"instigated" poems
Eid
That's what we need
Now More than ever
To show
That we are together
Enough of "holier than thou"
And clamour over the cow
We couldn't have fought
Had we put a thought
That all our customs and faith
Are to gather and celebrate
And embrace all
So More than ever it's now
Necessary to take a vow
That together we grow
And let them know
Who toss us into fire
Of instigated ire
We all had a choice
And we all have a choice
This time
Let's savor the kheer
And a hug a little tighter
Let the crescent moon glow
On us all a little brighter
Eid Mubarak
Let's be better.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
Chained down against this concrete floor
I can’t...
They scream, covering distant laughter
Pulsating sensations coursing within
Built up bursting flames
Look around to find one soul
Choked sobs are always shouting
The blinding light is forever dark
All alone without mercy
Infected wounds constantly bleeding
Quiet words that are loudly spoken
Silent pleads
Evil spirit claim thee
No more forgotten pain or lingering poison
Instigated reason of blocked feeling
Stay here, don’t leave
Breathe in these deadly fumes
Stale smoke floods these lungs
Gradual ascension broken by awakening blows
Holding back malevolent tears
Sit still as fear settles, picking you apart
Enough games!
Rise again
Fragile frame with an unknown name
Carry on and burn true
Tread lightly and live long
Fight hard and release temptation
Be remembered
Promise me...
Don’t
Let
Go
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter"
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Merciful heavens, have pity on me!
If there is a God approachable by men
as yet I have not found him—
Pray for me!
For my heart is dead,
prayers languish upon my tongue;
my right hand has lost its strength
and my hope has wilted, undone.
How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end?
How long? Hangman, traitor,
here’s my neck—
rise up now, rise and slaughter!
Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe
and the whole world is a scaffold to me
although we—the chosen few—
were once recipients of the Pacts.
Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize—
strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain
drenching your pristine uniform again and again,
staining your raiment forever.
If there is Justice—quick, let her appear!
But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face,
let her false scales be overturned forever
and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace.
You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice,
suckled on blood, unweaned of violence:
cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden;
such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan.
Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss!
Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness,
eat it away and undermine
earth's rotting foundations.
Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
Never
Orchestrate a hook up with a
Ripped and curious hetero
Who dances like Prince.
Ever the idiot, I
Grabbed hold of his hand and
Instigated a kiss, whispering
“All is well with me, I’m a good bet…”
Not knowing just how much of a
Weird night it was going to be.
Ominously, he told me to leave straight afterwards. With
One eye on his sleeping form, I
Didn’t set fire to his flat, but I snapped every one of his cigarettes.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
-
Passing idea
Clusters a spark
a mundane brainstorm
And as it passes
Through the elastic mind
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before the idea vanishes
Before storm ceases
Mad,
Mad mind
-
Passing idea
space exploded within itself
atomic fusion instigated
The mundane universe
And it expands
Through the elastic space
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before a black-hole
Swallows my universe
to create another one
Mad,
Mad universe
-
Passing idea
Clusters of minds
Until civilizations are fused
Into mundane cultures
And they expand
Through the elastic generations
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before civilization zero
Is both dead and alive
In the schrodinger-like
Transition to civilization one
Mad,
Mad persons
-
Passing idea
Cluster of lonely universes
Until the almighty gravity
Loses its kingdom
To the thought of multiverses
And it expands
Through the elastic kinship
I wish to sit
At my typewriter
To capture the essence
Before it’s gone
Before multiverses wonder
And discover:
They think, therefore they are.
Mad,
Mad multiverses
-
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
whilst thoughts are passing through my cerebral cortex
Perhaps
Someone inside an earth-like neuron in my brain
Is sitting at his typewriter
With a writer’s block
Trying to make sense of the birth of me:
His equivalent of the big bang
a single atom
Giving birth to the energy
That shaped his universe - my cerebrum
I am sitting at my typewriter
To capture an idea
Whilst the milky-way and Andromeda
Are to cross through a string of light-like gravitational paths
Perhaps
The conscious of the universe
Ponders my existence
In a form of a passing idea
Mad,
Mad Alireza.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
those killers of innocents
will die in their own blood
not even mistranslated 72 houris
can save them
the misguided fanatics of Paris
who shot happy civilians
with their Kalashnikovs
and then blew themselves up
will have discovered that
by now
to throw terror and death
into people’s daily lives
is an abominable crime
not a heroic deed
those who instigated the massacre
shall be punished accordingly
fake heroes revealed
as ruthless criminals
shall face judgement
in whose light
their great deeds
are shown as what they are
****** ******
yet – far beyond the proper punishment
required after cruel acts
there is the need to look ahead
and face the somewhat inconvenient necessity to
remove the roots of violence veiled as religion
speak up and stand up firm against fanaticized minorities
no matter in whose name the claim to act
bring peace to regions devastated by the dire games of politics
we simply cannot allow
a bunch of ruthless desperados to dominate our lives
* * *
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
I didn’t vote, because I didn’t care
And it didn’t matter anyway
A pawn I was, a silly ant
My vote was mine to throw away
And thus ended election day
With the grave result for all to see
By throwing away my precious vote
I too instigated the second-rate democracy
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
That which Boils Toils
the product of my affection
May I make an interjection,
I may be at a spike,
my mind may be filled with spite,
and that's right, I am more than probably,
more than likely
overly hormonally irrationally irate.
Instigated, mind you, by your subterfuge,
incessant, noncovalent, depressant,
actions of will will make me seethe.
For my seething wreathing rampage feels so good.
Too good,
ice that cascades down your back on a stark hot summer day
The ice, tiny razors cutting tracks down your back.
Racing beads toward the finish line.
And it feels sublime
The pain of the chill counters the pain of the heat.
And that's how I feel when we meet
at that place where I become a monster.
My chill blown westward
counters the visceral heat in my breast.
That heat that makes me want to beat sticks and drums
and call in my army
It alarms me
That's why I whisper
And shy away
And sulk, because the Hulk is who I'm keeping at bay
My enemy is not the one with eyes searching for me,
but my Jealousy who is at war within me.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
“is this the hill I want to die on?”
there are certain questions I ask myself
filters, lines in the mental sands, rubicons, so denominated by me.
which loosely translated means is this battle worthy of dying,
fighting over?
the question comes so frequently I wonder what’s wrong with me.
always instigated by a human being and every one quick to the draw
I ask the question twice -
most times
once to them. then to myself
by now my children know,
to ask themselves first,
so once is enough
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 5:31 PM UTC
The yearning for Escape, a misinterpretation
Conception instigated from understanding
Unobtrusive acquiescence of unending comprehension
Thoughts explode in the blue and rain down
Lovely eruptions submerged in moonlight
Showering the spheres with a dazzling gleam
Deluging them with adoration and consideration
Illuminating the path to eternity
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***
i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
and then... **** gone, never
to be seen again...
Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
excuses?
irritability...
there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
and conversations,
after having completed a...
well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
**** i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.
p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
so i didn't block him?
*Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.*
and i still have the block option
handy...
mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
trippy ********
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
You always burn me
I never even turned the heat up once
But you kept burning me
Why do you burn me so much?
I never wanted to be the victim of this
I never instigated an Agni Kai match between anyone
But your flames still ignite my soul
Not in the other ways I've experienced
But this is far from the abnormal
Every day i think about why they burn me
I'm never going to stop
Being who i am
For something so meager in statements
I will not be punctual for your cut downs
I will only be punctual for others who deserve it and for myself
This is the next trimester and i'm giving birth to my new breath of fresh air
Go ahead and try to rampage my cities, but you will be sequestered and tranquilized
Sent back into the ocean
Where you belong
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Yes, she stole my thoughts
devoured, digested and made her own
in the shortest possible time one could imagine,
made her imprint to make it a through job.
all between a stuporous sleep of my unmaking
after that frenzied mating instigated by
her cheating instinct at its acme.
she did it quietly in the dim light
of the zero watt bulb,
after we slept together
for the first time;
it was eerie
my romanticized thoughts
were the first to
get drawn out,
a tree full of wild red blossoms,
the name of which slipped
from memory to oblivion,
migratory birds of different feathers
sitting on that tree chirping in love's sweet passion.
i woke up
when the thoughts circling
like blood in my veins were touched,
she was there prowling
with the look of a witch,
a happy one at that
how victorious she looked!
my angst has no place in her scheme of things
after that, she coughed and spat
and pretended ,IPR never was violated
When you get bitten by the
serpent called lust,
and two ***** conjoin,
thoughts go down and hide,
one become unreasonable
and glide through moonlit sky,
stars wink, thoughts wink back,
and the stupor takes over.
*yes, she stole my thoughts
how could one complain?
You need to be one or the other at a time.*
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
They all stood around her, bowed quietly, watching and reflecting and remembering how this day was anticipated. Each engrossed in his/her memory of her and how they saw her eventual end.
Tom thought, ‘Perhaps if I had talked to her more often, this would not have happened’.
Hilary thought, ‘I should have prayed harder, maybe if I was better, then God would have heard my prayer’.
Annie thought, ‘I told her a million times, don’t do that, it will **** you. I guess it finally did’.
Ralph thought, ‘Why didn’t she just call me like she always did?’
Sam thought, ‘Wow, she finally did it, just like she always said she would!’
Andrew thought, rather methodically, of the steps that she would have taken to reach the final destination.
Gene knew exactly how she did it! Hell, if she revealed further, some would say, she even instigated the whole thing.
Pam was undoubtedly gloating, ‘Now she could have it all – the man, the cash, the jewellery ...’
*No one knew though that she was watching all of them from just above, hovered in a corner. She was surprised that she could hear them think even though it was in whispers. She was sad, and happy and in fact after a while she smiled, ‘on to plan B now!’ She was looking forward to all the frightful nightmares she could give each one of them. Heaven can wait or possibly hell but if it’s going to be eternity, she has certainly got a lot time in her hands.
Just then, she felt a vacuum **** her in and she jolted back into her body. She could see them, in fact, her eyes were open but she couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t even blink!!*
The Doctor arrives and lets the family and friends know, “I’m sorry, she’s comatose and right now I am unable to tell you much, we have to keep her here to run further tests! It would be best if just one or two of you stay with her.”
They look at each other and without saying much leave the room one by one.
She’s watching and actually screaming and shouting but no one reacts; to them she’s motionless. She curses and finally stops and just stares at the ceiling.
That was five years ago; she’s in a beautiful room now but she’s still just staring at the ceiling...
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
Eyes red, face calm
Body lax, clenched palm.
Dollish smile, extends long
Anger right, owner wrong.
Frustration grows, sincerely yours
Practicing good, eroding shores.
Instigated ire, complicated time
Virtuously joyed, conditional chime.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
Is this all the product of an unfortunate twist of fate, in which the people of this world know nothing of love?
A percussion of voices in my head act like a monstrous orchestra oscillating through my being without witness
While unmasked feelings flare like wild fires
Instigated only ever so slightly by ravishing winds
Never extinguished, never challenged when faced with onslaughts of violent rains
Forever adapting like the gorgeous shimmering void of unparalleled certainty
Can we ever truly grasp the concept of love?
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
The history of a nation, bended towards the allure of a black dragonfly, a seeping beast that bubbles and brews along the sun baked earth
What a terrifying creature it is, the black devil that infects and corrupts the congregation around
It’s a flammable god, that has the minds of several masses, wishing to make their wells deeper with Midas Gold and African gems
It will burn a hole through the middle of the Earth, it will set itself on fire and aim to take everything organic around it to ashes
For it is a cycle that has begun long ago, instigated by the sins of fathers, and being conjured evermore by the spirits of the past
It will only aim to become a behemoth, that will crush and pillage those that go against it
Rigid moralities become devoted members when they see the banks of The Black Sea, the hearts of men become minds of virus
It will never cease to stop, for the creature can not die, we can not stop what we created.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
Some months ago a partnership was initiated
With our individual verbiages for you being instigated
All care is taken when composing as a duet
As we aspire to put upon the paper our appealing minuet
While she takes the high road and I take the low
We often meet in the middle of the poetic flow
Bringing together both of our wits
More often a hit than ever a miss
Keeping on track calls for a unified side
To stray from this course our poem would be a disjointed ride
Every now and again we check what's been noted for the crew
As we'd not be satisfied with a misconstrued brew
With topics covered to numerous to mention
All of them our potted clay of invention
We can celebrate what we've placed in our cooking pan
Even though our muse didn't give out her recipe plan
So with a little of this and a whole lot of that
We mix it together for the perfect batch
There's no need to over cook as it's already done
The way that we look at it as all in great fun
Being too serious isn't of our writing tag
We just stow wit and wisdom into a bag
If by fortune we get the arrangement this side of right
Our vocabulary combo may be of your delight
With the poem to our taste we raise our glass high
Using just the right words just the way that we like
No need to ferment this tender bouquet
We send it right out with the feeling it's perfectly aged
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Social smoking,
Social what?
I don’t know you,
Don’t you see?
“Can I have a cigarette?”
Can you have my cigarette?
Oblige me as you may,
You are obliged to talk to me now.
Insulated, instigated community
Kept alight by the *** at hand.
As we harm our health
We tarnish our respect.
LOLs and falls are commonplace,
You were my enemy ‘til tonight,
This faithful night,
When I gave you my cigarette.
Clouded distaste
Subtly lost
As we look
For a fickle flame.
“No I don’t have a lighter”
Don’t you know me anymore?
Usurped, ****** dry
Watch me die.
Tonight I may not be so lucent.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC
The rain beats down on his helmet,
Craters turned into pools of brown and burgundy.
Distant artillery shrieks,
A barbaric war song.
Questions buzz around his mind,
Why is he there,
When does it end,
Where are the birds.
No creatures roam no-mans land,
Feared by the cries of young heroes.
Why do the young fight battles,
Instigated by the old,
While the bodies grow cold,
Their lives less precious than gold,
For those who are big and bold,
Behind their desks, in the mansions of old.
The mould grows freely on the wood,
That shelters the holy corpses that should,
Be remembered for the heroes they would,
Have been if only they weren't killed in cold blood.
Sing a song for the unsung heroes of war.
The rain beats down on his helmet,
Thunder crashes around him,
Disguising the gunshot.
Only the dead see the end of war.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 7:05 PM UTC
sensual subtlety or the subtlety of sensuality
(HOW does size matter?)
<•>
*as always the title comes first,
embalming the mind so it may voyage onto unwritten waters,
over boundaries so the provocateur provoked may safely return,
avoiding evoking anti-frieze cannonade fire
some can disable with swinging fist,
a chopping arm on an exposed neck,
a swift kick to the semi-privates
but I can do same, inflicting immobilization
with a single solitary itty bitty
pinky figuring finger
no random boast, no hoax, not chest beating,
just a fact ma’am, nothing but the facts
the sensual subtlety of the delicate
is overpowering and irresistible
making grownups revert
into laughing crying out loud babies
the subtlety of sensuality pink’d exploding exploration,
the intoxicating tiny tingling subtle and without equal,
kingdoms have fallen, paintings and poems, art all kinds,
instigated and in eye sockets permanently inserted,
history redirected
know I will no be telling details,
the whose and where,
the why and surely not the
how, not here anyway
so when you tell me in raw fashion
size matters most definitely
in the matters of the heart
or the physicality
whole heartedly agree
waving my littlest pinky finger
watching you wavering
until you’ve learned the lesson
it’s the how*
not the how big
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
You're going to force me to violate a practice that has been ordained upon me by GOD for specific reasons after locking me up when I've committed no crime.
You're going to bully me and try to intimidate me and the many others who cover our hair and our body parts in order to dress modestly when in public and dignify ourselves.
You're going to forcefully remove my headscarf I've been willingly wearing after my conversion to the most perfected faith tradition, with the last, final, revised God's words' edition.
Well now you've contributed to a response to injustice in me.
Well now you've contributed to a response to violations of civil liberties, human rights, and religious freedom in me.
Well now you've contributed to a response to a crime against me and my blood and religious family in me.
Well now you've agitated a trend of resistance.
Well now you've fueled a trend of by whatever means necessary.
Well now you've instigated a trend of I love my GOD, I love my Prophet, I love my religion and you're not going to stop me.
Well now you've aggrevated a trend of many who are ready to stand up for me, by many who like me, by many who are like and unlike me.
Well now you've wised up a bit and have let me perform one of my religious duties, the wearing of my headscarf again proudly.
By: Najwa Kareem
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 11:26 PM UTC