"rationalists" poems
I am a thousand hooded Cobra
The king of all poisonous snakes
I can dance beautifully
And I live in India
from times immemorial
I am totally different from
Other cobras in the world
Though my bite is venomous
People continue to worship me
Because I have got
The religious sanctity
I adorn Lord Shiva’s neck
And I am the couch for Lord Vishnu
Many people try to squeeze
My poison out of my teeth
And some rationalists tried to **** me
But they can not **** my race
I will grow at enormous pace
I will continue to **** the people
But they will continue to worship me
The politicians continue to pamper me
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC
I
An old man sits
In the shadow of a pine tree
In China.
He sees larkspur,
Blue and white,
At the edge of the shadow,
Move in the wind.
His beard moves in the wind.
The pine tree moves in the wind.
Thus water flows
Over weeds.
II
The night is of the colour
Of a woman's arm:
Night, the female,
Obscure,
Fragrant and supple,
Conceals herself.
A pool shines,
Like a bracelet
Shaken in a dance.
III
I measure myself
Against a tall tree.
I find that I am much taller,
For I reach right up to the sun,
With my eye;
And I reach to the shore of the sea
With my ear.
Nevertheless, I dislike
The way ants crawl
In and out of my shadow.
IV
When my dream was near the moon,
The white folds of its gown
Filled with yellow light.
The soles of its feet
Grew red.
Its hair filled
With certain blue crystallizations
From stars,
Not far off.
V
Not all the knives of the lamp-posts,
Nor the chisels of the long streets,
Nor the mallets of the domes
And high towers,
Can carve
What one star can carve,
Shining through the grape-leaves.
VI
Rationalists, wearing square hats,
Think, in square rooms,
Looking at the floor,
Looking at the ceiling.
They confine themselves
To right-angled triangles.
If they tried rhomboids,
Cones, waving lines, ellipses --
As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon --
Rationalists would wear sombreros.
1.8k
Musk. Wind
whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to
hush. Wind,
being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it
transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled
those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
deeper
and
deeper
and
deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.
This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.
I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now, I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And
real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know
I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool
going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.
When I pass you,
You....
You...
You.
Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.
It does.
I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
#Mom's birthday, dermatologist's appointment,
and a philosophy test on Descartes, Berkeley, Hume,
Continenetal Rationalists and British Empiricists.
(Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume)
Banyascki has on the ugliest vest I've ever seen in my life.
His hair is getting long, too. At least ⅜ of an inch. Wow. Freak.
Esse is percipi... To be is to be perceived. Yes.#
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
The Suntoucher.
The surface was Artic cold it froze up her soul. Its remarkable. How can the sun be this cold?
Things are not always the way they seem.
To torment a woman with false hope is to basically leave her stuck in a dream..
I pity those who use love to raise their self esteem.
I told my wife to never depend on me for she can conquer it all...
and I'll never depend on her for she is not the reason for this ART.
She understands this for we are both rationalists.....
She is being reaped and sow at the same time.
For we represent TIME. I play the sun and she plays the moon.
Together we form the sky.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
With the few words left within me there is something I fear I must write. Beauty is everything, art is justified. It was a hard battle, but art has won. Dionysus takes the cup: Apollo, in a blaze of wonder and irony, has fallen, for this space is for dreamers, not for rationalists. Reason shall come shortly, but soon there will be no need for reason, I can assure you. First I must scorn in the face of every critic, whose airy words tried to stamp the artifice down the whimpering and broken throat of the victor, which is the artist; I must point and laugh at the woman that shrivels at the sight of moral beauty, and the man that seeks entertainment, rather than enlightenment, for you are all fools and cuckolds to your well-loved rationalism.
AND THUS WAS HIS REASONING
Beauty and truth both lay dormant in every soul that has walked the Earth. Every aesthetic piece gives breath to its own truth. Truth, because it is admired, admired, because it is truth. Expression, the holiest form of satisfaction, is then simply the application of the beautiful thing, which is art. In this realm nothing is proven, but everything is felt. This is art. This is truth. This is beauty. This is rebellion. This is nothing. This is everything. This is art.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
Equality its quality
Time gives us sanity
Straddling as friend and enemy
Brings in its duality
Real or a concept
Know or transcend
Philosophers have the answer
Only it seems to matter
Fills many life's
Empties the rest
Static for some
Memories for most
Sets standards
Punchality its first
Defines humans
Communicates to Animals
Timely describes right
Untimely the wrong
Timing explores both
Time simply the watch
Good and Bad time
Essence of life
Time up
Essence of its end
Time doesnt end
It stops its existence
Only With reference
Plays its role to perfection
Time used as a balm
Non believer in God
Atheists and Rationalists
Non believer in time
Not existant as its backed by science
Hope and faith
Subdidaries of time
Signifying a change
Not specifying a frame
Time unable to replace
Time replaces time
Existing in every tick
Seconds needle brings with it
Is it good or bad
Brings in routine
Free or busy
Time the answer
Delivers correctly
Time up
End time
Time not ending
End of the line
Timeless in time
Immortality signified
Very few managed
To live after time
Greatest quality
Medicinal beauty
Heals the heart
Thank you to the Clock
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 4:11 PM UTC