"novelists" poems
*Elemental Metamorphosis & Transcendental Milestones,
Sempiternal Origamis Of Her Temperamental Clones,
Spiraling Perpetuities & Her Sacrosanct Fortitude,
Procreating Tipsy Ruptures In Her Permeating Solitude,
Perplexed Momentum & Her Outlandish Constellations,
Nuclear Decay Of Her Masked Radiations,
Verbal Shadows & Her Tranquil Ascendance,
Encasing Her Tears In Liquefied Transcendence,
Yearning Oddities & Entropic Oceans,
Vitalizing Inexorable Emotions Into Phosphorescent Potions,
An Hourglass Existence Of Her Fabricated Virility,
Dwelling In Quantum Ascents Of Ardent Agility,
Silver Ghosts Of Her Prismatic Abyss,
Convicting Glass Houses In Her Ecstatic Bliss,
Telepathic Shades & Hollow Palisades,
Detrimental Novelists On Uncharted Crusades,
Pernicious Scars In Her Profound Gaze,
Erupting Genesis Inside Her Dimensional Maze,
Perplexed Periphery & Digital Fictions,
Annexed By Her Hourglass Depictions,
Breakdown Sanity & Her Concealed Screams,
Lifelike Dewdrops In Her Visionary Dreams,
Satellite Searchlights & Love//Less Progenic Mutation,
Paralyzed Sunlight Sparking Genetic Alteration,
Monochromatic Streams & Cinematic Realms,
Static Screams Of Her Toxic Schemes.
- 05:43 AM -*
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS
THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
2.6k
Everyone loves to talk ****
Poets
Activists
Novelists
Academics
Professors the most
Summon them up
get a consensus
(the kikuyu are a model
not the annoying vermin of the jewish suburb)
Fear is the core.
America,
Fear is yr core.
Capitalism and all its intricacies
and its lies
its imminent failure
(anorexics in red shirts laugh in hell)
Marx and Chomsky
and Precious
Open a window-
crack that-
BREAK OPEN A WINDOW IN THE WALL
let the mist leave
it will only consume you if you learn to use it instead of oxygen
A clear room will be a safe space
to paint
and film
and write
and dry off
To talk a los otros sobre Spanish y la omkeer
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
2.2k
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
1.9k
found she had broken in
was naked but for my dress shirt
unbuttoned but covering her shoulders
on my bed
reading my copy of Dostoevsky
I had the NY Times in my hand
the cigarette burnt down
my finger like a
reminder to wake up
let it burn
pain had left my being
blonde and sweet , not the blonde of Marilyn
Bridgette but the sanctified
sweet of Faye Dunaway , smoke lingered
wafted tobacco and burnt flesh simmering
told her, anytime, didn't expect this,
she paid me no attention acted
or read like she was engrossed
in the greatest thoughts of social reform
or the realisms of crime and punishments
maybe debating socialism and capitalism
there naked in my shirt
taking the novelists cue I undressed
laid down acting casual worldly when
she asked me the oddest question
you like Dostoevsky
we debated the rest of the day week
night dark and days bright
she left such a sweet scent
on my shirt
the window she busted has never
been fixed
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
I've decided to stop reading the news
It's full of contradiction and misinterpreted views,
Bending of truths like a novelists muse
Inciting inspiration, stimulation, radicalisation but, never the truth of the situation
Just a public announcement of the wrong account, a miscommunication or fake revelation
Is it an attempt at entertainment?
Lacking empathy, a cold report with no sympathy
Of death, disaster and misery
Attacking humanity
As they relish at the world flying in to abyss
I can't be alone wishing we would all hug and kiss
So, instead I've turned to poetry, where theres no need to encourage, provoke or lie
For words of poem can reach the sky, you cant deny
My interpretation is all I need to see
Where thoughts can wander, minds can ponder
I never need to wonder, if what's written is fact or fiction
As a poet spilling his heart on paper, writing fast, creating friction
He goes to war with every etching
Of love and emotion of pain of gain
It's truer than the mirror in which you see your face
It reads like silk and flows like lace
Spilling over with generosity, leaving a genuine taste
Whether of love or hate, faith or sin
It's come from within where only truth can win
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
It is an ancient Poet
and he stoppeth me.
“Beware of poetry, my son,
She’s a gold digger.
She’ll chew you up and spit you out,
leave you penniless and lying in a gutter,
drunk on absinthe,
while the rich novelists and scriptwriters
step over you, laughing.”
“Hold off! unhand me, greybeard loon!”
Unheeding, I slunk off to my garret
to compose a villanelle,
heavily derivative of Dylan Thomas.
I only wanted to get girls,
but before I knew it
I was roaming with the Romantics,
bopping with the Beats
and cruising with the Classicists.
Popping some Pope, shooting some Stevie Smith
or hitting up Heaney,
I was hopelessly addicted.
And I never did get the girl.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC
Here am I
Amongst thousands
And thousands
Of voices -
Poets and journalists,
Novelists and singers -
Clanging the cymbal
Of earth's groaning cry.
There you are,
Hosts of angels
Singing, your voice
Together sounding
The praises of our God.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
https://www.amazon.in/gp/aw/review/B00MYY0DMA/
By Kalpana Arora on 9 June 2017
Verified Purchase
It deserves more than 5 stars!
The story ends with two messages perfectly conveyed.
1. Don't waste your time in search of love while you are studying.
2. The current caste-based reservation system in India is flawed.
I can't disagree here.
What a magician Atul is! Such romance, poetry, love, heartbreak, action and what not!
Surely a class apart than most popular novelists!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 7:10 AM UTC
Steinbeck’s restless ghost whispers to me
as I tiptoe along a stone seawall.
He steers me away from the bay
back to the old sandstone churches
built by native hands,
back to music festivals and artisan fairs
full of mild, white cheeses
and would-be novelists arguing
about Henry Miller’s tropics.
But I’ve grown tired of his whispering
and no longer wish to dream of these things.
I would rather descend into a watery haven.
I will wave goodbye to John
and I will run down sandy paths
that lead to the sea.
I wade into the depths and sink
into a canyon where kelp shivers
in underwater breezes,
and the only stars I see will be
suction-cupped to the rocks below.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
we're still only expanding
on the scenario of
encountering internet chat rooms,
social media is just
a complication of chat rooms,
i.e. you have to show yourself
and relate to people
inhibiting the same kind of voyeurism
you wish to state by
an exhibitionism, although fully
attired, and completely stealth,
and all the many conceivable paradoxes
creating an intelligence of some sort...
but social media is still an advanced
version of hot-mail chat-rooms,
while modern novelists are too
attached to flimsy paper encodings
rather than attached to the pixels of pages
that want change but by wanting change
simply yawn.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Restriction of the Bay's yeehaw,
Politely in the inner steel,
Cold bars to the planet Mars,
Dealers are encased as they want a deal!!!!
Currency friendly banker's bank upon thy smallest of wages,
Where buttered blades slice through T. C control!!!
Quadruplets of chain-gang walk in's all talking is sprayed like Russian magazines,
Some grown to addiction,
Dreamer's stay phene!!!!
Profane novelists attend the wickered chairs,
Wherein only ones a pair in solitaried room,
Twenty months to thou makes a year,
While a year settles for two....
Draft windows,
Plasticated pillows are showcases for what's to come!!!
Sit down,
Thou fool in blue the shows here, or the show has just begun!!!!!
Bribery is doubled,
A hand here at this polo lagoon!
Wherein monsoon's turn to drop outs,
Where knockout's are proprietary locked into place wittled with screws!!!!
Strenuous pulsation's beat to the enflamed core,
Pose thyself,
Thy critic of nature and god, you've settled your betted scores!!!!!
Narcotic,
I see you promising greater hopes with pre-maturities scope,
I've missed the hanging strike!!!
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
I have witnessed poets clinging
onto life by the skin of their own words
and the finest novelists terrified
by the bullet tick of their typewriters,
in knowledge that each click is part of
a continuous countdown to “The End”.
The late night sound of their pens scratching
upon paper not made for emotions so raw
drives them insane, urges a hunt for something
that will hurt them more than who they write for did.
I have read poems that scream “save me”
when the voices of the composers silently echo
off cold walls from therapy offices and cracked paint
in chapels that forget each of their
empty confessions.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
*concerning an article in the sunday times, titled baited, 13 - 16 year old girls, a mix of cyberbullying, revenge **** & creepshots... ah... here comes lady burqa, to set the standard of civilised behaviour... now... i can't agree that islamophobia exists... but sure-shit i can testify to a burqa-phobia... hell! i can even attest to a niqab-phobia, and to be honest... that, that is a reasonable phobia... let's use the proper terms, please! anyway... regarding this baiting... oh man, these ***** ought to have known better, as those taking the selfies... why? because i'm starting to think that people take more photographs, than actually blink with their eyes... whatever happened to the mirror?*
some people strive for ambitious lives,
head over heels types,
the ones in microcosmos of
their own ***
me? i, just, want, my, life,
to represent, the lazy consistency
of a sunday...
for my life to be as busy as...
sunday traffic;
it's not a self-doubt that's plaguing me,
i'm not an automaton yet,
but with that i wonder:
if they have all the hormones and
chemical compounds excavated
to represent love, which ones are
the ones to represent doubt?
doubt? oh, those minor "panic-attacks",
the fun bits of being alive
living inside the dynamism
of uncertainity...
i was ambitious once - now?
well, i know i stop enjoying
fiendish sudoku puzzles, and rest
my case on the difficult tier...
there's no point striving:
if you don't enjoy it -
as harsh as it might sound -
poetry will always speak to me in
the tongue of impromptu -
with eyes of lightning flashes -
as long as it remains in this state -
i'll be content -
i can't imagine a novel,
the tedium of it, the constipation -
the rewriting, the 2 to 3 years -
with the only merit attached to a novel
is solely based on how long
it took to be written...
constipated / frustrated
novelists, i can image...
on the other hand...
it's quiet easy to imagine ******
snowflake poets too.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC
(A bit of fun for Thomas W. Case - I think he lives in Iowa)
Hawkeye pride burns bright in Iowa City,
the place where Tennessee Williams learned to curse.
Iowa City hosts the 4th of July, Iowa speedway race, unique perhaps
because the cars have to stay behind a tractor for the first 199 laps.
How polite are the people in Iowa City? I saw a news report where a man was mugged,
traumatic? Sure, but the man still remembered to say “Thank you” before the perp bugged.
There are over twenty-six churches here, people can be a bit pious and obnoxiously reflective.
There’s a Hawkeye infestation in Iowa City because of the university, classified as ‘moderately selective.’
Geographically, Iowa’s where the rolling plains meet a limestone rise.(1)
Did I mention that the bars close at 2am? A travesty in any serious drinker’s eyes.
Some noted authors came from Iowa City, the locals are proud of that and own it.
Most were playwrights and novelists, luckily, few of them turned out to be poets.
(1) whatever that is
Mar 8, 2024
Mar 8, 2024 at 9:34 PM UTC
everything is arbitrary. we novelists survive on chance encounters and sad books. I move like a stray cat between library bookshelves and keep my head down. no I am not a poet by choice. no I don't like being one. I don't like bleeding. it hurts and so does writing sometimes. sometimes writing hurts less than usual. fate is still pale and thin and twisty, like the tentative whorls of a mushroom's root system. I'm still like a stray cat, nosing around libraries and parks. I'm still hungry. this book still doesn't make sense. I don't feel like I learned much. mostly I feel tired, like the tiredness is pulling down into the pillow. maybe I should sleep. maybe I shouldn't.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
God bless the writers;
The novelists, essayist, play-writes and poets,
The writers who put their pen to paper,
To share their imaginations, thoughts, ideas,
Who have the courage to share this with the world,
To open themselves to the judgement of readers,
These people who know not the lives they save,
the smiles they bring,
the hearts they change,
whose minds they shape,
Bless them
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
National Novel Writing Month,
one, two, three, go,
everyone who is going to write a novel
is watching the clock so they can write,
and keep up with how many words they can write,
Some novelists have already started,
It is Tuesday, November 1, already over there.
They are in front of their computers,
typing out their novels there.
Others are waiting and counting it down,
Looking anxiously to start,
This is the biggest competition for
the novelist to enter and start.
One, Two, Three,
Novelists are waiting to start
to write their best novels and
hope to to finish it as well.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 11:42 AM UTC
Rather suddenly he said:
"What if depression is some kind of middle class ******** Like, for people like us...novelists, dramatists- so we can still write somewhat interesting **** about ourselves even though we don't... I don't know, have some sufficiently dramatic background story? Have you ever figured how many kids in the world are born into armed conflicts? Or survived an encounter in a plastic ******* bag on their first birthday?
We can't write about that because we don't know jack **** about it. But it's really, really difficult to read something that's not in some way about you. Do you know what I mean? So you and I, the lucky ones, we have to write stories that we can read. Stories about people likes us: the lucky ones. And to make **** like that interesting we need depressed guys with psychiatrists.
So yeah... I'm probably not depressed. At the very least, perhaps desperate for a story."
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
If you never experience real love, you’ve never lived,
never been heartbroken, never attempted to find love.
Poetry created from both lovers and the heartbroken.
Destroying dice, never kills chance, destiny can,
cellos and tenors, emotions in sound, thoughts lay
dormant, till spoken philosophers moan, exiled spirits
spread with velvet and scarlet, a spotless spree of
rough dawns and silver-golden glowing romance nights.
Novelists and drink coffee with cinema, speaking with
French conversations. Returning, making love with
all the farewells. Life itself, a deep sleep for some
and crazy, like wildfire mystics for the rest, who do
more than desire to live life. Rather, I’ll sleep now,
awake for too long, in attempt to outdo my lover.
Piercing blue, heavy on awakening, pressing upon
me, poetic words for poetry and memories now,
for nostalgia in the future, present experience in crazy
contentment, untamed where that's the only way
to experience someone you love.
(Knowledge Variable)
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC
Be still
Understand that you are filled with sensations that your body holds repressed
vibrations
Vibrations from glances
The touch of past lovers
Hugs from child hood friends
Even the hand of someone you can't quite name
You are a book held with stories
Conversations kept secret
Emotions from a deafening silence
Watching all you adore
Burn passionately in the wind
The meeting of another's soul
Welcoming yours for the first time in open arms
Smiling violently against all that is bad
You are loved
Even in the depths of the darkest times
Even then
You have a story so rich
You mustn't let it end now
You have places to paint
Words to play like a trumpet blaring towards the sky
Humans to share moments with
Skylines to stare in awe at
Experiences that keep your heart racing
A building ledge to sit on while you view the buzzing streets below you
You have insignificant days to live to remember why you are alive
Characters both antagonists and protagonists to build pathways with
and part like rivers to oceans
You are life
And you have a story to continue writing
Despite all the wars in your mind telling you to end it now
Because we each are novelists in our own right.
And I need you to write.
And never ever stop.
You have won battles
Do not let your victory dance get swept under the rug
Use it as gas to ignite the flame
Lighting your way
Allowing you to recognize
You were never alone all this time
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
The slow decline in poets and novelists
over centuries
"it's not a profitable profession",
the media sighs
as if
pressing your products against
the fresh face of youth
is a morally just career
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
The painter adds more layers on
until he thinks his picture's done.
The sculptor has to chip away
until there comes to light of day
his vision from inside the stone.
Novelists too pile details on,
but poetry works a different way.
The poet chips the dross away.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC