making love
but the connection
that exists
what matters is
not his cowardice
or my reluctancy
but the fact they both fit
so perfectly
hand in hand
what matters is
the way his hair
jolts round his face
and haircuts
dont make any difference
what matters is
the way he takes off his shirt
and scrunches up his face
when hes in pain
what matters is
the way he touches
all my belongings
and goes
on my computer
just to see
what i was doing last
what matters is
my mom likes him
and he's told his
all about me
what matters is
no labels
or commitments
or dates
but the way
we were sleeping
and he held me
and wouldnt let go*
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
It's been a while,
Since i drunk so much.
These days, my drug is just the smile,
I lay down, it's my new crutch.
I miss the days, that were softly red,
I miss the feeling of wanting dead.
My life is sore, but not so much more.
I wish, I wish I knew where to go.
Just sit in my calm place now, meadow.
It was all a lie, I told myself.
Instead, I put it on a higher shelf.
Do these feelings last?
Or do they simply pass.
I'm asking, not enquiring
something something requiring,
some strength and love,
is not enough, especially from above.
Was I always destined,
To be your friend or be your foe?
I do wish to answer, however, although....
I dont know, what to think no more.
I feel empty not just sore.
I feel like I've lost myself,
I ask for help I asked for help I ask for...
No more than the ordinary person.
Why can't I write how I used to?
Why can't I write only in pain.
Why can't I write when I'm feeling sane.
What is this curse?
What is this verse,
could it be any worse?
I feel so numb,
Down to my thumb.
I feel like I've lost my brain.
I feel so alone,
Yet I feel not alone.
I feel like I've lost again.
Sep 2, 2020
Sep 2, 2020 at 9:35 AM UTC
Bi-curious seems like such a horrible term don't you think
I can't really put my finger on it
That's probably because I'm not allowed to touch what's not mine
But nobody said anythng about looking
And that's what I'm doing
I'm looking
Or searching
Or you could even say that I'm enquiring
Yes I am curious
But I'm not Bi-curiousi don't know if that distinction is as important as I make it out to be
I could say it in simple terms
I like boys and girls
Or I could say it in a label
I am bisexual
I have however come to one final conclusion
And that's that I'm not bi-curious
Or bisexual
I just see the beauty in all humans
And I want to indulge in said beauty
( Even though indulge might be the wrong word.............
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
.............to sit down and reflect
on how we lived our life the past
years, months, weeks, days, hours...
it's not the only time to recall
the wrong decisions we made,
the people who got affected, and
how we recompense(d) them...
Lent is not the only time to be kind,
to be giving to others...we go deeper
than thinking good...being good, and
doing good.......love must shine in
our actions and words, naturally,
it must radiate from within us
all the seasons in our lifetime...
older folks always told us children then:
"be patient...find time to read, try to
understand the Passion of the One
crowned with thorns...it could lessen
the stubbornness in you...or, change
some of your stubborn views..."
until now, i ask myself: if i had been there,
would i have stopped?
would i have helped Him in His sufferance?
this leads me to my own daily crosses...
the lightest, the easiest problems worry me,
without analysis...i quickly pray for solutions...
...i whine......even in silence, i complain...
most people have flown out of the country,
some are on their way to blue beaches
to play games on the sandy shores...
some stay home, watch movies on netflix...
me?..i am alone...but not really alone,
pondering by the garden....with two white
puppies nibbling on my toes and slippers,
naughty, exploring nonstop...ruining my oxygen
and money plants...messing the veranda floor,
i almost rang their former owner.....but,
their enquiring eyes did melt my heart...
these puppies, somehow, brought light
to my blurry mind....taught me to just
accept what is in front of me,
without asking questions....
i do believe...reflections
come off and on...anytime,
...lent is not the only time....
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
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((Maundy Thursday reflections))
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
HAPPY EASTER, EVERYONE!!! PEACE TO ALL.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
April 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:08 AM UTC
NEVER TO BE TOLD
Oh joy!
Not one two
gentlemen magpies
conversing on
my crazy paving.
Two Fred Astaires in tails
awaiting their Ginger Rogers'
or merely waiters
enquiring
"Would Sir like to savour
the moment?"
Their white so....white.
Their black so...black
yet not-so...black.
Their viridian sheen
treasure for the eyes.
I teach my little girl
to rhyme them.
One for. . .
Two for. . .
as another
joins them.
"3 for a girl!""
I tell her.
"That's you!"
"That's me?"
All day she
chants and plays:
"I'm a magpie I'm
a magpie!"
Years later
when she has grown
far far
beyond this moment
( transformed into
a Punk Goth Princess )
she asks me why
I used to call her my magpie.
"Ah..." I say
kissing her spikey hair.
"Secret. . .
. . .never to be told."
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
night/night
time/time
night overheats
wet awake, damp is the status:
mystery no more, familiarity brings unsurprise,
the machine issues environmental sounds,
cool air, deep cover, setup ~ perfect
wake up soaked/mystified/drizzled unhappy/awake to change/
meaning comes
/pieces of randome thoughts/movie trailer bite sized/
these are:
sweating words/eager for realization/escape needy/impatiented
by foible human/who needs sleep? is the unasked question...
dress for winter, may I? in May?????/!!!!! /!\
~change to summery
"ACTIVE WEAR" at-tire<>
skin expose<>
AM I NOT ACTIVE?
thus this oddity poem/product of sweat/
provides cooling panting/dog?
am I a dog?
that would be nice!
sadly or nat~not, a human
o verfilled / o verflowing
tale telling from evrey pore/ Alcatraz escape/ recaptured/twisted
d a m p
became a poem/d a m p is me
becoming/ reducing/emitting/inquiring/
enquiring/
aligned
will this be my last poem?
sweating with/from/AND
all the way over to............................................................Anticipation...
Apr 19, 2025
Apr 19, 2025 at 2:23 PM UTC
Baby, its you vs. them.
They only see
The things that don't fit in
That don't make sense
To their enquiring
They don't get
There is so much more
Than corporate and company
And a good credit score
They invest in you
**** that,
You're not an asset
They wait to see
What will you return
Company car?
Clinical depression?
Written on your walls
You quote to yourself
"Money can't buy happiness"
Written on their walls
The days penciled in
Numbers like a prison sentence
They throw you their doubts
All the reasons you'll fail
They tell you're stupid
For believing in yourself
They tell you to find some
Purpose, some meaning
They tell you to do this
From the list they have aproven
**** that
**** you
**** that ****
They keep making you do
**** that ****
**** all your doubts
**** your hypocrisy
Of praying to God
Praying that
Life won't knock you down too hard
Maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
You're naive too though
If you believe
That this little construction
Is all that you need
That if you look just like
Act just like
Pretend just like
The rest
God won't pick up on your
Unhappiness
If you smile just right
Eat just right
Get paid just right
Then who will know you
You can't sleep at night.
Surely not me, I sleep just fine.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 9:05 AM UTC
My back's not as bad as it was back before my back went
it seems to have come back.
Pain's never bearable, but the back pain's quite bearable and I'm bearing up very well,
thanks for enquiring, for wiring me your messages of goodwill.
On the clapometer, the thermometer registers red and so I'm still in my bed, but my back's feeling good
if I could
I'd give it a round of applause,
but any sudden movement and my back
might go where it went before.
Backs are
funny things really,
ideally
they should last a lifetime,
sometimes they don't,
I can't complain and no
need to explain why mine won't.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
Why is it
that within every reflection of the human
soul, I see fragments of you, the way you
laugh, your chest rising and
falling with the broken beats of dusk,
the way you looked at me,
searching,
enquiring within the depths of
who I was.
Why is it
that you shadow my every thought,
my every walk
upon the blades of grass
tinted
with
the shade of your eyes.
Why is it
that you see the world without me?
I see the world through you.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Tropes, Dopes, Middle-Earth, and Culture Worriers
I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of
Aryan extraction: that is Indo-Iranian; as far as I am aware
none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or
any related dialects. But if I am to understand that you are
enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I
regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.
-Tolkien, from a letter rebuking a German publisher, 1938
One does not imagine Tolkien schlubbing about
In a garish cartoon tee and baggy shorts
A Glock strapped to his 50-inch waist
Shopping the dollar store in a Trumpy cap
One does not imagine Lewis following QAnon
Encouraging Peter to take an AR to Latin class
Or quartering the Cross of good Saint George
With a swastika’s spidering wheel of shame
Not all evil comes from outside the Shire –
Sometimes evil is our own internal desire
On the time J.R.R. Tolkien refused to work with Nazi-leaning publishers. ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)
Why does Lord of the Rings appeal to the radical right? – The Irish Times
Behind the Catholic Right’s Celebrity-Conversion Industrial Complex | Vanity Fair
Sep 11, 2024
Sep 11, 2024 at 2:02 PM UTC
----
Titular:
"Nowadays, it means that you
are an empty, non~deserving of
whatever title you take for granted"
A poem,
but if be untitled,
if it be a titular,
what are we to make of it?
the title is the 🔑
but to be untitled
is
an acknowledgment of
defeat
the key to unlocking
the inner-est construct,
from within, or without,
is the title.
without
which
the poem cannot
constructed,
deconstructed,
and then
reconstructed
it is:
the clue
the hint
***** it,
it is the soul insight
that leads the reader's eyes
to the water,
to the enquiring,
the scent of
mmmmm,
that!
is worth investigating,
that fresh baked,
right out of the oven,
you know it when you
smell it, and your tracks,
suddenly stop, turn around,
cease the scrolling,
go back,
get ****** in,
and roost within,
exclaiming,
**** that title,
that came from the right in,
not a glancing blow,
more like a right hook,
Happy-attached to a line and sinker,
and the poem that leaves you forever
thinking,
cannot ever
get enough
of that fresh bread aroma,
and the great brioche
the bravado
of one of those,
{who knew, who knows?}
that the nexus of
the next intriguing title
of the
next poem,
and the next next poem,
is not
an empty
unwashed titular,
of the
un
en~~titled
an yet,
more a tease
to our curiosity's
cat,
to the
as of yet unimagined,
it is in
that invitation,
for your preparation
to be
astounded…and advantaged…
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC