"filch" poems
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
I'm a midnight sneak,
At Google I'll peek,
My eyes grow round and glow,
It's well after midnight, you know,
I'll filch some treats,
Addictions need sweets,
I'm quite house trained,
Computer feeds my brain,
All alone in this darkened room,
Stalking through Google's runes,
Is that five am to prowl?
Shhhh, I'm insomniac midnight Owl!
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jack fruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyed house you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslaved his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfil my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jack fruit leaves.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
I cry in love, I love in hate;
sorrow t'at no-one should create!
Whenst no gladness runs my heart's brake
It's thy own image t'at I'll make.
I remember lightly t'at day
As I caught thee on my morn way
With some radiance on thy brow;
thy words to me began to flow.
How at thy gaze my heart fluttered;
and as we stared my cheeks ripened!
Easily didst t'eir shells turn red;
and my body, numb went with sweat!
Ah! T'ose docile roots within t'eir ***
cunning creatures of o'r smug Lord!
With eager thirst t'ey peered at us,
sketching a poem as we conversed!
And t'at quaint note I filch'd from 'em-
what a gay song on t'eir young stem!
I knew just t'en how thou doth feel-
from yon crisp leaf and its mild seal!
Seized it as I two nites af-ter-
mine heartbeat fastened with lau'hter!
'pon learning thy name on its end;
so dearly crafted by thy hand!
O! How thou planted into th' cells-
th' living plants, amongst t'eir wells!
T'is piece on loving confession-
and such tender expectations!
I danced gaily in victory-
immersed myself in vile glory!
Ah! Didst I flounce myself right outside
To lure and bringst thee t'wards my side.
'Twas th' start of o'r story;
and my at-first-sight love for thee.
O, in thy arms I weave my might;
and in thy warmth, I findeth delight.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
They failed to filch her fine and noble mien
when Anne Boleyn endured the ****** stand.
Poor Queen! So swift the sword on Tower Green.
Fifteen thirty three could not foresee
this heinous act by Cromwell’s sinful hand,
yet still they failed to filch her noble mien.
‘Twas Edward sought to sully his regime,
obsessed with sons not gracing merry England.
Poor Queen! So swift the sword on Tower Green.
How stealthily does fortune warp the scene.
Betrothed in majesty; so bluntly ******
And yet, they failed to filch her noble mien
The ‘hangman from Calais‘ equipped the scheme.
In haste he struck the deadly blow. Poor Anne!
Poor Queen! So swift the sword on Tower Green.
In face of death prevailed a humble queen.
‘God praise the King; long may he rule the land’.
They failed to filch her fine and noble mien
Poor Queen! So swift the sword on Tower Green.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 1:12 PM UTC
I like the way your shirt creases
light blue and
ironed when you stretch on the other
side of the room in the chair that points you at the crisp
velvet of 7:07 PM Wisconsin Time
Carefully selected as a reminder of your
apathy and perhaps the added bonus of the inverse
image in the window
But every so often you filch a glimpse over your
arm and I can’t help but wonder how you don’t see the stark
contrast between us:
You, with your formal gray thermos and
perpetually opened word processor
single spaced
Me, with my pockets full of crumpled receipts and empty medication bottles
My posture My
teeth My
unwashed gym shoes
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
wherefore are you mover ? (into unbriefest silence
)
and crisp eyes
hard
glassy
body's
, because
strike gold 'tween each
finger paired over the
fragile morn'
, a lot
is sick
pretty
has night colour
from its untimid
shoulders
flayed
so why Stealer
girlsboys
from kissing
?
take immediately into notsavored
forever
could you say perhaps
why struck from
raw untidy
LIFE
,you
Death
immutably
filch
the pollen of young flowers
and the agile stem
crush?
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 11:28 PM UTC
the quiet always
of death
who leans into us a
bit more
each day and
who's
ivory
stillness
creeps
death
who steals
crisp young
petals
from
inMay
trees
death
whose
leagues
upon miles
upon fathoms
of dreamless
shuteyes
strengthless
and wilts
mutest
uncolour
shall filch
meoryou
to soon from the other
's, unyouthing
also, arms
but death never
will conquer
the svelte
instant of your smile
or the unlank verdance
of their
snarling crimson
imping
with my lips
soundless
legions of
eternal
SUMMER
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
Our undercroft had housed our dead
Unseen, in gloomy sepulture.
But pagan chieftains much prefer
Barrows, where height can show instead.
And the busier departments need
Those lowest levels for their work.
Glib passers-by avoid that murk,
And absent bosses don’t impede.
Ensconsed where corpses decomposed,
Those in cubicles will thrive, unvexed,
And never taken from their desks,
They’ll finish the great work imposed.
Interrers from a raucous age
Buried their kings and queens in mounds.
Since robbers filch, and greed abounds,
The wise entombed their heritage.
Sarcophaguses, then the norm,
Are too chilly for a comfy bed.
The dawn should kiss those lids of lead,
To heat what blankets cannot warm.
Rather than burying in hills,
Top those barrows with their occupants.
These somber monuments enhance
What would be dowdy domiciles.
Coffins as cenotaphs and plaques,
Allow the dead to bask in sun,
And feel what veneration’s done.
Hilltops make the best catafalques.
Oct 11, 2021
Oct 11, 2021 at 12:27 PM UTC
Some pomes stick to the wall like spaghetti,
And filch meaning from better poets.
So take not the dower of my time,
And I'll make no obloquy against ye petty scriveners.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
I am alone
I have no point to my life
I mindlessly exist each day
I give no love
I am given no love
I do not eat
I do not drink
I do not cry
I do not laugh
My body always in pain
I can never sleep enough
I filch at the touch of another
I run from speaking with another
I wonder as my mind travels to the abyss
I only think of what could have been
And of a different life
With a different ending than I am heading for
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
Are names telling of something?
When you were young, you were taught to name shapes,
count figures with your tiny, slender fingers,
read text like creed, memorize facts like incantations
so that when it is time that you are already raw
and machinated into the fullness of your body,
you are ready. Ready like the gull darting
into the deep blue to filch the marine.
Ready like artillery to fray.
Ready like genuflected children
in contrition – left the peccadillo aloft, canopied
by a thumbed down word of prayer;
Are names telling of something?
What do they delineate? A sense of ownership?
A demystification? What machine does
it pledge allegiance to? Sage of old?
A frantic fretting of sensibilities? Erudition, or at the very least, obscurantism?
If we leave a thing without a name, what will
that thing be?
It cannot be held – to what extent?
It cannot be owned – for what reason?
It cannot be classified – for what? to saturate it with comprehension
to ensure a fate underneath a conceptualized bent
of attestation and abomination?
If I left you without a name and only held you in my hands like
a thing waiting to be used, to be fondled,
what will you make out of it? Will you darkle and then dissipate
in the thinnest air? Or will you remain? Are names exacted so that
when a thing leaves the body, when an abstraction leaves a moment,
there is a device we can use to drone it into coming back? So that we know
that in addressing it, there is a sure claim that it will move back
and retrace tractable errors? So that in the aftermath,
we are certain of the weight it casts upon our sorry and aching
bodies that refuse to make love? So that there will be words to be written
and voices to be launched in form of song
with identities assured to match the thirst?
Why does this deserve a name? Why are these hands undeserving
of territories? Why is there dissent when there is desire?
The answer lies in the silence of every passing day famished by
evidence: this thing that has no name will remain
as punishment for being – so that when it is time to
prosecute, there will be no
firm basis for eulogies.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC