"irresponsive" poems
Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...
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The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,
And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.
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1
The irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to me:--
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band
Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;
But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?
What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--
And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,
And sometimes I remember days of old
When fellowship seemed not so far to seek
And all the world and I seemed much less cold,
And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,
And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
2
Thus am I mine own prison. Everything
Around me free and sunny and at ease:
Or if in shadow, in a shade of trees
Which the sun kisses, where the gay birds sing
And where all winds make various murmuring;
Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;
Where sounds are music, and where silences
Are music of an unlike fashioning.
Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,
And smile a moment and a moment sigh
Thinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?
But soon I put the foolish fancy by:
I am not what I have nor what I do;
But what I was I am, I am even I.
3
Therefore myself is that one only thing
I hold to use or waste, to keep or give;
My sole possession every day I live,
And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.
Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bring
From crudeness ripeness mellow and sanative;
Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;
And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.
And this myself as king unto my King
I give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;
Who gives Himself to me, and bids me sing
A sweet new song of His redeemed set free;
He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?
And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
2k
It was social experimentation
To be locked away, windowless
Four walls, perpetually fixed
- as his figure in a lightless room
Ears removed, mouth sewn closed
Eyes blinded, no light, no sound
Muted humanity, no dignity
He happened upon a laughing child
before the procedure
and that sound echoed inside
Deep within his bowels it reverberated
Through his blood
Distorted in his stomach
Youthful innocent laugh,
it grew monstrous
It began to talk
and the beast within was personified
Day one he lost his mind
Day two was still day one
(how irresponsive time becomes)
Day three the laugh became a growl
Day four the voices started
Day five in absentia
Day six he was done
Day seven, bizarre interim
- that between life and death
Profoundly lost in swingin' psychosis
Met by the devil in detailed cerebellum
Watched memories deteriorate
like some reel-to-reel burning, spluttering
His wife now only a hydrogen hallucination
Do you, the reader, know true loneliness?
The observation deck was packed on day eight
Muted, yet guttural screams of anguish
from deep within his throat
Were haunting reminders of the damaging effect
of psychological studies and the fragility of humanity
The cataract voids in his stoic face
they betrayed fear, and begged captors
for some respite from this hellish dream
Until in a tormented blinded haze, the voice was clear
His ears still dead, though this voice was true
Spoke but three subtle words
The subject experienced simultaneous neurological
Joy and fear
He had heard the de facto vocalisation of some supreme
he spoke them aloud
his only utterance
and the teary eyed scientists gathered
sterile needle
no words
dead.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC
There are times
When you use to think of your past
All you ever do is to ponder
That, things will change
Hoping you haven’t done such things
And wishing things were done in different ways
All of those
Irrevocably written in your history
Handling life is like choosing a stone
A tool which could represent
Who you are and what you do
Different stones can be drawn everywhere
Rough… smooth
Small…Big
Ordinary…precious
Brittle…Hard
You could choose to be rough.
Were you handle things badly,
Making unwanted decisions out of poor emotions,
A person who does not exert more effort
Things which could draw you to be undesirable to others
There are also times when you belittle yourself
Actions happening out of irresponsive efforts to others
That, things are not coming quite good
All due to Lack of confidence
This could hinder you to be a better person
You might also treat yourself like an ordinary passer’s-by
Feeling care-free of the things that may happen
That things just come and go
Making others fulfill their stuffs on their own
A thought that could not give a big difference to the society
You could also choose to be a cry-baby
Were you Let others step on you
That you are not capable of doing big decisions
Treating yourself irresponsible to higher things
Which could left you a slave to others
A question should always be asked on yourself,
“Do I want to be that kind of Stone?”
Ask yourself, and sincerely answer.
A question to ponder,
“Am I rough?”
“Am I Small?”
“Am I Ordinary”
“Am I Brittle?”
You could be your own stone
Smooth…Big…Precious…Hard
Be Desirable…
Be a Better Person…
Be different…
Be Strong…
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
Rest assured, confidently
This face you see is a mask irresponsive
Colden by previous wars, every wrinkle is a battle wound
The bigger the frown the heavier the wars
Pay more closely, your attention, to this strut
You see this walk, not burdened by this face
The elegant, inviting, nature of my posture
The swiveling of these hips
This face is just a mask irresponsive
Not even Satan himself is able to break it.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 8:03 AM UTC
cyclones have been raging in my soul for a hundred nights
rendering my head and heart unresponsive.
the turbulence of this is almost too much to bear
i don't want to live like this anymore
this uncertainty and chaos is causing me to pick all the wrong fights
making those around me close to irresponsive.
these storms under my skin, they just rip and tear
it's me verses me, an all out anatomical war.
i can't remember the last time i've seen the sun
or the last time that the wind stood still.
all i can remember is chaos and atrophy
running wild through my own veins.
just when i think it's subsiding, it's never truly done
it destroys my sanity, murders my will.
every nerve in my body becomes a casualty,
and i become wrapped tightly in invisible chains.
i can hear myself screaming, but no one else can
the water is drowning me, i can't make a sound.
no one knows, but does anyone really care?
we never really know until we're no longer here.
has it ended before it even began?
i'd only just begun to fly before i hit the ground.
i'm no angel, with no wings i have no prayer
to think i could fly away and persevere.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 4:59 AM UTC