"partitioned" poems
Morality isolates and fenders bend.
Circumference learns, “half-way” but fails to take the name
“Radius,”
And when she lay a meter nigh
With child, my child;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
Curse my iron fist and rusts the middle knuckle,
When another weeps, not for I, not for you but the gods assumed,
“Heaven,”
And 3 floors above my own;
Tucked lies the pain, regret fills fetal;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
So comes the autumn, the fire prior, “Styx,”
Upon borders that could only separate, “fatherhood,” so partitioned,
“Winter,”
And 3 floors below her own –
A pillar wrought persistence and abandoned, my hedonism;
I still and will feel horribly alone.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
RIVERS MAKES ME QUIVER
Youthful mind left wandering just feeling the wetness from yards into the curbs
Ripples running curbside over toes, forming those first streams for a meandering mind
Clouds collecting power,mists collecting,forming Drop by drop rains flowing into their reserves
High mountain lakes reflecting their passion, partitioned by beavers to make their own pond
Broken into brooks flowing faster downward into streams,cool and clear their taste like sweet liqueurs
Beauty not confined to a torrent but gifted with greenery and wildlife ,flowers that make the forests more confident
Trickles forming into cascades downward making outpourings & overflows waterfalls forced through the fissures
Gravity needs spaces we watch as it heightens then widens,making it's way through the continent quickly becoming most prominent
Admire her beauty but reap her rewards,wet bounty to feed the fields, food for fishes ,generations receive her treasures
Canoeists,kayakers or legendary steamboat captains are fond of their flowing, boys wondering where she will go ,knowing our tears of joy will flow to the sea should be our greatest compliment. R.C.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC
A swansong of the Indian Partition...
Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge,
Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge...
Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out,
Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations...
Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se,
Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se...
Relations with those partitioned farmlands,
Relations with those misguided young men...
Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se,
**Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...**
Relations with the glistening soil of Multan,
Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa...
Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se,
Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se...
Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary,
Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea...
Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se,
Rishte udhde un kapdon se...
Relations with that Balouchi cotton,
Relations with those clothes torn away...
Rishte luti us izzat se,
Rishte mari us bahu se...
Relations with the disrobed honour,
Relations with the slain bride...
Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein,
Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein...
Relations decorated inside the temple,
Relations written in the paradise...
**********
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
Walking within
the confines of the trees,
we find ourselves
alone within nature,
partitioned off
from the rest
of civilization,
and in this moment
we dance
among the dragonflies.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
a wasp flew a straight line
from its nest to me
cloaked in puny sunshine
it thought itself to be free
unheard was its buzzing
unseen its rainbow wings
untold was what it carried
i only felt it sting
the suspension like a drawn sword
cut through the silence within
the absence of feeling retrieved
was healed by the relief of loss
an epitaph if to be given
would affirm the infinity of the end
a promise given in portions
partitioned to satisfaction
make one see through the gloss
to the plainness within
that grieves in honour and truth
shedding tears of blood
it tastes the purest fruit
in the acceptance of its pain
lies the moral of our story
- Sneha Iyer & Vijayalakshmi Harish
04.01.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish & Sneha Iyer
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
I sliced a fresh banana today
alone at my kitchen counter.
I drew a common table knife
and carved a slender yellow disc
that lingered on the blade.
The next disc drove it off the knife
and down to the cereal below.
Soon the banana was all partitioned
and the Cheerios mostly masked.
I popped the heel in my mouth.
Childhood memories crackle
like a radio slightly off its station
and I can almost hear mom
talking softly as she slices -
I am barely listening.
My left hand holds an imaginary banana
while my right hand maneuvers
a non-existent knife.
How strange the knife I held so real
yet the shade of mom merely conjured -
far too strange to truly believe.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Every single day is partitioned fairly, I'd think
amongst us denizens of this uncertain universe,
that makes no loss ever in its unceasing transactions,
as every end is a new begining and also the reverse.
I wonder again on the complex algorithm at play
and demands upon each moment to accomplish it!
With a laugh I just let go the thread of that *****
thought on processors and servors for a humanguous
operation needed for that to go on for ever and aye!
What nonsense! the human logic is hugely flawed
Cosmos has better manuels of operation never
needed to be written down, just like the affairs of heart
of men and woemen that jostle in this planet ,driven
by urges prompted by mind, body and if you'd believe
without any qualms,the spirit, but I wouldn't insist.
Dusk was falling, and I sat smugly on the sugary sands
of the bikiny beach, with a vengence on my face
(but not with the bitterness of one, just now short changed)
And with an adamence to get my fair share of that day's
catch, plucked fruits, harvest,hunted gold or whatever!
I didn't want anyone notice as my exchange was
happening in in silence, on cycles higher without any means
tangible, of communication of any meterial sort.
Then there was a on sand behind me, I felt warmth,
the dog was snuggling closer and closer to me to comfort!
Her liquid eyes said, all that I wanted to hear
She was my solace for the day's battle wound, I reckoned
exuding warmth, she drained my pain like the bad blood
darkly stuck,let out through the cut I just had survived.....
Night was long and the moon anointed us with her balm
on the sand bed a man and a stray dog slept unstirred.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 6:09 AM UTC
a wasp flew a straight line
from its nest to me
cloaked in puny sunshine
it thought itself to be free
unheard was its buzzing
unseen its rainbow wings
untold was what it carried
i only felt it sting
the suspension like a drawn sword
cut through the silence within
the absence of feeling retrieved
was healed by the relief of loss
an epitaph if to be given
would affirm the infinity of the end
a promise given in portions
partitioned to satisfaction
make one see through the gloss
to the plainness within
that grieves in honour and truth
shedding tears of blood
it tastes the purest fruit
in the acceptance of its pain
lies the moral of our story
- Sneha Iyer & Vijayalakshmi Harish
04.01.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish & Sneha Iyer
Co-written with my akku Vijayalakshmi Harish :)
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
*An amazing and rare piece of antiquity
Secrets of the Voynich manuscript
I find So Mysterious yet so captivating
A beautiful language not revealing
Uniquely expressive are the paintings
Somewhat exotic are the drawings
Leaves one with an astonished feeling
A castle grand under a starry light
beyond a dragon enjoying the night
And seven sisters soaking in a spring
As herbs and dainty flowers sing
Foliage green and blooms in blue
Stems standing tall, strong and true
Colors are vibrant bleeding through
Palms, and fronds and ferns, too
And inky blue with leaves of six
Roots partitioned into pieces and bits
Sunflowers and tiny red flowers
O' and a divine constellation shower
beauty imagined, beauty redefined
Oh this beauty I alone have found
amidst a poetic language unknown
penned with a quill by a poet of long ago*
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
Give me
new morns of splendid sunshine
and clear blue skies with soft wind
humming sweetly to the timeless rhythm
Give me
fresh air with gentle whispering of breeze
to be kissed passionately and tickled playfully
Give me
quiet days sans the bustle of hectic crowds
each promising new wonders and joyous tidings
Give me
country sides with luxuriant vegetation
and rich plantation to feel partitioned off
the soot and dirt of roaring cities
Give me
woodlands of varied flora and fauna
so rare and rich that nowhere else are seen
Give me
gardens and brick laid pavements
where there grow such lovely blooms, nodding amorous
to flirting dandies on colorful wings
Give me
running brooks and rushing streams
upon whose fertile banks tall trees and bushes green,
in singles and files grow
Give me
orchards, beautiful and fair
with fruit laden trees, so wonderful and rare
Give me
vast fields of ripening corn and paddy
where farmers joyfully gather to harvest their year’s toil
Give me
vineyards of trellised vine
with hanging clusters of grapes, green and maroon
Give me
ponds and wells of crystalline water
to quench the thirst and turn fallows into fecund lands
Give me
woods and forest tracks
where spring lingers all the year round and beyond
where birds on tree tops merrily sit and sing
whose harmonious notes in every nook and corner ring
Oh! Give me
Nature in all ‘its primal sanities’
And souls with nicety of hearts, free of all affectations!!
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
We're too old now.
Too old to indulge in
partitioned plastic plates
shatter resistant
but molded to hold in
three ounces of fun
per serving.
We've outgrown yesterday's
gaudy voice acting
and crude cartoon lines
washed out, two dimensional
color schemes
and character types, now
redux in high gloss CGI,
300 dpi
1080p
5.1 surrounding
both of our senses.
What's that?
We have three others?
But we've no time
for scented markers
on monochrome pages
Breakfast food no longer
simply sugar and bread
We swath ourselves
with succulent self-importance
tech savvy misanthropy
dolled up in decadent
anonymity
We are too old
to go to a friends house and play.
A list of woes and throes
gives us nothing-
leaves us nowhere
except in thinking
patiently praying
that we may never outgrow
our love for the things
which we've long since outgrown.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
My inconstant heart
Tries to touch you, in the boarded up rooms,
The corridors sealed off from my reach.
My recorded voice echoes past empty hallways,
Down decrepit staircases.
Once my portrait hung
Above your bed itself,
Till you partitioned it off.
Even I will no longer grovel
When hope has already flown out the portal.
I'm more dangerous now,
Having nothing left to lose
And nothing to hold onto;
My timbers mutely rotting, while your siren voice
Goes on sweetly singing.
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
torn, shred,
and what was left, partitioned,
awaiting ripping.
ripe in sunlight,
dense from weightless life,
it sits, waiting.
there's nothing
to fulfill anymore, expectations
wait for disbursement.
distressed,
dressed to the nines, tens, elevens,
until the twelfth hour;
waiting, consistently
for another slip of their finger
to slice through skin,
porcelain, crimson,
beauty, pain, life, love, lingering;
waiting takes too long.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
There are these sections in Gen's brain. Partitioned off by veined red walls, white wooden walls, and metal walls covered in padlocks. Behind each wall is another Gen, essentially. Every room supporting some variation of Genevieve. It's very busy, very cramped.
The Quiet Room
This room is quiet.
Happy?
Sad?
Is there even a Gen in here?
Gen?
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!
GEN!!?
The Blue Room
This room is filled with hazy blue mist.
The Gen blends in.
Nobody seeing the Gen in the blue room.
Like the quiet room, we don't even know if she's in there.
But we can hear her.
Faintly breathing.
Sort of.
The Yellow Room
This room has walls made of music.
The walls sing!
The Gen in the middle of the room smiles!
And sings!
This Gen is heard!
It smells like paper in this room.
Paper, and laundry detergent.
And a little like ink, too.
The Maze
We think this is where the REAL GEN,
The Big Gen,
Got trapped.
There are doors in these maze walls,
Leading to more walls and doors
And rooms.
We haven't found her yet.
She's in here somewhere.
She's probably scared.
Lost,
A little confused.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
A boy inside an old man
rides a coaster rolling
heart and old bones
partitioned jointly
mutually delusive
a young squire
unlearned boastful
ancient philosopher
cobwebbed naivete
revolutionary
a Freudian absurdity.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
We are silent film directors partitioned into different reels of reality. Quietly yelling sign language in the direction of creating something more than ourselves. If silence were love my poetry would walk away without you.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
A clock
is not a thing
that shows us the passage of time;
a clock
is a primitive device that moves
at a fixed rate while time passes all around it.
Time
was drawn and quartered
by the clock. It used to be an endless horizon in all directions,
but it was violently
partitioned into a grid system
in order to make it easier for those with power
to control
those without power. Clocks are
perverse. Clocks are capitalism. Clocks
**** nature
without nature’s consent. We rightly complain
about the partitioning and deforestation of wild lands,
of the Amazon,
and yet we are not outraged
at the partitioning and deforestation of time. There is
a reason
why one feels out of sync
with the natural Earth. There is a reason why one
cannot sleep
through the night. There is
a reason why the years feel like they are
slipping away
from us. Time is not
sand in an hourglass. Nor is it an etching demarcating
the position
of a shadow cast by a cone. Nor is it
the rate at which an electrified quartz crystal oscillates.
Rather,
time moves at the speed
of experience. There is simply nothing more
to it:
A morning fog lifts.
A bird lands on a dying tree on the far side of a river.
A frog leaps from a rock and disappears with a quiet splash.
A child dozes off while reading.
The world becomes dark.
A white-hot meteor streaks across a frozen winter sky.
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 2:31 PM UTC
7 Millions spots of you and I
roaming in jungles and desserts
of the partitioned portions
back at the bone of humanity
speaking in voices as one
rolling as the dense population
seeking liberty and autonomy
failing as the world erodes
indecisive about the notions
of diversity and adversity
speaking in voices as one
in a world of words and verbs
freed of greed and misconception
in a field of broken chains
where truths are a daily meal
void of captivity and blindness
mysterious and unconsumed
undiluted and undifferentiated
7 Millions spots of you and I
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
.
Left alone, the abyss of failure
closes in,
for days it seems like weeks,
though months are now reduced to counted minutes
Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade
which surrounds my hope
in picket lines of untrained defectors
I claw at its lid,
thrashing mightily to my sides
as collections of miseries
flood this chamber of my coerced sleep
“I am here!” I shout,
hearing my words
echo in distance dance halls
two stepping on my memory,
spitting above where I lie
Here - a relevant term
as columns of disbelief carve themselves
from my mind.
Forgotten, left for dead,
erased from the blackboard
by the firm swishing hand of fate…
reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)
Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,
none can be found here,
where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here
My brain circles the skyline in desperation,
the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me
sleeping off my drunk
in that Frigidaire box
“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?
…….
Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,
beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,
now layered with stale orange crumbs
maybe someone will see
maybe someone will wonder
or maybe still forgotten
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
The front door has a scene of a meadow surrounded by trees with one lone butterfly flitting above the grass. In the middle of the room is a large low work table strewn with scraps of lead and angular pieces of glass in colorful disarray. The room itself seems like an old wood mountain cabin and is partitioned with hundreds of glass pictures set in door like wooden frames. The air is alive with color from the lights and the sun filtering through the skylights. There are a multitude of the rainbow colored pictures: children in a playground, a unicorn, a stag in the forest, all painting their colored pictures wherever the light would have them. I have the feeling that I'm looking through a picture book kaleidoscope. Engrossed and enraptured I await the proprietors return.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
god you look so good.
it's taking every shard of
Decency I have
(and they are shards; I dropped
Decency a long time ago)
not to shove you up against a wall
and press my mouth oh-so-insistently
against yours,
hands rough, partitioned from your skin
by that ******* dress
(god, how I hate that dress)
(god, how I love that dress)
your nails clawing at my back
in feline fury, gasping for breath
as my thigh nestles between yours.
(we're just getting started)
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
The difference between us
Is seen as
What keeps us
Divided, united
And trying to hide it
With notions of sameness
Partitioned in races
And paychecks to rub it in
Spite-her-nose faces
Despite whether on
The excesses of luxury
Porcelain thrones
Do we trickle down waste
Upon those without homes
Or we find ourselves
One of the billion
Have nots
Minding only our businesses,
Tending our crops
We depend on it always to be there
To make
Livings off of
These lands,
As their claimants we stake
And it takes us a lifetime
Of filling it with
Any worth we convert
To devaluing it
But in each of us lies
An identical pit
Of despair in disparity's
Wealthy abyss
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 4:44 AM UTC
Layers of steamy pick ups,
rejoined a staggering crowd
behind the bar,
(who put that thought there?)
I partitioned that wall
for me to bump into,
as if it weren't there
just moments ago.
A shifting maze,
my mind,
it's labyrinth
ever changing,
rearranging,
scratching the interior
of my scull,
fingernails on chalk board
grind stone
against stone,
making my teeth
ache
until I,
I pull them one by one,
like red angry children
lined up for you.
I offer them to you,
without their fleshly clothes,
roots showing as a forest
of ivory trees,
wearing true colors
on bare bleached sleeve.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
in the darkness of our feet
lavernum dreams
pale laudanum lips
lavender flowers
world stretched out as gossamer
too tensile, unraveling
there is another language here: you
pale and glowing
volume of phantoms pressed as books
against the history of our backs
now here, now stretched too thin
for wanting, for wanton
for the drain of love, or leaving
unmistakable grift, small as peonies
partitioned as ash, well-wish
silver ripple, or nickel of time
in the water a reflection: un-you
always losing shape amongst shapeless arms
there is an alm:
forgetting
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC