"obstinacy" poems
The light touches
of the wind,
caress the blush
in reddened cheeks.
Gentle fingers abscond
with the moisture
in hapless tears.
Teasing playfully,
the obstinacy
of wayward strands.
Inciting a smile
from a heavy heart,
lifting off the anvil
that carry all fears.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
Grant me forgiveness.
For my mouth had acted prematurely
and erred.
Acrid words my tongue can't retract.
My lips quiver,
pursed and scared.
Grant me relief.
For my ego had lunged.
Fueled emotions that strayed.
Sensible thoughts in mind
that my heart had betrayed.
Grant me strength and courage.
Let the next morn's sun,
illuminate the dark obstinacy of my heart.
Allow this bitter turbidity to pass.
So I could walk the hard road,
to a brand new start.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
Too long I've rested upon my throne.
Ordained as ruler,
I wield a sceptre
imbued with old indoctrinated notions.
Bound in aged, tired traditions.
Obstinacy clasped tight within my fingers.
Living by the
foundations laid,
imposed by predecessors before.
I realise that I am but caged
within my self enforced confines.
I want what lays beyond...
But I am afraid...
And more...
I must embrace the unknown.
Be fearless...
And take to the darkness.
Because...
One can only fly free into greatness
if one is unafraid to take the leap
into changing winds.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:30 PM UTC
The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).
It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me. But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?
Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.
So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.
Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
------------------------------------------------------------------
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
NOT LOOKING AT OURSELVES
August 7, 2009 - Damascus
Ayad bin Izzet
Why is it so hard to think of ourselves?
Why is it so hard to change bad habits that seem to possess us?
It seems to be a near certain fact, that humans do not like to think of themselves; certainly, very few seriously, deeply think about themselves. Who asks himself: “How do I look like to people?” “How do I sound to people, when I say this and that?” “Why is it people like certain aspects of my behaviour?”
When you open up such a subject to people in general, it is common to hear: “Look, I don’t care what people may think of me”. But an answer like that will not help you go far in this world. You do need to pay attention to what people think about you, otherwise you will be, de facto, behaving like a tyrannical dictator – you are, in effect, alienating and restricting the advancement of your varied self interests.
Why you ask me?
Because we all need people if we are going to succeed in our professional and social lives. Without the agreement of people you cannot succeed, unless if your work can survive within a hermit’s context.
So why are people so antagonistic to change themselves?
I think that for people they are scared of thinking about themselves because they fear what they might find out the nature of what is existing within themselves.
Another reason, is addiction. A person may simply be compulsively addicted to the harmful personality he has – yes, even if he knows that his personality is harmful to his own self interests.
I talk about this subject because we all do need to change our selves, our personalities - since all the troubles of our entire lives emanate from one source: we dysfunctional humans!
Where else do they come from?
And yet, anyone who has ever tried to explain to another person their faults will surely go nowhere. No one is interested. I know one lady who I call the ‘Pharmacist’ because she lovingly showers everyone else with advice, while she herself cannot bear to hear one word with respect to her faults. And then, as the years passed, I came to realize, why all people are basically ‘Pharmacists’!
People have an obstinacy that harder than leather, colder than an icicle; we simply will not improve, as human beings, if we remain this determined not to reform our minds.
And there is nothing else to add on this sorry subject.
How pathetically sad.
A fine epitaph on Humanity’s grave.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 8:02 AM UTC
Caution, lost in the motion,
The tender lapse of green sea waves
The scent that has become you,
Sweet, sweet summer rain.
Like magnets, the polar pull, subsequent and building
The silent seize of your stomach muscles
Oh honeycomb.
Wrapped in cellophane, and the fleece in our ears
Your chin, the small hollow in which rests my head,
The cradle of your Adam's apple.
For hours I studied the color transmit in the darks of your eyes,
Of subtle change and shade
The soft, downy wool of your legs,
Warm blankets rescued from the creaking loft.
And your slow, sleeping breaths, of wind whistling through wheat fields
Shared dreams of barefoot gardens, sweet peppers in springtime
The gentle obstinacy of your fingers,
Extended forward in the thaw of shallow slumber.
The difference between oak and pine,
This nest you constructed, we lay in.
Nestled underneath the galaxy you installed, pin by pin.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
I never thought I’d see the day when I would agnise the depths of my desire.
Ingrained in every cell; the swell of emotion
ebbs and flows into each passing day
like the waves we’re all familiar with.
A calling card;
reminding me of the expectation of love,
the anticipation of hope,
and the abuse of obstinacy.
I learn from it everyday.
Paying respect and gratitude as tuition for the lesson called ‘life.’
Freshman year, every year.
Can’t complete the puzzle even when all of the pieces fit.
There is meaning in this.
Sometimes, I wish it wasn’t so.
But I can’t pursue it alone, so I won’t.
“If it can be realised, let it be so when the universe wants it”, is my escape.
But there is no escaping yourself.
You are the universe and _it_ is you.
It has never felt like it wasn’t meant to be.
It has never been like it wasn’t supposed to.
Maybe one day it will manifest again.
Or perhaps fade like all beautiful, fleeting, moments.
You won’t catch me chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught.
You’ll see me walking the other way.
You’ll see my aura welcome it.
And you’ll see me turn around to embrace it with every fibre of my being.
But only if it wants the same things as I do.
If it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 7:44 AM UTC
There’s an obstinacy in this freedom.
A stifling in motion.
Open filaments confuse creativity
by dropping shattered tungsten from its cliffs.
Sparks bounce then darken my mind
with compounded dreams.
Breathless searches produce elements foreign to me.
Panic tainted gifts.
Surrender surfaced to engulf me,
then, balance bridged broken paths.
Restoration created by parallel lines bending.
As I rested on one side,
she told me to stand
where I am
if I was able.
************
She challenged me to flow.
Shed light on my visions
if I had the courage.
Placed me among a resurgence of memories
that confirmed my creative inventory.
They all have been invaluable inspirations.
Yet, this existence at the brink of a new age
has caused me to sleep lightly.
I felt alone and inadequate without them
and thought of giving up.
My being hovered hardened hearts & cartilage
that I’ve scattered from my own *****
She supports me
and I know that this gift is for me
but it’s not about me.
I rest soundly
more aware and able
to let God use me
where I am.
Mar 5, 2011
Mar 5, 2011 at 2:45 PM UTC
Nothing screams hellbent
Like insanity
Nothing whispers crazy
Like tenacity
Nothing sings determined
Like obstinacy
Nothing screams hellbent
Like me
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
*Silence can divide
Giving birth to many a doubt
Pondering and re-pondering
Coming up with reasons new
But then doubt is hope
That all is not gone
emphasis on the ego is misleading
A lot can happen
These happenings bring realisation
Of the self obsessed nature
How can one be like this
There is a need to change
Yes mistakes teach
But repetition kills
This obstinacy must die
For there is a wish to survive*
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
she was a former witness of jehovah
I ain't much on casanova
couldn't find my GPS
flew over her cuckoo's nest
her perspective compromised
my countermeasures plagiarized
maybe the moonlight sonata?
worldly persona non grata
emasculated superpowers
rain man never counted flowers
just kept running up that hill
terminating her goodwill
yes it was something that I said
another joke over her head
obstinacy will duplicate
a failure to communicate
so many times I tried to love her
the gibson to my danny glover
some animals just are more equal
pray to jehovah for a sequel
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
When I see silent weeping
I see the young boy
standing on his bed
staring three stories down
a sea of masks below
nails in the eye of each
I see the young boy's eyes
filled with red minefields
countless hours worked
countless hours abused
treated like an old computer
When I feel emotions fly
eyes like a vinyl record
I see the girl and boy
her words flying outward
a scourge of hornets
stinging the boy everywhere
I see the girl and her jar
with sorrows of others
used for baiting with lies
the tears inside for herself
to imitate crying and invoke pity
I too have a jar of tears
a jar of my own tears
from nights spent alone
living through abuse again
making the memory smaller
like it was a lanced boil
My tears become medicine
mixed hope and obstinacy
given freely from me
to provide comfort
For those once alone
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Basking in blinding white lights
Pencil in hand, papers on the side
Silent, worn gears shifting at five
Eyes droopy, limbs and souls tired
Yet the thirst for knowledge
keeps them very much alive
An ocean of opportunities where
They might drown but they dive
We dive, despite all the risks
The route to our goals still naïve
But for our aspirations, we fight
It is never too early to create
A future for us that’s bright
Our obstinacy a weapon
As we carry the day late at night
Notes in print and in handwriting
We quickly chew what we can bite
So by the time the war arrives
It will be certain, our triumphant vibe
But no matter the glorious recognition
No matter the numbers we are labeled by
As long as we carry on and fulfill
Our dreams, our vows, then we will rise
Rise until we ourselves become the stars
Who will soon emit blinding, white lights
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 11:19 AM UTC
Run, run while you can;
while your toes can spring from the asphalt;
while time is on your side
and the wind is behind you,
and the world is a trail of blur.
The cartilage of your joints,
fresh and oleaginous,
pliable as your young mind,
can take you to your destiny;
can satiate wanderlust,
a bitter aftertaste for a time long gone
of a weary spirit
tenant to a rigid flesh.
Breathe
the scent of life in.
Let your lungs and air,
like lovers who have folded
the distance between them,
savor the embrace
throbbing in their minds at night.
Breathe the scent in,
in time,
they grow stale,
planted in water by the bedside
wilting with apologies
and well wishes
dancing to the music
of beeping machines.
Up the hills if you must;
through mist,
yielding not an inch
to questions
doubt pours on the road.
Against the unwillingness
of your body,
defy,
and when its defiance ripens
in its season,
your spirit shall burden
it a heavy swathe of obstinacy.
So run,
for the loan of time digs deep in the pocket to claim interest,
pay your heart in full,
before foreclosure.
Time inevitably demands its due.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 11:35 PM UTC
*They seized her in a cage of demarcation
Bound her by the chains of instruction
Fastened her in a room of dissipation
Abandoned on an island of regulation
Stretching out her feathers of obstinacy
Her wings spread out against tyrrany
Squeaking a war cry of mutiny
She tried hard to gain her liberty
But tired she fell back vanquished
Her wings torn & twinged
And as she laid there curbed
Then it was that she realised
Twittering of her heart she discern
As the flutter of her wings couldn't listen
The true liberty for which she yearn
Should be from within she did learn
Not at all shackled was she
No chain or cage a hurdle could be
Hovering over the waves of her soul's sea
May be she was seized but indeed was free...*
**© by Ruman Hafsa
2016**
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
His spacious heart
is brimmed with
unspeakable grief now.
It can be soothed
where in this land of felony?
The desolated gardens
of his emotions
wear a blazed and a parched look.
What they can appeal
other than the showers of your compassion?
The shadows of despondency
run in tandem to his unpropitious walk.
It can be sliced
by what other than
your luminous company?
You are the only obstinacy of his naivety,
he
baffles death on your hope,
your arrival can
set free his baked soul.
Will not you come..? ? ?
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Sinking to the deeper suffocation,
I scavenge the soil for the astray nail.
A final spike to lock away the life.
As the light gets darker,
a pungent smell takes over,
smearing everything in its stench.
I descry my melting face.
Air implored perfervidly to break my obstinacy.
I dived deeper,
smiling at its desperate attempt.
Its hope to stop the dead from dying.
My fingers touch the inner debris,
aspiring to find the last nail for the coffin.
A couple of more suffocations later,
I find it;
hidden under the pile of thorns.
I pin it to my heart.
One last breath,
and I ceased at the dawn.
Nov 12, 2020
Nov 12, 2020 at 12:37 AM UTC
I know the road back
But I still get lost.
So many twists and turns,
Blind alleys and stop signs.
I know the roots of strongest tree
Can become tangled.
Constrained by my thoughts,
Inadequacy and obstinacy.
I know the fear of dates
On the calendar.
Reminders of my despair,
'Bravery' and breaking point.
I know the vacant feeling
Of slow detachment.
Sitting in pain and staring,
Crying and collapsing.
I know this time of year
April Fools Day.
The body slowing down,
Remembering and revisiting.
I know the road back
But I still get lost....
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Let me walk away;
back then,
the very first time
we've met.
when sleepless nights of
thinking of you
is not a deliria.
when shutting myself off
from other people
is not my favorite work.
Let me walk away;
these butterflies in my stomach
are not even dying, yet
my heart is slowly crumbling,
for finding my world
in that most little space
in your heart,
for allowing myself that *home
is not just a place*
but being with you is.
Let me walk away;
entertaining my favorite visitor, sadness
every night,
staying in our memories,
enduring the agony,
and going back in the middle of time,
we believed our always.
You're no longer
my definition of art,
sobbing in those in-betweens,
unimmortalizing you in those poems
that meant to be eternal.
I will turn back from you —
my dearest home –
to a strange place
that I’d never known;
forgetting our prints
that I’d kept tracing,
tearing those pages that were
not included in
my very own structure,
and building my walls
far from any memory of you.
and for the very last time,
forgive me of my obstinacy,
help me to ease the pain,
just
let. me. walk. away.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
You breathe a fathom minuscule
of meaning
Into this empty aggregate
of words
You are the creator a god
with flesh
And ****** bones walking the obstinacy
of form
Which does not want to lay down dissipate is the
entangled construct
Without beginning from desire so vast is why
so difficult
To drop i habit for constraint free consciousness
now
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
I suffer from the chronic consequences of elongating my own obstinacy.
Every single coordinated action rises from fear
So my heart can drive in the name of patience.
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 11:57 PM UTC