"inimitable" poems
Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.
"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.
You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.
You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.
You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.
You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.
You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.
You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
**** **** **** **** the ************
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.
Turn about is fair play.
You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.
You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.
You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.
You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.
You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.
You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.
You, my love, are allowed to have time.
You, my love, are allowed to understand.
You, my love, are allowed to love.
Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;
You, my love, are Rebellion."
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
From the outside he is unfinished and grotesque
A figure conjured up by a devilish intelligence
Out to shock the world with his ghoulish antics
For who could find such glee in such contortion
But as always poor **** sapiens is off the mark
For inside this morbid cask of human digression
Lies a trove of bountiful beauty in aesthetic abandon
The beauty inside the man is the work of a maetsro
Poetry that seizes the imagination is his speciality
And music that arrests even the gods is his forte
So be not hasty to judge what you see before you
Let the scales that blind your inner vision drop off
And there before your newly-tutored eyes
Will lie an essence of such beauty as you can never imagine
Loudly proclaiming the worth of the person inside the shell
And how disability is only a layer that when peeled off
Unveils the inimitable jewel inside in its range and depth
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC
Oh! mother where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the great king Ashoka and the world master Sankaracharya?
Where is the ujjayani that was immersed in the literary effluence of
The great dramatist Kalidasa?
Where is the light that shone from the piercing eyes of the warrior
Queen Rudrama Devi and the Goddess Durga?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the buzzing sound of the bees that came from the corridors
Of the great king Shajahan? Where are the echoing sounds of the war monger
The sword Thikkana?Where is the gallooping white horse climbed by the unconquerable warrior queen of Jhansi Lakshmi Bai?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where is the fire that emanated from the broad shoulders of
The inimitable king and connoisseur of art, Sree Krishna devaraya?
What happened to the living breaths of Balachandra, the young warrior
And brahmanaya, The great warrior and social reformer?
Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Where are the kings, the great poets, the warriors, the chaste queens?
Where have they gone?
Where are the foot prints of the golden wings of time that fanned and fled?
Oh! Mother, Where are the snow falls of yester years? Where are the snow falls of yester years?
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
We celebrate 5th September as teachers’ day
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan was born on this very day
He showed the Indian nation the right way
His debt how can we repay?
He is a universal teacher
And a man of inimitable stature
Wisdom and simplicity are the hallmarks of his feature
Incomparable oration is his nature
He rose to the nation’s highest post
And tried to build a bridge between east and west
His philosophical teachings are the best
And his knowledge of English is very vast
He is Plato’s philosopher king
As President honour and dignity did he bring
He brought religion a new meaning
His glory and greatness I would like to sing
Yours sincerely,
JVL NARASIMHA RAO
INDIA
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC
So sell your daughters
**** your sons
Go break your spoken
Vows in tongues
For from these lungs
I storm the loudest
As my furies
Muse the proudest
Wings endowed with shrouds of Nyx
Baptized within the River Styx
So wage petty crusades
And feel
Titanic wrath’s
Achilles heel
For in this heart
My lust will claim
Entire Gaea’s
Set aflame
By bolts of my creative spark
Be sure, I’ve never missed my mark
So bend your knees
And cross your hearts
And mutilate
Your private parts
For by these hands
The story spun
The sickle swung
And shed my young
And led them to the glory sung
Henceforth until the Fates are done
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 5:36 PM UTC
Your origami snapper came along
tucked into my wallet
things like that don't travel well
but I managed
they suffered a lesion to the spine
snappers are apparently weak there
maybe we can work on growing a backbone together
handmade gifts mean the most
less, when it was made in whimsy and flimsy
more, because it gave me false hope
maybe it's a sign
like a uke-playing octopus
maybe friendship is all I need right now
your origami snapper is a great listener
It sits on my desk
Either mocking or pondering, I can’t tell
Snappers are hard to read that way
Maybe if we showed more emotion you’d
notice
but action requires reaction
and somehow the origami rose I made forgot it’s origami thorns
But there could be blood on my hands
From a beautiful friendship I so recklessly slaughter
pulling up roots like weeds
adding wistful thinking to inimitable memories
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
You were the architect of the nation
And loved it with great passion
You flew the eternal dove
For your inimitable greatness I bow
You were the true disciple of Bapuji
And dearly called chachaji
You were an Arjuna
In the war of independence
You loved the dear kids
And treated them as tender buds
You wore a rose in your button hole
Elevating India is your noble goal
We fulfill your beautiful dream
And follow your spiritual cream
We love our children
As they are our true vision
Dec 25, 2010
Dec 25, 2010 at 4:39 AM UTC
I wanna live
with a cinnamon girl
I could be happy
the rest of my life
With a cinnamon girl.
A dreamer of pictures
I run in the night
You see us together,
chasing the moonlight,
My cinnamon girl.
Ten silver saxes,
a bass with a bow
The drummer relaxes
and waits between shows
For his cinnamon girl.
A dreamer of pictures
I run in the night
You see us together,
chasing the moonlight,
My cinnamon girl.
Pa sent me money now
I'm gonna make it somehow
I need another chance
You see your baby loves to dance
Yeah...yeah...yeah
- song by my all-time favourite artist ....the inimitable NYoung :)
4 June 2013
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
First kiss. O dulcet, glorious, first kiss!
Undeniable, absolute and sweet.
Honeyed naivety. Breathtaking bliss.
Nigh naught in life can possibly compete.
Your kiss. O mellifluous, first true kiss!
Delicate symphony of pure passion.
My heart surrenders; it cannot resist
The sounds of soft, diaphanous satin.
Our kiss. O inimitable first kiss!
Melody of sweet spontaneity.
Intoxicating and velvet abyss.
True desire; nay mere velleity.
Heavenly pleasure ‘tis the first, sweet kiss
Heart and mind will forever reminisce.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 5:57 PM UTC
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
Investment Principles:
Staying the course,
your owned love
will not fail you
~~~~
Staying the course means going against your own emotions at times.
when weeping is easier than squaring the jaw, gritting teeth
Staying the course means thinking and acting for the long term even when it doesn’t feel right in the short-term.
*lost loving, when the other walks away, and being brave is
the only path, brace, and excise that stooped shoulder, stand straight!*
Staying the course means preparing not predicting.
*predict only that hope is eternal, perpetual and maybe, just,
around the corner*
Stay the course means doing nothing when that’s what your plan calls for.
~~~
steady the breathing,
ok, now! wipe the tears,
be resolved that once tasted,
love, is human, though inimitable,
and your sunrises will return inevitable
and the return on investment unbelievable
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 8:30 AM UTC
Your father
Is ordering
Gold bangles
For you
You ought to be glad
The glimmer
In that eyes
When you were born
While wearing those
Tiny bangles on you
For the first time
Are inimitable
I feel envious
Of that bangle
And that world of yours
Without me.
I declare war
With your father
For no reason
Although certain
That I would disappoint as usual
I too had bought
A karivala *
In the third life itself
Sure that you would come
I’ll wear
That
On your hand
On the morning
Of
The fourteenth life
I have preserved the karivala
In saline water
Lest it
Gets blighted
I deserve the honor
Of being the first poet
To have preserved a black bangle
Meant for his girl friend
In saline water.
Translation : Shyma p
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
*the cost
of
'a post-strophe fee'
is a pouted heart
placed in parentheses*
(yet still on that ledge:)
1.
like the tail of a kite
caught on a wire
or high branch of a tree
waiting to be eased off
and breezed out
free
it hangs upside down
seeing 'everything'
tipsy-style
as its force is slow-drained
2.
this apostrophe
is
the mere tail-end
of a dragon
(in a pit of exhaustion)
dragged in deepest-red ink
leaving an inimitable trail
with emphasis on sincerest care
brackets are just (two curves)
which jealously guard
all what lies inside
while giving so much
love in indivisible power-curls
3.
better to
let nature runs its course
of rivers flowing
and wild winds
while beetles walk on stones
yet
while trying to make a mark
with missives in the sand
the waves make sure
to wash them all away
best then
to let know
in this now
that some things never die
(it's enough for veracity to flap its weary wings)
4.
flee then
this finest core-duel likely
there's always..maybe
the next now
(all the previous
were not quite squandered
in cold flight
but unexpected loss)
and
no use hiding from one's (own) shadow
for kites will take off
and fly high
in the sun
where shadows have no place to hide
*futile wondering
if it really
(has to)
spell
catastrophe
it does not*
(it really does not :)
S T. Saturday. 27 July 2013
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
She made it vanish
every trace of it,
with her inimitable
feminine magic.
Fully erasing my
post ****** hatred
led me from the front
to an exploration of
ardent, ****** acrobatics
that took us through the
***** dynamics of
****** healing, non peril!
Wasn’t she an all terrain ace?
Aviator making me fly
without wings above the
fluffy soft caressing clouds
The toughest driver on roads
of all kind,keeping pleasure
at the acme through out her drive.
What a swimmer was she,making
me swoon in sensual waters.
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of ***** of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.
2.3k
o' turtle in your tank
why do you cry?
belly-ache or heartache;
which is it this time, turtle?
o' slow creature
idle too long
it's time to move on
moss collects upon your back
inimitable armour
to mundane pebble
you transform
in your tank
tell me what ails you
young reptile
do you long for the taste
of sweet algae in a pond?
or has it been too long?
have you forgotten
what it’s like
to be a turtle?
o' solitary being
have you given up?
the glass has bound you
these twenty-odd years
have you grown frightened
of what awaits outside?
you retreat at the sight
of the earliest light
o' forlorn prisoner
hold your breath a while longer
for freedom is bestowed
upon the patient
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
"Ah, young Sir,
indeed it is in your lines on your smooth palm
as I indeed felt the moment
when I saw your noble face
and your inimitable manner…"
"What is it? What is it?
O speak your mind, young gypsy;
speak the truth, speak with no fear"
"Ah, young Sir
this curved line that runs
across your gentle palm tells
you must certainly have
some of the blood of the Caesars
running through those bold veins of yours"
"Ah, true, true indeed
sometimes I have felt it too"
"And, young Sir
this straight line that cuts that curve
on your most delicate palm
ah – it indicates even some lineage of prophets
and a history of past holy men
which line now culminates in you"
"Oh, indeed, indeed
I have had such intimations indeed
at the House of God when I kneel
in holy prayer;
and I have had such whispers
and stirrings within my *****
indeed…indeed…"
And when the gypsy is gone
it is then that the young man
of such esteemed rank and high nobility
and of such holiness
he feels his gold ring also gone…
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
Blamed it
Irresistible gravity around
Blamed it
Sinking in the ground
Faster than the speed of light
Blamed it all
On a tunnel of hyperspace
Faster than the speed of light
Waiting for explanations
Hope and retributions
Waiting for you
A moment passes
Or is it a year?
Questions become mundane
A moment passes
Inimitable carrier
Waiting for explanations
Faster than the speed of light
Blamed it
On nothingness
And blamed
My existence
****** in with no escape
The tape stuck in my head
My resistance
Slowly being replaced
By despair instead
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Les être, le cosmos, la terre et le vin
(Dédié à l’incomparable génie Charles Baudelaire)
Les ceps murissent longuement sous l’énigmatique lueur des cieux,
irisés par les ondes astrales du Cosmos et ses grands vents de feu.
Des gelées de janvier aux averses d’avril, le vigneron soigne ses vignes.
qui souffrent des fournaises de l’été jusqu’à la bouilloire dorée de l’automne.
Le vin est d’abord fruit des astres et des cieux, mais aussi de la patience et de l’art du vigneron.
Il y a une magie du vin qui vient sceller les noces mystiques de l’azur, de la terre, du cosmos et des graves.
Il existe dans le vin comme une consécration des noces d’or de la terre, des pierres et de l’azur,
Qui lui donne son caractère âpre ou velouté, son goût inimitable, sa vraie signature, son héraldique.
Un palais exercé saura toujours en déceler l’empreinte pour y trouver sa genèse et gouter ses merveilles.
Mais c’est le vigneron qui consacre ces noces avec son savoir, son doigté, sa manière d’opérer le grand œuvre des vendanges.
Le choix de la date des vendanges dépend de l’intuition humaine et correspond au sacre de l’automne.
Au moment où les grappes pèsent et ou les raisins sont gonflés comme de lourds pendentifs,
alors que les raisins mûrs sont prêts à sortir de leur enveloppe dorée pour se transformer en élixir.
Le vigneron prend la décision sacrale de celle dont dépend la qualité du vin à naître.
Et les vendanges vont se mener dans une atmosphère d’excitation et de sentiment de franchissement du danger.
Désormais le vin sorti du pressoir va murir dans des barriques de chêne
Le bois peut apporter sa chauffe méthodique afin que se mêlent au jus des arômes de bois et de forêts,
C’est sûr, cette année, les forces de la nature et de l’Homme nous préparent un grand vin.
Aussi quel honneur et quel rite magique que d’en boire les premières gorgées dans des coupes d’argent ou des verres de cristal,
avant même que le vin ne soit fait et tiré pour en détecter les grands traits et les failles.
Enfin, vient le moment de boire, comme une élévation des cœurs et des esprits.
L’on ne boit bien qu’en groupe, qu’avec de vrais amis, sa chérie ou des belles.
Boire c’est d’abord humer et découvrir par le nez les secrets d’un terroir et des pampres,
puis humecter ses lèvres afin de s’imprégner des sucs et des saveurs,
et puis boire surtout, c’est œuvre de finesse, d’expression de l’Esprit et de bonne humeur; qu’il y ait de l’ivresse, fort bien, mais jamais d’ivrognerie
Paul Arrighi ; Toulouse(France), le 3 novembre 2013
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
*Lightning Enchantress & Her Diamond Absolutes,
Moaning Fluxes Of Her Satellite Pursuits.,
Phantasmal Intents In Her Indigo Silhouettes.
***** Eyes & Animatronic Bliss,
Her Cherry Lips Calling For Her Symphonic Kiss,
Inimitable Raindrops & Iridescent Perpetuity,
Condensed Laments Of Her Kaleidoscopic Sphericity,
Purple Palisades & Platinum Charades,
Pheromone Verses Of Her Propelled Shades,
Shapeshifting Reveries Of Her Hourglass Fictions,
Charming Archangels Concealed In Her Convictions,
Glasshouse Perspectives Emitting Luminescent Predictions,
Magnetic Canvas & Her Stainless Vibrations,
Her Aesthetic Amour Diffusing Amplifications,
Satirical Saga In Her Spiritual ******
Lyrical Charlatans Of Her Velvet Creativity,
Crystal Flowers & Supernatural Dreams,
Befuddled Effigies Of Her Cryptic Realms,
Her Feral Gleams Illustrating A Prophetic Queen.
- 02:32 AM -*
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
The poet tries
with her words
to create something new
something hitherto unconsidered,
unthought, unspoken
She rakes the dirt for language
that is inimitable and rare
Fighting her way out of
prosaic platitudes
Searching deliriously for
a sharp-edged jolt of ingenuity
that will
awaken and inflame
In this great pursuit of something
clever
to say,
she overcompensates,
birthing a few stanzas
of exaggerated hogwash that inspires
more dismay than satisfaction
Out the window
her poem goes
A little crumpled ball of melodrama
and stale cliché
Then the poet sits in silence
smoldering with displeasure
wanting nothing more than
to finally write something that
works
It is when, radiant with disappointment,
she relinquishes her fantasy of excellence
that the true
poem begins
With rosy wings and
eyes like screaming bullets
it sails forth to proclaim
to declare
to profess without apology
or contrition
the wildest truths of her
soul
It is out of this realm of
deflation and defeat that
true originality is bred
Just a murmur at first, just a glint,
but listen, listen as
it swells into an exquisite roar
and watch,
watch as it rises from
the decay of the past
to flare
in a new light
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
Your father
Is ordering
Gold bangles
For you
You ought to be glad
The glimmer
In that eyes
When you were born
While putting those
Tiny bangles on you
For the first time
Are inimitable
I feel envious
Of that bangle
And that world of yours
Without me.
I declare war
With your father
For no reason
Although certain
That I would disappoint as usual
I too had bought
A karivala
In the third life itself
Sure that you would come
I’ll wear
That
On your hand
On the morning
Of
The fourteenth life
I have preserved the karivala
In saline water
Lest it
Gets blighted
I deserve the honor
Of being the first poet
To have preserved a black bangle
Meant for his girl friend
In saline water.
trans : Shyma p
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Ugly little pigs,
hooting and howling
they revel in slush
as if there is no bliss like this
and nothing is worth seeking
outside this pit, full of slimy stuff.
How long they entertain him
with their inimitable gift!
Dirt gets a new status, dainty news,
with the cute litter working on it.
What thought passes his mind?
"Fair is foul and foul is fair,
No angel would look as nice
in such a cesspit, holy pig!"
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Clogging real life,
lost in the Great Barrier Mind.
It's attacking,
Again.
Never seen,
Never touched.
Yet this affection,
Grows stronger.
Everyday.
Inquisitiveness
Of his whereabouts,
Appearance,
Temperament and
His love of religion.
Who is he?
Descendant?
Age?
Every detail,
Unknown and
Unseen.
Yet I profusely yearn.
Yearning for his bejewelled devotion.
Yearning for his inimitable self.
Yearning for his yearns for me.
That is
If it subsists.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC