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Eshan Mar 2011
Kagaz ki kashtiyon mein kai bar safar kar liya,
ab ek lambi udan bhar lene do.
Aj in bandhe hue pankhon ko khuli hava mein sans le lene do,
kyunki ab girne ka khauff nahin raha.

Daudne mein ab koi maza nahin hai,
kyunki yahan to hava jaise tham si gayi **.
Ab rukne ka bilkul man nahin raha,
aj to toofanon mein sair karne lene do.

Dayron mein rehte hue adhi zindagi guzar gayi,
aj to un hadon ko par kar lene do.
Dar dar ke kab tak khamosh rahoge dost,
zameen par jeet jane mein kuch nahin rakha ,
aj to uchaiyon par jashn mana lene do.

Unke chale hue raston ko kai bar nap liya,
aj mujhe bhi apni pehchan bana lene do.
Kismat ka rona to sabhi rote hain,
aj mujhe bhi apne naseeb ka kora kagaz rang lene do.

Kabhi kabhi to man karta hai ki
un azad parindon ki tarah hava mein bas tairta hi reh jaoon.
Asan to kuch nahin par sochta *** ki
aj namumkin ko hi apna dost bana loon.

Kitabon ke panne kafi palat liye,
aj mujhe bhi do shabd likh lene do.
Hans lene do jinhe hansna hai mere in mazboot iradon par.
Kya samjhenege who is khuli udan ki masti ko,
jinhe kabhi bharosa nahin hua khud par,
aur hamesha rakha tha apne armanon ko pinjre mein kaid kar.

Khule asman mein aj ek bar ud lene do,
kya pata kal wahan bhi zaroorat se jyada bheed **.
Kai dinon ke bad aj ek bar fir azad hone ka man kiya hai
Tod do in bediyon ko, kyunki aj ek lambi udaan bharne ka iraada hai
Shrivastva MK May 2015
Jab se tujhe dekha hain maine,
Teri hi khayalo me kho gya hoon,
Raton ki nind uda *** hain tere bina,
Main ab deewana sa ** gya hoon ......


Teri aankhon me ek nasha hain,
Teri har ek ada par
mera dil fida hain,
tere bina main
ek kora kagaj sa ** gya hoon,
main ab deewana sa ** gya hoon.....


tere chehre ki ye muskurahat
meri zindagi hain,
ab tujhse hi meri sari dilagi hain,
Har bar najane kyon teri or
khicha chala ja raha hoon,
main ab deewane sa ** gya hoon.....


Tujhe manga hain maine apne rab se,
dekha hain tujhe maine jab se,
ekpal tere bina ek saal samajh raha hoon,
main ab deewana sa ** gya hoon,
Main ab deewana sa ** gya hoon....
beautiful affectionful wonderful
But Kora sat unmoving, in great magic.
The walls, her home, faded about her. Warmth
went; all alone and on a freezing plain,
dressed in a tunic, sharp knife in her belt,
bow on her shoulder, arrows in a quiver
behind. Her eyes gleamed; a pale cold light,
ˈlɪmpɪd ɪn ˈdʌlnəs

She looked around. Away, at vision’s limit,
a dark shape rose above the plain: a Tower,
the only thing in all this barren place:
no bird flew, no grass grew. Despite the wool
she shivered. Breath-clouds hung in the raw air,
ˈsləʊli dɪˈzɒlvɪŋ

Then in eye’s corner something moved. She turned
to gaze across the Waste and saw a Cloud.
Far, almost straight behind her as she faced
the Tower, it too reared up black and sheer.
Unlike the Tower, moving, whirling, wisps
trailing their tentacles around a core,
ˈtwɪstɪŋ ɪnˈseɪnli

The beginning of 'The Songstone" https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/174533
Santiago Dec 2014
My little baby boy
Aqui estoy nunca me voy
You fill my heart with joy
Santiago mi hijo ese soy yo
If you need it te lo doy
No tengas miedo papas
I'm always with you dadas
Te cargo en mi kora
A toda hora mi alma te adora
No te pongas triste
Solo felicidad me traiste
No temas ni llores
Everything's gonna be fine
Bottom line yo no me venso
david mungoshi Mar 2016
i am a sorry sight for sure
heading for the grim shore
carrying nothing to show
for all my pain and labours
just a tiny frown on her brow
and i'm reduced to a wreck
just the suggestion of a smile
and i'm in heaven, that fabled
place of purest joy and ecstasy
she plays me like a kora, ethnic
and magical in its call and timbre
and i respond like a typical disciple
and say it is well even when i suffer loss
Johnny Dust Apr 2022
I wonder how many of your freckles
Are freckles
And I wonder how many of your freckles
Are embellishments
And I wonder how many of your freckles
Are just reminders.
I see you, sweet, sweet heart.
Sin
We are full of it ,
the stain of corrupt stained. flesh ,
that should haunt our every being .
It is what we live with ,
and feed until like an unwanted guest
stares at us from the corner of a room
and fixes its eyes  on us ,
helpless to its gaze .

     It cusses and dam s us ,
Corodes us  until its acid rain rust particles form .
It's. Rebellious   Angels drag us down
to the way of Cain  ,
Like The way of Kora we stand unflinching.
A spot on white gloss ,
like a muscle needs fibres  to tear ,
Blood to pump ,
Oxygen   to breath it is starved of such things .
A worm burrows through timber ,
as water seeps into wood ,
Is only fit for wood to be burnt ,
Set ablaze into the nights sky ,
and carbon fills the earth .

Like the toxins of cigarette smoke ,
Into lungs no longer fit to breath
It's like a ticking of a clock ,
Yet it bothers us not ,
Lot and Sodam understood it not ,
and death is its grim reaper ,
   An olive branch is cut off ,

Thrown into the flame ,
Yet one cup can cleanse a dying soul
Never to be thrown into the fire .
Sin .
aimecaesar Dec 2019
Here lies the Lord's most beautiful pearls.

Bold like no other.

Unparalleled and unrivaled like the sweet sounds from the Kora.

Carved with the finest materials and left to settle on the 8th day of rest.

Mashallah, one of His best creations to date.

These are the pearls of Fouta Djallon.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
in all fairness, it was one of of those simple overcast,
English sort of days...
i love such days, the sun's lazily hiding
behind the clouds: no chance to implement green
energy via solar panels...
very English... very islander...
     hell, chances are these might just be the Faroe Isles...
it'll do...
weather like this makes me: miserably happy...
or, rather... happily miserable...
   you spot a crow paired up: why do crows in England
tend to fly in pairs?
over on the continent crows congregate...
they antagonise the sky with a presence equivalent
to a Messerschmitt raiding party... horde...
black crosses casting shadows from high up...
in England... the mythological kingdom of crows...
they pair up as if... Odin himself is peering on this land...
what's it like in Scandinavia?
i woke up with a thought, though,
i put it to the back of my head until the day's chores
were over...
what the hell happened to women?
where are the women a boy or man would put
up on the wall on a poster?
what the hell happened to...
women like Joan Jett...
Rachel Weisz (notably for playing a role in
a Stendhal adaptation with Ewan McGregor)
my hot... the archetypical blonde
for me was not Marilyn Monroe...
it was Cameron Diaz after seeing her in The Mask...
**** me, do i have to mention Morgan Weaver...
what's that other one
the really: fit as hell brunette...
oh... right... Alex Morgan...
                   Olga Smirnova... Diana Vishneva...
don't even get me started on
the tennis...
Eugenie Bouchard or... Garbiñe Muguruza
those Spanish "sad eyes" when
smiling... horiziontally:

   (
               )
   (

odd... isn't it... if you pair up two ( ( brackets like
that... and associate them with eyes...
while doing the opposite...

    )
                (
    )

) ) those down-cast eyes... but i guess it all comes
down to... a variation of rereading hieroglyphs...
hell... even further! it's archetypical...

who else is on my list... Paula Badosa...
Monica Puig...
i don't even know why i like the actress
that played the incel Christine Chubbuck...
point being: never shoot yourself in the head...
if you have to... stab yourself in the heart:
as Kafka prescribed... unless you have
a shot-gun available to get rid of the whole head...

i saw it in the movie... and... since i have eclectic tastes...
Christine Chubbuck shot herself in the head...
films make you want to think that she
died... instantly...
ever hear that urban myth about a decapitated
cockroach... it apparently died 2 weeks later...
no... not from missing head:
from a missing mouth... the cockroach's body
continued to live on, even though the head was...
ahem... "missing"...

i think i've touched upon this once already,
the infamous Ukrainian serial killer:
Andrei Chikatilo... it's very much that quote
from Batman... Resurrected... the one with Tom Hardy
playing Bane...
the quote, verbatim:
perhaps he's wondering why someone would
shoot a man! before throwing him out of a plane!
from the film about Christine Chubbuck's attempted
suicide on air: agony of an incel...
she didn't die, immediately... from the head injury...
she died later down the line:
on life support machines...

so i'll re-quote, concerning the execution of
Andrei Chikatilo...
why would he be marched into an empty prison
cell and be shot in the back of the head...
oh... now it makes senses...
he didn't die immediately...
he was brain-damaged...
he didn't bleed out from this head wound...
it must have taken him about... 2 weeks to die...
from either dehydration or from lack of food...
but the movies will never tell you that...
some do, thought...

why would you take a serial killer into an empty
prison cell and shoot him in the back
of the head: if you weren't expecting him
to pretend to be dead for... a little while, longer?
would the Ukrainian prison guards subsequently
**** him with arrogantly looking
objects?
******* ****** and what not?
i expect they might have...
i like entertaining myself with such scenarios...

but like Kafka said: aim at the heart...
you're not going to die from a head-injury...
your might not be aware of it...
it would be otherwise pointless to make a film
surrounding poor, un-****** Christine...
leeching off support-machinery...
kept alive...
ergo? ol' Andrei was shot in the back
of the head, in an empty cell...
left to partially rot away...
probably getting ****** on, ******* on...
well... did he deserve any better?!

yet i woke up thinking...
why do all the pretty girls... become prostitutes?
the most beautiful ones i ever caressed:
prior to scratching my fingertips on some pavement /
brick before touching their bodies were always
the prettiest of the whole lot of them...
but in general... with the advent of post-brothel
simping... paying for nudes directly
rather than ascribing oneself to:
i'm *****... i'll take the 3rd person ****-show...
fair enough...
but i'm not paying directly for: directly nothing...

they could have been football players,
nurses, ballerinas, actresses...
they turned to ***...
sure... of the 3 or 4 Ps...
poets, priests, psychiatrists or prostitutes...
they're in line...
perhaps it's for the best...
every, single, time...
of the times i visited a psychiatrist,
psychologist... after all: a psychologist has no
power to prescribe you the required pharmacology...
i have my own reading list...
so...
to hell with a priest...
i can't be a god-fearing man when i am supposed
to churn out a regurgitation of a:
benevolent all loving god... not in my part
of the woods...
so, prostitutes!
less talk, more touchy-feely...

yet so many women have decided to take up
this route... hardly professionally...
only via the easy way out...
it's not like most of these girls are capable to touch my
own body... i go to the source...
Turkish... plain in sight... Romanian...
i'm not paying for a ******* video of her
*******, body on body contact...
better assurance to what a date might provoke...

but it's not like they're aiming to be ballerinas,
the minority always will...
sure: and i'm also not a car mechanic...
****** poet, events steward...
a few clues to a upper IQ also missing...
not right up there with the opera singers... either...
i like the middle ground, though...

like today... i was walking to Collier Row to buy some
spiced ***, some orange peel,
some currants, for a Christmas cake...
beard's all bushy... the moustache has taken charge...
i have a date on Monday...
one sip of coffee and i pick up extra foam...
this ****** jungle needs to be trimmed...
so i went to the Turk...
now... if i really love a piece of clothing...
i'll repeatedly wear it...
a Fat Face brown shirt... thick enough for winter
to only wear a dark brown t-shirt underneath...
crock-coloured material trousers...
cotton? brown leather shoes... ankle high...
and... a new addition... a brown-green...
baker-boy cap...
maybe the bushy beard readied for a trim...
or the baker-boy cap...
a green & grey shawl...
one female, two female, three females down...
smiling, giggly... the: oh i love the pretend
curiosity / nervousness... excitement...
best i love myself: the last loved-up curiosity
left me... with too much nostalgia...
in as quickly & out as quickly as a ******* allows...
i'm out...

KORA: the lead-singer from this ******
band Manam... where are these women gone to,
all went to *******?
impossible... given can compete... compliment
men's addition to civilisation
they reduce themselves to the meat-market?
seems like a waste...
while they could aspire to sing,
to dance ballet... fair enough...
a ******* does the work of a psychiatrist...
yeah, sure, watch me complain...
but i'm not going to pay for frivolous expenses...
i need the touch: i'll get the touch...
no ******* free-rides...
people that talk during ***...
people that aren't mute or onomatopoeia prone...
can't understand them: i don't wnat to
understand them...

a more complex schematic i had in mind...
on the 14th of December my mother booked in
this pedicurist...
i hope she comes with her 1 year old daughter...
it was most fun the last time she came,
my little Frankenstein...

last time i clucked, she clucked back...
she implored me with the knowledge
that she was hungry, she also had cold feet...
i took her up in my arms and cuddle her...
i was being scrutinised...
this pedicurist had a friend in tow...
apparently i had all the advantages of a Scandinavian
physiognomy...
a darkened beard, a darkened brow...
yet illuminating moustache / soul patch:
blonde...
   the leftover of my childhood colour of hair...
i wish she brings this little... critter back into my arms...

it's not mine: less heartache from a perspective of
ownership... this little babe... i own bonsai tigers...
coming into staged ownership of a baby girl...
not my own... how fun it becomes...
i out on some vinyl record for her...
she tries to memorise me...
she puts a finger into my mouth...
she tugs at my beard...
i wink, she winks...
             i give her an onomatopoeia...
she gives me one back...

little Frankenstein...
that's why i should have children, they'd be too experimental...
following the schematic:
i'd ask the little critter:

  e  i
a  M o
    u        (y)

English alone... Y... why... alias of "iota"...
            
Y: to... także samogłoska, nie?
i guess there are more vowels in ******
than in Anglo-Saxon...

  ą   e  ę
a  M  o
   i y u/ó

in anglo-saxon Y is not considered a vowel,
it's considered  a consonant:
a... spółgłoski...

i lent this pedicurist some albums:
pablopavo - telefon
wooden shjips - west
vomito nergo - fall of an empire
hanzel und gretyl - uber alles
biran jonestown massacre - aufheben
dead skeletons - dead magic
electric wizard - dopethrone
spirit - 12 dreams
ryan adams - s.t.
u.n.c.le. - war stories
om - adviatic songs
trentemoller - lost
the soft moon - s.t.
allah-las - s.t.
uncle acid & the deadbeats ,
naam,
chromatic - will for love
in extremo - verehrt und...
tame impala - innerspeaker...

just bring me your little Frankenstein!

tending to a babe, via keeping a makeshift...
listening stream of...
Masquerade, oh beloved little kitty:
of a would be Frankentsein...
speak me some assurance!
Nikolas Sep 2022
A reggel nem is olyan fagyos már,
Még mindig megszólal kismadár,
Még mindig ódát éneklünk a nyárnak,
Mikor az emberek már kabátokban járnak.

Kora reggel csak úgy ragyog a mosolyod,
még mindig napsugár üt át az arcodon,
És kincsemmé vált ez a pillanat is már,
legyen akár ősz, vagy tavasz;  nyár.

— The End —