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zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
YADA TASHY ( "Originator Stone" )

Outside the first snow falls.

Her wounds are photographed.

Spoken of.

Described in detail.

Technical.

The overhead microphone
takes it all in.

Being dead she is
more naked

than she ever was.

Stripped of her
humanity.

She had ceased to be
who she used to be.

She is now
merely a cadaver.

The autopsy can not tell
her name.

She is Kuzuku.

Her mother called her
KuKu.

She had been born
with a caul.

KuKu was pregnant.

She was going to call
the child if it was a girl

. . .Yuki.

She couldn't conceive what
she would call it if a boy?

It was always going to be
a girl.

She liked candyfloss
and her hair up.

Now her hair is down.
It touches her shoulders.

As if her hair were
still alive.

The autopsy
wound by wound

tells of the hell
of her dying.

The voice is
deadpan.

Mechanical.

The coroner
breaks for coffee.

Bitter.  Black.

"Ya da!"
as the Turks say.

"...with nothing..."

*

Kuzuku was named after the flowering plant/rampant ****. Her mother always drank a tea made from it. Only her mother called her her pet name; "Kuku!" Her blacker than black hair always seemed like a living entity in itself as it danced upon her shoulders or splashed over her clavicles. She always wore off the shoulder dresses or tops even in winter cold. I once told her she had the cutest clavicles( "rekishi no naka de kawaī sakotsu" )in history which....always made her laugh. I told her she had well tempered clavicles and she laughed even more when the pun was explained to her. She had been born with a caul...a red caul. She it was who told me the Turkish tale or the Yada Daşı and of the Yadachy.

She had just met the man who would eventually stab her to death and she was greatly in love with him and his culture.

All these little scraps of humanity could not be disclosed by the autopsy which could never tell of how beautiful she was and what a joy she was to be around.

Her death was a horror tale told by a friend of a friend of a friend and hard to comprehend or believe.
Yada Tashy (Turkish: Yada Taşı; Bashkort: Йәй Ташы, Azerbaijanese: Yada Daşı, means "Originator Stone" or "Rain Stone") is a legendary folkloric substance said to be capable of summoning rain. For many centuries, it was the single most sought-after item in Turkic folk legends. Yada Tashy was a central symbol to the mystical terminology in Turkic mythology, symbolising interference to and control over natural phenomena.

Yadachy (Turkish: Yadacı/Yadaçı) in Turkic tradition, were men believed to have an inborn supernatural ability to protect their estate, village, or region against destructive weather conditions, such as storms, hail, or torrential rains. It was believed that the souls of these men could leave their bodies in sleep, to intercept and fight with demonic beings imagined as bringers of bad weather. Having defeated the demons and taken away the stormy clouds they brought, the protectors would return into their bodies and wake up tired.

Yadachy of an area usually fought together against the attacking Yadachy of another area who were bringing a storm and hail clouds above their fields. The victorious Yadachy would loot the yield of all agricultural produce from the territory of their defeated foes, and take it to their own region. Although Yadachy could be women and children, most were adult men. Their supernatural power was thought to be inborn. In many regions it was regarded that the Yadachy were born with a caul—white or red, depending on the regional belief. The mother would dry the caul and sew into a piece of garment always worn by the child, such as a pouch attached under the child's armpit. Adverse weather such as a storm or hail could devastate crop fields and orchards, and thus jeopardise the livelihood of farmers in the affected area. A role of Yadachy, according to folk tradition, was to lead storms and hail clouds away from their family estates, villages, or regions, to save their crops. A Yadachy could take the storms and hail clouds over the territory of another Yadachy to destroy its crops. The other Yadachy would fly up to confront the bringer of bad weather, and there would be a fight between the Yadachy.
Check it I be the mic originator greater than the next hater
So my nines will degrade ya send ya back to ya maker undertaker
Shake ya
With my earthquake flows formin' portals bigger than the black hole leave ya third eye swole
My thoughts travelin' faster than the speed of light say goodnight from the snake bite
A rhyming python wears cables and nylon runnin' bars harder than marathon true champion none could knock a don
Birthed by the sun raised by moon Sonic booms soundwaves from heart rates feelin' doom and soon
To be resting in the womb
The belly of the earth retaining my turf know my worth make words hurts
So suckas better tuck in ya skirts
I'm catching mirth
Along with death til my last breath cookin' up rhymes from the *** of my mind n continue to shine
Its asinine to flex ya mind if you cross the gun line don't be a victim of a graphic design

(Ya tapped out)



Scatzzz all over the kitty katz with my woody bat making them brains cracks
Cells it ain't hard to tell ****** fear me cuz I be the archangel Michael
fallin' deep into the depths of my hell o well
If you try to inhale my lyrical tales this ship is set to sail
On ya brainwaves these days fools rappin' for cheap pay lookin' all gay **** that I rather use the AK
Sittin' by the window seal signing the release will my soul'll still
Be reaching regardless the hardest artist
Usually ends up a carcass manifest the darkest
Rhymes but shine light at the same time crime at an all time
High once I blaze my thoughts cells fought & caught
By the smokin' arrows of a ghostly pharoah
Thats just my ancestors though lettin' me know it's time to show and go blow for blow toe to toe
Hands or the chrome pistol
The ghetto Aristotle makin' bodies mold from the enemies that caught a cold
WS Warner Mar 2013
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,                
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.

Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.

Visage and hair,  her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.

Transcending form, parenthetically  
(Merely) the decorative,  
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.

Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter  with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.

Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.

Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.

©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
D - Matter Feb 2014
You look down on
Our Youth today
And say we're

Irresponsible
UN-motivated
Complicated
Mischievous

You skip the

Self-Motivated
The Willing
The Originator
The Believers

The Boy that fails in class
Comes home, puts his emotions
Into guitar, loves dance
Looks into his mothers eyes
And sees broken glass

Listens to heavy music
People don't understand it
They opinion-ate, debate
Whether the person has anger issues...

But he bursts his emotion
In to his music and for once
He feels love.
Like the artist understands him
Lyrics pump through his blood...

You don't understand the screams
The anger from these words
To you they're are never heard
But have you ever listened?
Not listening in the first place
Caused this...

The lyrics are true
All
Non-fiction...

The Girl who is covered in tattoos
Has pushed through and through
Her body is her temple
And shes painted the walls

Covering her scars
Created through her youth
Her scars are deep
Created by mans sharpened metal
Not a cry for help

But to breathe for once in her life
The pain on her skin will
Stop the sin of ending it
Today...

Pictures of emotion
And the powers to show them
Because if she told you
About her problems,
A cold shoulder is what you would
Have shown her...

The You-th of today is what it explains
Let's brake this word down
I'll show "You" this pain...

You... Are the reasons why they slam the doors...
You want us to be what you never were
A Lawyer?
A Doctor?
A Dentist?

Why?

You say these jobs are going to bring
Happiness and Wealth
But sit for a second look deep
Into the eyes did You listen
When the Boy and Girl cried
For help?

No!

You put them on medication
Said Deal with it that's life
This is the reason

The Boy sat in his room
Listening and playing Music
To just get through the day!

And why the girl has painted
Her beautiful curves, the curves you don't
See? Because she's either too skinny
Or she over eats...
There's no winning It's people like this
In life are the reason
Why she picked up the knife.

You... Tell your son and daughter
What do you know about love?

But they saw with their own eyes
When you took the Diploma and the Course
Of how to destroy it going through your divorce

Infliction
Correction
Complexion
Inspection
Expectations­

Are not! The words that give...

Direction

You... Were the ones telling the Boy and Girl
Educate and learn.

Get your head deep in these
Books and find a purpose


But saying these words living your
Broken Youth is why they feel worthless
So...

Ill say it for them

Sorry for stealing your youth
Sorry for expressing their emotions
Sorry a really good job doesn't mean anything to them, but happiness does
Sorry when age has a meaning because we don't "Understand" Love
Sorry for the anger with passion and rage
Sorry for their broken homes, caused by your morals
Sorry for the advice that you have never spoken

Because the medication is what pull us through?
Heartless and Broken...

Like broken ice
Shattered as it hits the glass
But as we know it melts
And never lasts.

Vapors happen as it hits the sky
New rain is born
But it's the tears of our youth
A silent cry
Silently hitting the roofs

Roofs of a broken home...

So look and listen to the words
Emotion written in every verse
Learn to appreciate
Never look down to whisper, debate

*Never expect what you write
To be any good, because
The fear of not writing stops
You from finding your own voice
Matloob Bokhari Oct 2014
THE ARAB PAGANS
                     MATLOOB BOKHARI

The Arab pagans  were plunged in the depth of ignorance,
Barbarism;  adored idols, lived in unchaste life,
Ate  dead bodies,  disregarded every feeling of humanity,
Allah raised among them a man,  honest, and pure ;
Who called them to  Oneness of God , forbade idol worship.  
Enjoined them to speak truth, be faithful, merciful .
Muhammad taught them rights of  neighbors ; kith and kin:
Forbade them to speak evil of women, or to eat orphans’ stuff.  
Ordered them to flee from the vices, and to abstain from evil.
Offer prayers, render alms,  observe fast and respect elders.
  The Arab pagans rose against him to cease his preaching.
Muhammad with a bloodied face, a busted lip, a broken tooth prayed for them
When they mutilated Hamza’s corpse; burnt off his nose ;  cut off his ears;
Muhammad, the messenger of peace and love, forgiving prayed for the pagans
But the shadow  of  the dark clouds of hate totally eclipsed the moon of love
The Arab pagans ruthlessly massacred the whole family of Muhammad
Hussain ,picking up the body of his young son, an image of Muhammad,prayed:
Praise be to Allah Who is the hearer of prayers and warders off anguishes
Hussain, gathering pieces of the dead body of his nephew trampled by horses , prayed
O Allah! The All-gentle, the All aware! I willingly desire for You and testify Your Lordship!
Hussain, burrying  his six month martyr with his own hand in the sand of Karbala, prayed
Praise be to Allah Who is raiser of ranks and suppressor of tyrants
Hussain  standing on  shifting sand-dunes of Kerbala , smeared with blood. of Abbas, prayed
O All-merciful, O All-beneficent. !All glory be to You! Verily Originator and Reproducer
The grandson of Prophet Muhammad ,left all alone, called  for help
But the pagans threw his headless body  on  the plains of Karbala
Leaving Prophet’s daughters in   raging flames of tents, they celebrated victory
O God Who gladdens the hearts that mourn, dries the eyes that weep
I cannot write the whole story of love and hate,  My heart cries! My pen  bleeds!
Matloob, sky and stars weep upon such sacrifices, angels bow, they don’t die in vain!
Every soul shall  have a taste of death:  We test you by evil and by good by way of trial!
Praise be to Allah ,Hearer of prayers! From God we come, and unto Him is our return.













Jan G. A good poetic account of  the history of Islam. Another Hussein might be required to correct once again what came of the Islamic Republic. Oppression loves to speak in the name of liberation it once embraced. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poems/by/matloob#sthash.iCoJzCfi.dpuf



RAJ NANDY: To take an universal view I must say, that let religion not come in the way of love and peace! It has been for the Wise to show us the way, banish ignorance and bring forth light always! True faith is love and as the greatest binding force that shall remain! Thanks for sharing, -Raj



Rick Ratliff : I am  a Christian  and moved greatly by this  powerful read


Rev. Donny Doom – Thanks  for this thought provoking read!


Nikluss 6: An excellent story!!
is it from the Koran????
PEACE MATLOOB!!!!



tarobinson - What a great poem . Wonderfully told . RESPECTFULLY TOLD .




    Hussain was supported by Christians too in Karbala
    

Kyle Wittman - Title / intro is: It certainly sparked my attention.


My favorite line is: The last line.

It's a great read! I do love the imagery.






Dark Iris : Such a beautiful  truth! I  Like it.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
aesthetic is etiquette
             is:
     what is & isn't
                          either:
yet is both: in that they
are the same:
disparaging meanings...

nouns: the source
of ultimate meaning,
crux words...
and the source of
the thesaurus...

i wasn't looking
for a mathematical
conflation of grammar
either...

but...

   aesthetic ≠ etiquette...

but...

  it does! to keep up
with the formality
of norm, of power,

then
(the)
   aesthetic = (the) etiquette,
but there is no "the"
to begin with...
yet...

         if the aesthetic ≠ the etiquette...
why, either?!
dumb questions usually
prescribe
a continued willing
to perpetuate:
unquestioned...
hence the dumb questions...
my dumb question
lacks any elaborate ploy
to topple the status quo
for the sole reason that...
my alternative
matches
  no genius of the originator
basis...

wordings are not
simply chanced to
be worth debating
a miscarriage
of implementing
the averted coin-flip...

(funny, how the articles
prop up,
miraculously)...

     etiquette?
a macabre variety
of aesthetic...

       nothing more...
but... etiquette is
still subordinate of
aesthetic...
isn't it?

              hardly:
etiquette is still
subordinate off
aesthetic...
is it?!

               a month spent
in a monastery of a novel...
cradle these words
unto a course
of nullification...

if i'd utter them in
a clutter of sparrows:
i'd be a equivalent to a mute
stone...
if i'd utter them in
a lion's harem:
i'd be a cat's meow (if not less)...
if i'd utter them in
the crow's shamanism
of all shadows...
i'd still be less
the croaking hark
of a voice that
might dictate: obey...

    so...
                      so...
ah...

                 was kommen:
was ist...
            und alles was:
                ich, ich sterben...
ich war geboren?
                        ich war
nie sein: geboren....
          ich war sein: sterben!
brandon nagley Nov 2015
i.

O' mine asawa, mine novel put away for millennia,
Brute man hast hidden thee from view, thou hast been burdened by men's crucifying, thy fear's art of lonesomeness; as many hast left thee, As I've known thine tears. I've seen and watched thy fear's, over the year's thine heart was bleeding.

ii.

Though whilst thou was leaking from thine wound's, I was keeping track on high, from the moon, and universal sky, from the nebula they calleth God's eye; I made plan's to cometh near. Thither below where I hadst none purpose, other than thee; I asked ourn maker to pusheth me into the sea of the great Pacific ocean, I hadst come with mine love, and incorporeal potion's.

iii.

Afore thine nativity, I hadst known thee a whilst, though as an angel thy falling to the atmosphere madeth thee forget thy memory; and divine self. Though I remembered thou, as thy soulmate from ages passed: I waited, with the great originator, I hadst beseeched him to seeing thee again; mine beloved, mine consort of other realm related. As Elohim kneweth thou was mine Filipino rose, mine all, and best friend: he granted me back heaven, as I landed into thy hand's.





©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-Filipino rose dedicated
asawa means wife in Filipino tongue also known as Tagalog tongue...
Afore means before in archaic...
Elohim is another Hebrew name used for god as also is Jehovah and Yahweh..,
Thanks for reading!!!
Traveler May 2017
Paint it, craft it
Invent it as if
Pretend the interior
Doesn't actually exist
Create a back drop
Of reason and rhyme
Initiate aesthetics
Present it sublime
Imagine a new world
Where circles entwine
Let it originate
From your own mind

...
Traveler Tim
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
YADA TASHY ( "Originator Stone" )

Outside the first snow falls.

Her wounds are photographed.

Spoken of.

Described in detail.

Technical.

The overhead microphone
takes it all in.

Being dead she is
more naked

than she ever was.

Stripped of her
humanity.

She had ceased to be
who she used to be.

She is now
merely a cadaver.

The autopsy can not tell
her name.

She is Kuzuku.

Her mother called her
KuKu.

She had been born
with a caul.

KuKu was pregnant.

She was going to call
the child if it was a girl

. . .Yuki.

She couldn't conceive what
she would call it if a boy?

It was always going to be
a girl.

She liked candyfloss
and her hair up.

Now her hair is down.
It touches her shoulders.

As if her hair were
still alive.

The autopsy
wound by wound

tells of the hell
of her dying.

The voice is
deadpan.

Mechanical.

The coroner
breaks for coffee.

Bitter.  Black.

"Ya da!"
as the Turks say.

"...with nothing..."
***

Kuzuku was named after the flowering plant/rampant ****. Her mother always drank a tea made from it. Only her mother called her her pet name; "Kuku!" Her blacker than black hair always seemed like a living entity in itself as it danced upon her shoulders or splashed over her clavicles. She always wore off the shoulder dresses or tops even in winter cold. I once told her she had the cutest clavicles( "rekishi no naka de kawaī sakotsu" )in history which....always made her laugh. I told her she had well tempered clavicles and she laughed even more when the pun was explained to her. She had been born with a caul...a red caul. She it was who told me the Turkish tale or the Yada Daşı and of the Yadachy.

She had just met the man who would eventually stab her to death and she was greatly in love with him and his culture.

All these little scraps of humanity could not be disclosed by the autopsy which could never tell of how beautiful she was and what a joy she was to be around.

Her death was a horror tale told by a friend of a friend of a friend and hard to comprehend or believe.

***

Yada Tashy (Turkish: Yada Taşı; Bashkort: Йәй Ташы, Azerbaijanese: Yada Daşı, means "Originator Stone" or "Rain Stone") is a legendary folkloric substance said to be capable of summoning rain. For many centuries, it was the single most sought-after item in Turkic folk legends. Yada Tashy was a central symbol to the mystical terminology in Turkic mythology, symbolising interference to and control over natural phenomena.

Yadachy (Turkish: Yadacı/Yadaçı) in Turkic tradition, were men believed to have an inborn supernatural ability to protect their estate, village, or region against destructive weather conditions, such as storms, hail, or torrential rains. It was believed that the souls of these men could leave their bodies in sleep, to intercept and fight with demonic beings imagined as bringers of bad weather. Having defeated the demons and taken away the stormy clouds they brought, the protectors would return into their bodies and wake up tired.

Yadachy of an area usually fought together against the attacking Yadachy of another area who were bringing a storm and hail clouds above their fields. The victorious Yadachy would loot the yield of all agricultural produce from the territory of their defeated foes, and take it to their own region. Although Yadachy could be women and children, most were adult men. Their supernatural power was thought to be inborn. In many regions it was regarded that the Yadachy were born with a caul—white or red, depending on the regional belief. The mother would dry the caul and sew into a piece of garment always worn by the child, such as a pouch attached under the child's armpit. Adverse weather such as a storm or hail could devastate crop fields and orchards, and thus jeopardise the livelihood of farmers in the affected area. A role of Yadachy, according to folk tradition, was to lead storms and hail clouds away from their family estates, villages, or regions, to save their crops. A Yadachy could take the storms and hail clouds over the territory of another Yadachy to destroy its crops. The other Yadachy would fly up to confront the bringer of bad weather, and there would be a fight between the Yadachy.
Reverse back to the verse
I throw ya in you cursed
Watch me put them rhymes in a hearse
Sound the eulogy
Cuz none get next to me
Im swift as bruce lee
Kicks hard like Chung Li born in 83
Add the 4 more ya get *******
Im crazier than Cujo these putos
Dont want it on the mic
You aint murderin nothin'
but ya own sight
I brailled ya envision changed your decision
Whatin' n guessin' a prediction?
Is it me or is it the way the
Way my rhymes please ?
Bow to ya knees
I make the crowds freeze
Even ya fans say bless you! when i sneeze
I bet you still wear dungerees or high heels with tight capris
I thought ya heard  im the rappin' don Shapiro
Shine n spin  around haters like disco
Sip old school Sisqo hit the blunts slow
Let the smoke meditate my mind flow
Learn how to grind ill put  ya on a flat line
Resuscitate your rhymes just to put you back on the flat line
Searchin' for the light im dolemite
My game **** tight know how to write
When ya step to legend im gifted
Young black n hung
I keep ya lifted
Got hoes on the tip of they toes
Just to hear suave flow
Pockets of dough
Thats how it goes
Pistol cocked to ya nose
Ya thoughts are froze i suppose
Dont redeem ya self
My rhymes hittin' so hard
Made the minds deaf
Cuz when ya try to diss me ya diss ya self
The microphone murderer
Aint never left !!!!

Yo everyboy gather around
Hand me the crown
Cuz ya know im King of the ****
My NY freestyles stay lit
TEXAS is where i reign
Home of the ******* up clique
This life i live aint no ****** puzzle
Tryin to figure me out gets gun to ya muzzle
Dont meddle in my ****
Spinnin' out the wombs
From cradle to my tomb
Im hittin' ya curves that go straight
Flows penetrate so hard make girlies mind  *******
Who can relate?
To my skills raws as ever
Goin' in with my raw potato skin
Bust my nut then i leave em blowin in the wind
If ya a hater i gotta mack 10
Extra clips on my hips ****** done then i dip
Listen closely to the story being told
I wont grow old never will i fold
Platinum or Gold knots
check the tic toc
My money on clockwork  
rolex watch
Worth 50 gran an on the other hand
Is the microphone
Turn the amps up mic up
Leave crowds minds blown
From nut being shown my tone
Is laid back these nigguhs
Spittin' is wayyy wack
While you pushin' Honda im in a Maybach
No frills only the real i spit so you can feel
Givin' head aches to radio station
Cant tune me out im like exacerbation
Crush my opponent everytime he bust a rhyme
They give up even before they heard mine
Intimator from dope originator
Now im the terminator eliminator
Showed up yo party they still didnt play ya
Im old school fool soul filled with blues
Leave my competitiors on front line news
It goes a little like this
This is a replica of a Chris this aint a diss
But an address
To you punks who wanna **** around
With the master of this ****
Duck quick or these rounds will put you in the ground
Flat line..........
Irrelevant and inexperienced tongues speak
of things that are merely meek
borrowed thoughts, charred and dark
none got the zeal or spark
of the original mark
behold the originator of thought


Fierce and finesse
opulent and neoteric
complex yet tangible
veridical and factual
juxtaposing tradition and aesthetics
original stands out better


Pursue your thoughts
deliberately choose
perdurable possibilities
disparate spheres of same thought
well deserved appreciation
eponymous hero, you will be !!
STLR Nov 2016
Welcome to the stellar season

new passion & new reason

I am reignited

too flamed, I’m heat seeking

Simply motivated

like a *******

Condoms made of confidence

Just in case I **** your mother

I’ve come from the bottomless

I’m higher than the very top

Too high, Upper echelon, ***** I’m Michael Angelo mixed with a Megatron

Phantom of the Op

with a knife that never stops

Chucky in the form of a dope decepticon

looking for a *** of gold like a leprechaun

If I don’t find the gold, then I’ll put the *** in ****

then spark that **** forever long

Confidence & cognac enough to keep me gunning,

cardio to cardiac Arrested for the running

Running of the mouth, running of the mind, I feel too defined

I think I’ve reached a line

Everyday

I write & spit a verse or two

yelling at the sky to see what the universe would do

a science experiment and the catalyst is you

steady battling the truth

Between working that 9 to 5

Or chasing your inner youth

Displacement of bigger visions

Shuffled by rash decisions

Motivation has risen, coupled with work ethic

I want exotics & moments of rarity

My visions clear, I’m surprised by this clarity

The world's changing like moods swings and irregularities

2016 will be the year of efficiency

A strong alliance of motivation and pure ability

Smarter science, enhances ions an durability

Energy streams through my seams like electricity

it feels riveting

I will change my ground like a terraform generator

I know that I’m bound to something that’s much greater

**** all of the hate

******* & the naysayers

onion I am

my mind has many layers

No more dishes served cold

I’m tired of late waiters

I’m a heat-seeking ventilator

Freestyle originator

Here's some cold bars & some beers from my refrigerator

Mastermind incinerator to all of the instigators

Instagram this so you ***** can read it later

No More Procrastinators, haters & ******* decisions makers

I’m bulldozing my way, then rebuilding like path makers

Skillfully shifting ground  

I’m here to tilt the equator

The time to make money

is now

Not later

Negotiations of lame relations are no longer in the equation

I’m on my digital hustle like a roomed packed with 3 Indians & 2 Asians

All coding syntax for an app that automatically takes pictures of random places

Not so C++ Basic, but if you can crack the code then it’s your for the taking

This is the stellar season were motivation is lurking, I’m excited like jive turkey, hand me a biscuit, time to consume then sore like a fly birdie.


my minds sturdy, I’m making sick instrumentals to spit a flow from the mental then simply define worthy.
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
Pass on
Select the time and contemplate the goals
My golden Goddess, my Queen
The sanctimonious moments of life
Those you live for

An intrinsic grove confiding in the glistening sun

Lovers strolling down the dirt paths **** without shame

It is natural here; joy and laughter fill the air

Our brains elevated with naivety and innocence

Ambient sounds and kind voices are all we hear

Select the hymn from the long, long ago
The moment is here
“Be free” they chant
Under the sun
In the shade of a cryptic tree

Ship out here again to the grove
Roam through the cool pastures
Join us
As we dance to the overture

Dark eyed underlings
Hissing impulsively
Madhouse notions enter the man’s cranium

We are gathered at this junction for this vigorous cross breeding
Of the immense love and the prolific lust we have for life
And extend an olive branch to those with a dim acceptance of death

Bent on devouring mortality
Floundering to pump out a miracle
On a spree of existence
Cruising behind tinted intentions
Melodies crumble sheepishly

Ah, divine originator of life
Allow us immortality
To escape our awful fates
And plan a mutiny against Charon

We beg for silk and satin intimacy

Evil wicked sorcerers of the soul are refused iconic eternal life
Gentle menders of the spirit may bask in the glorious groves of timelessness
Drunk poet Mar 2017
Books I have come across,
Pages of old scribbles and thoughts
Old ones, both Legends and myths
I have seen heroes on the cross
Even events that are far gross!
But they seems to have lost their wits
.
Books of treasure I have found,
Where heroes and great ones won
Stories of time I have kept
Deeply rooted in my inquisitive chest
.
Books of fantasies I have explored,
The magical exuberance my bewildered
Mind unable to fathom
The fairy puzzles that old ones would not speak of!
.
Books, as they unfolds
From the stream of unseen
The scribbler and originator of mindset
Painter of destiny!
The author that lives by the Coast.

Balogun David (drunk poet)
© 2017
Big thanks to Benjamin Alaba

You are the Poet,
Among the first five;
I do understand,
You are the
Poet of the Poet;
The best poet!
Neither “Homer”
Nor “Gibran”;
Neither “Neruda”;
Nor “Tagore”;
Like all other
Poet of the Poets;
You too scribbles nonsense,
Sometimes like the
other famous poets;
You yourself is the originator;
As well as the reader.
then you become
victorious; defeated…….
________________­____
  You are the King
Among the first five
I do understand
You are the
King of the Kings;
The best King !
Neither “Charles II”
Nor “Henry V”;
Neither “Edward”;
Nor “Asoka”;
Like all other
King of Kings,
You yourself is the Creator;
as well as the destroyer;
You  too declares world war
sometimes like the
other famous Kings!
Without warnings
You yourself is the creator;
As well as the destructor;
then you become
   victorious;the defeated..
________________­_________
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
williamsji@yahoo.com
www.williamsji.com
We are in trap comrade
We have made all those mistakes
and creating the difference among us
We didn't know that
here the originator made the dark lines among us

@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Everything is predefined, we are just playing the event within some rules.....
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
the dialectical limit of facts / opinions:
there is a limit,
before you start to gravitate toward
the "fact",
that there is only a limited
availability concern for fact(s),
   for opinion(s),
before simply regurgitating facts,
and not engaging within
the medium of applied dialectics
being made
     (absolutely) necessary...
          you can attack me in my dialectical
playground of discussion,
about "****" i care about...
the question of orthography within
the confines of the english language,
and the utter lack of diacritical
application within the language per se,
there....
            that's about it...
those opinions are my real,
very real concern,
everything else, is?
                             click-bait *******...
regurgitating a fact,
making a Samson's pillar of it all,
       crutch, spine and brain of it all...
n'ah... doesn't sell...
doesn't even begin to bother me...
  i'm less interested in the plain obvious
dialectics no being:
   investigated by the counter rhetoric
of: STOP, THINK, stop stuttering,
dialectics...
            i'm not a native:
i don't just spew the native tongue,
spinning it off via
some cosmopolitan leftist narrative...
papa, sure as ****,
was no rolling stone,
but grand-p'ah? sure as ****,
was a communist party member...
           so "now" that i've learned /
perfected the equipped use of
the language,
   guess: i just have to deal with
the local idiosyncracy...
  fun fun!
                  no, i believe in jack-****...
there's a dialectical limit
on what facts / opinions you care about...
unless you're a freak,
like Socrates,
   and...
   you have no facts / opinion to care
about...
  then, sure, hellraiser...
**** it: **** this, **** that...
my prime concerns?
orthography, not metaphysics,
and the application of diacritical
markers, missing in the english language...
which, somehow,
bypass the linguistic elitism
of faking, but nonetheless applying
these "nuances"...

every time i revisit Poland i'm inclined
to succumb to the following thought-thread:
me, here, back 'ere?
  you have to be kidding me...
they somehow managed,
i somehow managed:
we moved along to pass
the crux of time,
some partial learning of year 0...
i can't go back...
   i'm perpetuated to exhibit
awe-struck behaviours
of this, this,
this current multi-cultural affair
of a succumb to
experience a plateau weekend
of a worth of distractions...

yet i somehow resemble
the natives...
  but that's not a selling point
of midning inclusion
  plus pointers...
              but i found that i speak
their language,
that's alienating their
curiosity with owning
a pair of testicles...
   fun word: "out of context:
salient...
  
   i too had dreams...
   visiting the city of Danzig,
notably the old quarter...
Breslau...
           the Białowieża Forest...
i had dreams, i had ambitions...
instead i was only given
the allowance to reiterate
this language, to the natives...
as some sort of variant
              of recuperations...

no point regurgitating facts,
if one cannot entertain
oneself in the medium
of dialectics...
          who the **** needs
an encyclopedic man of
pub quiz trivia, later labelled:
                                                  geniu­s?

back in Essex?
i had to learn the second tier
of integration,
what the English call...
the somewhat loss of
geogrpahic triviality...

      i missed Newcastle,
i missed Liverpool and Manchester,
and Leeds,
went straight toward
entertaining the Scots...

            i still know what
the flag of Cornwall is
a white cross against a black
canvas...

          but... i'm still not comfortable...
i don't have an accent,
ergo?
it is just easier to treat me
as a schizophrenic...
              but... i'm happy...
             happy... funny word...
i integrated too successfully,
                i wasn't too: dissimilar...
and that a problem,
living in a country where
cultural enrichment is mandatory,
and there can never be
a cultural variance /
                       "xenophobia"
              
       point being?
i have about 2 / 3 subject matters worth
of keeping my opinions secure,
the rest?
    eh...
            changes,
changes as the fickle quest
of a dictated to flag on a pole
by the wind...
      it, naturally varies...
   i'd love to entertain the dialectic
medium on orthography,
diacritical indicators...
the variation of
accents in the anglo zunge;

but seeing how the originator
of the dialectical medium
was instigated by
the illiterate Socrates...

                                       well...
i've read enough,
in order to allow myself
to craft an original spew
of content...
                 reading anything beyond
what i've already written,
will still make me succumb
to pandering
to a furthered circumstance
of being, more and more,
entrenched

  (no wonder there's a bias
nuance
   concerning to have to
                   stage            a ?).
Yeah once I received
A revelations from meditated at a  higher elevation
Became mental ejaculations
Then came a new creation
Cells was in gestation
Just waitin' to battle
The minions of Satan
Who better than
Me & my flows
Be hotter than dessert sand
Words is swords slicin' up rap veterans
These boy more fruit looped
Than Toucan Sam
On the pavement I slam
Then watch your spirit deactivate and
Your body start decomposin' sinkin' faster than quick sand
Understand
My words put together
Equals the perfect letterman
Formula of concoctions
No **** options
I go for the jugular
Loosin' ya sight swift as strike
From the tail of an iguana
I got stocks to bonds
You couldn't assist me even if ya had John Stockton
Lost from my unclaimed kingdom
While you sitting dumb
I became succumb to the sun
But not burned
Beamin' my intellect to carefully select put rhymers in check
I'm complex like chinese arithmetic
Can't you innerstand my dialect
Brains get dissected then tested
They only livin cuz I allowed
Them to be resurrected
My brain shuts out hate
Like sealed window pane
wither shine or rain
I'll shatter your brain
Leave your cells strained
Like aneurysm
Soon to die from all the blood stains
Rockin' cerebellums spread belladonna
Once I drop the bombs on ya
Turn up the degrees hotta than a sauna
Feedin' on spine rentin' ya nerves
Like a piranha
After emcees like Conner
Terminator originator dope animator
Styles so contagious they had to create a
Clone when I was in an incubator
Spaced shuttled feeling
Lies told within' reignin with sin
Which eventually made me a debater
Minds like an engine you need a starter and an alternator
I be the alpha and omega hate betas
Who try to debate us conform us
Only ourselves we trust
Cuz once we show
We bust temples
Like solar blast nuclear chemical task
Spells in cast take a sip of my mental flask
I keep two masks for alias
One for my personality and other
For my ego rhymes en fuego
Black inferno pops on ya like a kernel
Beef is eternal everlast
In the house of pain
Where most don't wanna last
If ya had half of the
Skills that I amount to
You'll still wouldn't get a pass
I be the galaxy protector Hannibal hector bone collector
Break through any sector
Killer instincts like Raptor
Thunderous with Thor hammers
Make em jam us two sides as Janus
Conjure spirits like cursor spells from Ouija boards
So pull out a clipboard and jump aboard
Stack rhymes til it becomes a hoard
I'll stretch ya vocals chords like an accordion
Spinal leakin' from all the blood releasin'
Like traveling thoughts of
Ya mind I'm your conscious
Intertwined
Silence competitions like mimes
By the time they got to six
I was seven and ate nine
Emcees that try to take mine
My retaliation sublime
Once my third eye shines
None believers get behind
Thought ya had power til I showed
Up now you have to resign
Empires got decline
Black as ruler and a golden Shrine
Couldn't decipher my demigod design
My mind travels a million times
Infinite  times a billion times
That's just a microthread of my cells
Castin' processed lines
The black sun the only one
Reignin' as the only champion
Made a don connect rhymes
Like voltron big as megatron
Lap around emcees like a marathons
That means a hundred to one
Miles soon to pile
All emcees into a crate
Predict the death date make bacteria
In it's natural state
Shift the game 'til the earthquakes
Not to worry
Its just the triple six darkness takin' it's stake
Heatwaves risin' soon to leave bodies to radiate and bake
Turnin' them into ashe flakes
the other Umi Nov 2014
Eyes closed
Blinded by violent sun rays
The land seems foreign
But you own and nurture it
Now you walk its valleys and peaks
With your soul as your only guiding light

They think you can't see
But you've survived centuries
Inside the deep seas
You're an old soul
Perhaps odd too
But one thing for sure
You've had too much to see

Your eyes filled with desert sands
Mixed with water from the oasis
You gasp for air
For long you've had oxygen supplied to you
Food chewed for you and fed to you as pulp
Now you want to take control
And once again throne the chair

Fists clenched
As if you'd just woken up
From a terrible dream
The whole neighborhood awake
Because of your loud screams
How far did you sleepwalk
And strayed from your spiritual beam

You think they wanna open your fists
And read the secret seams
The exotic path on your palms
A sacred pact between yourself
And your originator
Now you choke
From all the fear you've generated

To your surprise
Everyone around you is smiling
And you immediately ask yourself
"Are these people happy or are they lying
Pretending to rejoice when they're only gathered here to watch me dying"

"Welcome to the puzzle game"
A voice inside you says
"The only baffling factor here
Is that you are the puzzle
And the puzzle is you
The world is but a mold
Complete and incomplete
With and of itself"

Just like a folding daisy
You slowly open up
And take it all in, the light, the madness
And slowly you regain your sight
You lift your arms and feel the wind
Brush against your broken wings

Gradually you learn to unclench your fists
For therein lies your secret code
The coordinates to your destination
The part of the world better known as home
Ironically, this is not the end
But the beginning to this beautiful game called life

Be it a map to a secret treasure
A key to a door to unsolved mysteries
Or a keyword that will capture
Someone's heart until time
Raptures love without all the miseries
Or simply a fortune cookie with a prank written inside

That code is yours
Etched upon your tiny hands
It is your responsibility to decrypt that message
And interpret it to fit your purpose
And your purpose is nothing more
Than what you make it.
Why does come Monday first always in Week?
and Looking in East why, West cannot I seek?
Why from month January ,  year to begin?
Is January so great and December mean?

Why yellow looks so yellow and red is red?
Why chair is called a chair  and bed is bed?
Why day is destined to never meet a night?
And there no darkness, where ever is light?

How cement keep together one brick to brick?
When Frozen, turn water ice, what is the trick?
Why the cow choice eating grass, leaf & fruit?
and juice for feral panther never substitute?

Why chilly taste hot so and apple taste sweet?
Why river's bank parallel & never they meet?
Why always two has to come after one?
No body to answer, no reason yet come.

Why eye for watching and mouth to speak?
And Mountain so high and valley so deep?
Why fire for burning and water to wet?
Why language ever need many alphabet?

Only thirty days in a month, when, why & how?
No answers to these questions, leave them you now.
And why the God created this multiple world,
Can not be explained ever, can not be solved.

God is the originator and this is the fact.
This world is how it is, you have to accept.
This is the Nature and this is reply.
Alfa is alfa  , so  pie is pie.



Ajay Amitabh Suman
All Rights Reserved
Matt Sep 2014
The Tao that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Tao.
The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name.
(Conceived of as) having no name,
It is the Originator of heaven and earth; (conceived of as) having a Name,
It is the Mother of all things.

Always without desire we must be found,
If its deep mystery we would sound;
But if desire always within us be,
Its outer fringe is all that we shall see.

Under these two aspects, it is really the same;
But as development takes place, it receives the different names.
Together we call them the Mystery.
Where the Mystery is the deepest is the gate of all that
Is subtle and wonderful.
By: Lao Tzu
J. Legge, Translator
From the Tao Te Ching
Ekaterina Oct 2015
Blinding
Is the orb that dwells in darkness
Surrounding nearby worlds with light and warmth
A necessary addiction
Seen as bizarre in the eyes of a visitor from far off spaces
Stunned by the presence of a god
Pulling and pushing this way and that

Its disciples are separate but alike
Holding steady in the gargantuan influence of a power
So above any object in the system
They spin in awe of it
The spheres of influence
Cannot hold a candle to the bulb

A visitor from distant places
Drawn in like hands to face
So cracked and frostbitten
Touching skin which glows with feeling
Embracing violet blood in care
But burning and boiling in the process
So the hands wrench away
With fear that heat had penetrated too far a surface
No longer secure in its rocky shell
Throws itself back into blackness
Past the disciples
And sees the effects of such an understanding
Between the master and the follower

A little after the departure
Another rock
The closest devotee
Sporadically moving like a mayfly
Scurrying across its pathway
Turns in my direction
Afraid to show affection
One side burned by the fire or proximity
The other frozen by wear and tear
Shows aggression for one minute
And lust for two
Then with every reckless motion
Turns back towards the master
And away from me


There is beauty in the second one
Mesmerizing colors and carefully spoken words
Draw in every visitor
Every other disciple with a flick of a wrist
A breath from its atmosphere stuns most
And captivates others
But I have seen beneath the clouds of grandeur
With every sweet notion turned into spite and malice
Lost within yourself and still behaving like a child
Filling each airway with Carbon Dioxide
Sulfur burning flesh away
Attached to nothing but the ego which flows like magma through canals
Beneath your skin
Jealous of a twin which has a follower
And like the plant true to your name
Any innocent insect is caught in the scent and perishes
So when the sting of betrayal faded, escape was the only option

Red
Iron strung throughout the surface
Dry and rough
Son of Ares
War language spoken fluently only by you
Better than the other disciples
Yet more reluctant and vengeful of the master
When there once was hope
Now lays desolation and defense
But many try and few have come to know
That there once was water beneath the desert
And what is ice without the cold?

The further I am flying
The colder it gets
And another giant surfaces
Not as bright
But strong and jolly
Dionysus in his right
Loved and cherished by the group
Opens his arms and his heart
To the many moons surrounding him
Each a beautiful muse with a brilliant mind
Protecting the others with a kindness so massive
It can only suffocate
Closeness is my greatest fear
And gravity is too strong for my liking
So another exit is inescapable
But I know he’ll keep spinning and waging wars against dependence
On both the rest of the cluster and the master
To whom he is indebted

So close yet a world apart
The glints of your many rings surround your presence
As both a warning and an invitation
To the club of the narcissistic dying artists
Grasping close a talent which places you as an originator
In vain turning into hot air which sits beneath your surface
Lord of time
Holding close those who are down for the count
Of the many you have clasped onto
But later tossed or turned into the following
Of the closed and distant moons
Each one crowned and named queen of the underworld
Tears and heartache
Only for selfish pleasure and self assurance
That you still have some control over yourself in the presence of
The master
Which you try and imitate as much as possible
But just can’t seem to get it right

Exhaustion sets in as the tail slows into a pace
Until the peripheral catches attention
A globe of wind blows past me
A different animal I have yet to dissect
Greets with presents and excitement
Promises of adventure and passion
Though it is too far
And trepidation is too great for one to instantly accept


The light grows dim in these parts
Each disciple now taking their turn to praise the master
Your tint is one I cannot forget
Held in esteem by the others
And as a friend in my icy core
Far and removed, yet present and involved
They look to you as the anomaly
Your abilities astounding everyone
Yet you’re a slave to the master
Losing yourself in a dream world
Forgetting to wave hello to those beneath you
Neglect becomes your companion
And with music as your mistress
It is far too much for me to handle in this plane of deception
Fleeing is becoming a habit which I gladly indulge in


Finally
It has passed
Long behind me
Rays barely visible
And again I embrace darkness
Comfortable in my own sphere
Until I remember you
Frozen in time
The last of the disciples
Forgotten by many  
Insignificant and stationary
Rarely seen by the others
Yet the only one to grab hold of my heart
Like you did
Ice meets ice
Body against body
Frost in the middle of an ice age
Stalemate of two lovers
Gripping each other for warmth that the master had refused to share
Rotating in circles
Confused motions which made both run to the distant blue one for advice
I would have bled for you if I could
But your internal miasma of chaos
Did not bring peace and reassurance
And for once I fled to the master seeking warmth only to be burnt and tossed back again
Where you are now
But this road is different
I will not share it with you

This collective is my discovery
A part of the icy core which will always carry small traces of emotion
Locked within the silver lining of my system
And I am off again to distant lands
Where other masters dwell
Deep within the taunting and captivating unknown
So one day I may burn up entirely
In the grand master
Love.
(2010-2012) Collection
Neeloo Neelpari Oct 2018
Together they stand
The Seven Sisters of India
Untouched, unexplored, isolated
The seven states of north east India
Assam, the gateway to this heavenly abode
Is the provider of tea leaves all through the world
Arunachal Pradesh, the Land of the rising sun
Attracts tourist from all over the world
Manipur, oval-shaped valley of blue mountains
Is the originator of Polo games
Meghalya, naturally the abode of clouds
Gives shelter to flora, fauna in large bounds
Mizoram, the land of the highlander Mizo people
Has the rivers and most vari colored hilly terrain
Nagaland rich in flora, fauna and evergreen forests
Is home to Great Indian Horn-bill and Naga tribes
Tripura, a landlocked hilly state with Manu river
Has a rich cultural heritage of music, fine arts, dance
With Sikkim as their only brother, natural beauty and exotic places
The seven sisters are indeed a Paradise Unexplored


© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Smooth is the name I go by
F to e to the s o to the Y
Spelled it backwards now flip it forward
You get Yosef the most explosive
As a land mind in contact get off the bozack
Emcees these days so wack they lack
The skills to pay the bills and in the high hills
Got girls from USA Peru Somoa and Brazil
So haters chill as I lay a cut to another mill
Made while y'all played I keep it slayed
To a ****** ya never heard of a
Brother silky as me next to the BIG
Daddy Kane
Blessin' ya with lyrics cuz I be the originator
A Smooth operator


Grindin lyrics from the factories of my mind
That flash like a nine fast time no rewind
As I incline others decline smooth the line
Count ya steps carefully when you approach the bassline
The sweet taboo like Sade ya love me
Soldier of love all of the above
No haters allowed seek out in the crowd
Once the Microphone touches my hand watch em get loud
No party poopers quick to scoop ya
Out the scene where's my vanilla chocolate ice cream o yea
Slide ya like a fader the operator


The flavors looking good and there I stood
Between all the honies different tastes of the beauties
Shakin' bootys got the style so ya know they won't loose me
Lyrics soft as silk but cut like a ribbon
As make the mental incision
Shadow of a glare no truth or dare
Its big Yosef coming from the rear
The extraordinaire
My dear the one and only real playa
Others is custom so they downgrade ya
Classic as Sega clawed like Vega
Cuz I be a Smooth operator
Khidir Osman Apr 2016
The heart comes first
above all else
beyond all else
together with all else

the heart must come first,
mustn't it?
the heart should come first,
shouldn't it?

if the heart is so important
why must there be need to affirm its importance?

the heart is not the originator of feelings,
the limbic system is
the heart is not the driver
but merely a reactive passenger
it is neither self, nor ego
the heart is just... the heart

could it be, perhaps
that it is where the soul is intimated?
where passion is derived and fueled
it drives one to dream
to hope, to fulfil, to conquer...
and to despair
maybe it is what makes us humans, human
without such
we are merely living and breathing,
as other animals do—and they too have hearts
but unlike ours

ours is mostly referred to as an unknowable construct
a purely man-made invention (like Valentine’s Day)
a metaphysical manifestation of our existential insecurity
or maybe just a tired lover’s cliche?

if the heart comes first
then what’s next?
Check it I was born
To roll hit you with a flow
Universal for my people
Stop running to  the political poles
And dancing on stripper poles
Lift ya mentality
And stop wasting money
On dumb hoes
In and out ya ears
My intellectual goes
So ya know
Once I roll saliva
From the tip of my tongue
Brains cells get noosed
Soon to become hung
From the damaged that was brung
Like a million bees
Penetratin' ya pate left ya stung I'm the best among
Quick with the rhymes that flips
Dismiss the myths
My words are hard to decipher
With Lyrical hieroglyphics
Are projected from the beats selected none could get with
The master microphone villian
Causing disaster I'm the after
Destructive innovator three piece terminator
Linguistic ordained originator
Alpha made far from a **** beta
Levitate through ya consciousness  
Like an elevator
Rhymes so ferocious they create a space
between time and gravity
I be the representer of the galaxy
We sabotage your bon voyage
So sit back and get a charge
Off my mental plain and simple
Bustin' temples like achne and pimples
See I be the dirtiest cleverest
Ban from Mt Everest
Why ?cuz my mind my never rest
From the lyrics I manifest
I go for the meditation with no limitations
Impregnate a cell nows it's in gestation
Forming creations through concoctions
Cells sparkin' the hottest wattages
Hidden in my cottages
Take a look at my rap collages
Yes I'm.sick and twisted
Like a pretzel
I got rhymes unforgettable like Nat Cole
So better know ya roll
Once the dice is throwed
Check the scrolls my energy protudes
Like an afro out the scalp
Diggin' in my roots who better to shot ?
These rhymes that loot
Your conscious like too many hits of ***
This is  for the lost hood ****** and thots
Wake up and see who we really be
Generation X an unknown dynasty
Boxin' suckas put em in check Like Nike check the flow philopshy
My rhymes committed
Like racism and ******* admitted
But black power is the only one that's limited
Shy from the timid sky's the limit
I'm in it to win it
Runnin' the game down like Emit
Smith take another whiff
Of the spliff so my mind
Reaches to the edge of the cliff
Suckas step into my arena
Bound to get burn ashes placed in an urn Learn
from a maven so ya know the teaching were stern
I was born to roll so peep my words to the song
As it cogitates  back in forth
On ya mind like a ping pong
momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held

     to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
     where early Christians fancied festival
     known as “Mothering Sunday.”

Fast forward to the early
     twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer

     during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught entrapment also cited
     as informally memorializing her mother,
     who begot said noble men

     touring daughter
     paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
     to endure tragedy and loss put upon
child bearing women,

     this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
     in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
     where poets (like me) did open

the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even

though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
     and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet

tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
     but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
     the quaint idea,
     plus she feared going in debt

and though the industry
     (initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
     (Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee

less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
Seher Seven Aug 2015
we do not believe the confessions
before our faces,
the admittance of the travesties.
we choose to see things how
it is constructed to be seen.
there is always the choice,

I think its the missing rituals
that we forgot. spell casted,
fog rot. rolling in on all the mediums
that come from system, all of them.
so we're a little bit bombarded.

the muse of the creators, the power,
the originator, She, is to be trusted.
misguided centuries
have turned the heads disgusted
at the miracles of  their times,
witnessing the feminine spirit of the spine
birth a child, or raise a tribe.

She and her daughters are the ones
who know alone,
that moment, that human form
pushes out of your core,
emerges from the dark,
the songs of spirit circling the babe,
caressing the body for the trek.

alone, that moment. you have no one.
there is no option, it is you and God
gracing the entrance of new life.
portals being used so frequently
we call it normal…

we cut wombs, screaming
mama cannot open, (as her entire system shuts down from stress)
woman robbed of her moment alone,
her moment to know,
to remember her home,
the submitting to faith alone
that she is alive!
(pitocin has the exact same effect,)

robbed of birth, the birthing mother
weeps for the gut wrenching, stomach hurdling
pain to cease, the pain of creation.
the necessary absorption for mother
to mother, to heal her children, her nation.

in that moment alone she learns who she is …

with that moment she becomes mother,
her ritual as a creator.
woman finds her way there regardless,
though these moments are the ones
God created to witness self,
to hear the music of movement,
to live in the creative destruction,
as one.

some will tell the story as there are many sides
there is only one.

— The End —