"hereabouts" poems
To Paint a Water Lily
A green level of lily leaves
Roofs the pond's chamber and paves
The flies' furious arena: study
These, the two minds of this lady.
First observe the air's dragonfly
That eats meat, that bullets by
Or stands in space to take aim;
Others as dangerous comb the hum
Under the trees. There are battle-shouts
And death-cries everywhere hereabouts
But inaudible, so the eyes praise
To see the colours of these flies
Rainbow their arcs, spark, or settle
Cooling like beads of molten metal
Through the spectrum. Think what worse
is the pond-bed's matter of course;
Prehistoric bedragoned times
Crawl that darkness with Latin names,
Have evolved no improvements there,
Jaws for heads, the set stare,
Ignorant of age as of hour—
Now paint the long-necked lily-flower
Which, deep in both worlds, can be still
As a painting, trembling hardly at all
Though the dragonfly alight,
Whatever horror nudge her root.
9.8k
~
*this once sound vessel
succumbing to agony,
as if scuttled by
a siren at sea,
and in her heart
flutters and sunbeams,
she's not alone
in her dreams,
there's a torch light
with wings, dancing
about her wounds,
it burns of empathy,
but too numb to feel the pain
of her dying rooms,
hereabouts goodbye,
under the silk of anesthesia,
she whispers,
"blade of grass, then away we fly..."*
~
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC
Please retain this document as proof of your induction.
you are an inductee,
part of the tinkering crew,
high giving, high fiving
globally is your locally!
we know where you live,
Google mapped and sleep kid-napped from under that
shady radiata pine tree
more than sufficient,
your poetic revelations,
to know the you and the where-hereabouts of the
lives you handle with
wondrous word-care.
care taken, if you want hide deep,
but to late for thee and our world,
your name on the roster
of poets by night,
tinkers, soldiers, and some who tailor
poems bespoke for the ones who
dare not reveal their true (s)elves
in the words they write.
but you do.
so the
ticK tocK
(never forgot the Special K)
of your clock
synchro us
so too late,
we can call you anonymous,
if that be your preferential suffice,
If that makes you happy.
but what we need to know,
already planted by you,
in our soiled heart,
growing steadily cotton-higher.
When you are ready,
you will dispense with
your leafy nom de plume,
tell us what we don't need to know,
tell us what we already knew,
three boxes checked,
you are
poet, wife and mother,
suffice suffice suffice
the three stripes thrice
sewn on your skin,
inductee into the army of the
fly-by-night,
word~tinkers
guess you can say,
you are a tacker now,
tacked onto this crew,
watching over its
individuals,
therefore, say no more,
but write
a poem a day,
that, your tinkering dues.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Hereabouts was inearthed the grief of an infatuate;
Beneath the moonlight and clinged by deception;
Thou, one and only sol in the murkiness;
Pour spilled, imbrued the prediction away from the windfall;
Thou, who laughed there then shivered forsakenly?
presumed a northwind that never tied up here;
Was life span soundless as the unnaturalness of the ambiguity?
conversed without confab, forsaken the anguish each one raindrops;
Hasten the broken heart in the wake of thee;
When silhouette remains anonymous, hence thou stand synonymous;
thence it's tiring to imitate its fascination;
how afflicts sweet taste of hyperbole from a guileless lip;
Thou laud me, when thou stare me in emptiness;
Thou palter me, when thou don't seek about my beauty;
Thou vanished, when thou don't see amore anymore...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
unlike the landscape hereabouts yet only up the road
up the road where all comes beyond reality to help with reality
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 1:05 AM UTC
Lata Mangeshkar’s lilting voice breathed life into penned gems by Sultanpur’s wounded soul – Majrooh – soothed my mental wounds yet again.
The longer version of the original song – has been rendered into English by yours truly.
Akin to the zenith of market’s capital
We attract appraising buyers’ greedy glower
In this thirsty street a single drink would suffice
To bring us back to life like resurrected treasures
The beau is here somewhere close to the heart
But the eyes yearn and dart around to seek
Love’s path is straight and ordinary hereabouts
Yet is curled like young maiden’s wavy tiara strands
Visions’ digging buried memories will be futile
Their footprints have risen tall like fortifying walls
The verses’ madness have assumed a new method
Triggering wounded heart’s tears wetting cheeks and lips
The marred soul swears faith and affection
Yet, we stand transfixed like accused in a trial
For the sake of those who appreciate good music, here is the link of the whole song from Dastak [the knock] – the 1970 black and white classic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DJxsY8l1FM
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Confronted by a towering wall
spanning miles above me..
..I..
Get a grip! says one of my men.
it shan't be long now-
attach the hooks and wires,
and climb-!
As I stumble towards the wall
something arches fourth
from my stomach
some kind of muck or mire
comes rushing forward
and my mind disappears
Awakened by the foul stench
of burning sulfur and coal
I open my eyes, groggily
and though blurry and strained
I perceive small little hooven feet
dancing about me
Yet no fear is within me
my aversions long gone
for this sight is one
I have grown accustomed to
I live among them
pray among them
I search my soul
which is littered with
legions of these horned monsters
each having various faces
are they me?
are we you?
are we sane?
I hardly care anymore
the clutter strewn about
is what remains of my
sanity
the cobwebs attest
to just how long
I've treaded hereabouts
I'm tired...
I say good Sirs, and Madams
I am so very tired.
Shall we fetch you a cup of tea, sir?
No, get me that bottle over yonder
Yes, Sir-!
Mam, the bottle appears to be empty
Empty you say-?!
I swat away the pest
and hunt for something by which
I can use to dim the light of my vision
stampedes of friends bring me many more gifts
illusions, fantasies, various pains, and love letters
each smiling with crooked menacing teeth
they appear gifts in hand, and up to evil no doubt
Sir, shan't you take your morning brew?
Madam, I have taken it, and I am indeed due for more
With cup in hand, I ask of my friends
to lay me down and help me to sleep
using their tiny hands and arms
they pull shut my eyelids,
and as I begin to lose my vision
I perceive in the distant clouds
the saddened face of someone I once knew
frowning
as the face disappears into the moisturous clouds
I faintly remember I had something to do
or maybe somewhere to be?
However for now
I think I shall enjoy various brews and cups laden with
miseries
and I shall share them with my horned and bedeviled friends
because my body, mind, and soul
has come to very much resemble them
or perhaps they me?
Cheers.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 2:01 PM UTC
My roof is so empty now, so forlorn
Though the game, you inspired, still goes on
Raindrops are tears of my window’s pain, they mourn
Through the night, again, I am alone.
I took a crooked branch sawn by my own hand
Of all hereabouts it’s the strangest wood
Made a cross and stabbed that sad hour glass sand
So the outlines of your face mark your grace, as it should.
I’m still working through this quiet grief
Quite thinking on your grave to daily add a feather
My missing you certainly can’t be brief
Not at all dependent upon the weather
Like you, though feline through and through
You’d leap up every night, after roaming on and on
To give your plaintive “Meeeeow!” (Oh I So miss you)
My “Who IS it?!?” is forever gone.
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
deserted by the all or nothing
I potter through wads
of nothing really matters
and nothing really happens
around hereabouts
so be grateful for the quiet
peaceful way the cards are falling
be grateful for your moments
life is too amazing to worry
your all is accepted and
it really is nothing
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
I don’t have any last words that aren’t interrupted by one parroting my father’s belief that god was a temp. had it been hell and not hell abandoned when it began to grow in our minds. as created, satan couldn’t live with himself. without piecing together how it fell into his lap, we found his umbrella, it wouldn’t open, and we did our rain dance on the earth.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
skimmed slates that bounced about
unlike the pebbles that grow on our banks here
unlike the landscape hereabouts yet only up the road
up the road where all comes beyond reality to help with reality
Nov 25, 2023
Nov 25, 2023 at 12:59 AM UTC