"multifold" poems
1013
Too scanty ’twas to die for you,
The merest Greek could that.
The living, Sweet, is costlier—
I offer even that—
The Dying, is a trifle, past,
But living, this include
The dying multifold—without
The Respite to be dead.
7.1k
*”You going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Well, I could've loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind*”
Tom Paxton
<>
the lyrics get caught in my throat,
of Tom’s guilty confessional,
so instead of voice emitted,
the letters and words
fall to the ground en-
capsulated in tears
multicolored,
the salt & &pepper
coloration of sad regret
for the multifold &
man-I-fold
mistakes
recalled in black & white graydations
of reflections of loves lost that yet haunt
and now honored, at last,
with their very own
words of
farewell
Jun 15, 2024
Jun 15, 2024 at 10:19 AM UTC
Poetry is in essence
right words in the right order
but
it shouldn't stop there
there's more
infinitely more
distillation
of the heart's deepest joys
and sorrows
constellation
of all that springs from
and happens to the self
in all its myriad manifestations
and facets--
mysterious - multifold
for life is an endless roll
of the self
in motion
and action-
self-searching
self-evaluation
self-conversation
self-evolution
self-determination
(existentialistic recognition
that life would inexorably end
in extinction
more despair and ennui
than hope?
that's the question
to be addressed individually--
each life is sacred and its own
and asserts its will to be
before it sinks into oblivion)
poetry is also
the articulation
of the beyond-self
the juxtaposition
alongside others
the intricate and delicate interplay
of relationships
the joys and angsts
that follow
while time watches on
and carries a whip
'hurry, hurry--I wait for none-
presto!'
and
destiny stares one
in the face
testing one's mettle
and endurance
at any time
in any place
the poet writes:
I am saved by words
by words alone
they are my salvation
my one and only vessel
which gives my life
a ring-tone
however faint
and makes me aware
I am still living
'de nihil, nihil fit'
from nothing
comes nothing
either I am something
or nothing-
with myself I've to wrestle
to deny that
I am nothing
even if a pale shadow
I'm still something
I'd not forego
my right to being
someone in the making
for life is living
and experimenting
over time
a process of becoming
and at the end of things
I'd know with every single feeling
I've not failed myself in the task of living
through the words of my poetry
that have given me every meaning
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Is it true-
poets, more than others
weep?
beauty they worship
and if it is blemished or defiled
by man's callousness and indifference-
they lose heart
and even in their sleep
they are inconsolable
there is healing
in tears
despite the anguish
over time and past years.
Is it true
poets, more than others
love?
their yearnings
know no rest
and their passions
fearlessly sweep
over the wildest mountains
and the most tempestuous seas
even the bitterest Arctic
they burn like fire
and melt
every lingering piece of snow
they write across the sky
their poignant and painful poems
' Love is life's most sublime gift
and stronger than death'.
Are poets, more than others
lonely?
dwelling in the universe
of words and feelings
they are strangers to the world
even to themselves
as they struggle to find themselves
and unravel life's multifold mysteries.
Are poets, more than others
melancholic?
they dream of a world
beyond time
wrapped in eternally sweet dreams
only to end
in disillusionment and despair
(reality is too harsh and too cruel-
purveyor of the baneful, mundane
the uninspiring, the inane)
Should poets
be scoffed at
because
they long
for the beautiful and sublime
and draw
everyone's attention
to the ugliness
of the world?
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC