"recitation" poems
India is my
Motherland
Only democracy on the earth.
United we're
We're one.
We want
Peace.
We don't
War.
Where diversity meets
Unity.
Where abundance meets
Opportunity.
The land of dreams
The land of fairies.
My Motherland
My Pride
I Love my India.-17.01.2016
(Backdrop:-In general,Manager places order but yesterday its was a request(humble).Reason being is;its required for her Sweetheart(Daughter)of 4.6 years for the recitation competition most probably on the Republic Day.So,here we go...)
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 2:23 AM UTC
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?
How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged
Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?
The Arrivals Board flashes:
une poétesse est arrivé
eine Dichterin ist angekomme
a poetess has arrived
una poetisa ha llegado
Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?
**Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout**
Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother
Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming
Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:
Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria
But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address
Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking
This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land
Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
**Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...**
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC
Sleep, dearest creature of the night, you who adores the shining moon, I said to myself as the music began to echo through the room
A nyctophile blood ******* devil, gifted black demonic wings alike a bat when it flies, strengh beyond reason and a tongue full of sick lies,
Yet a ray of sun may be lethal to you, burning you away as if you were paper caught in a firestorm, an inferno of heat, vaporized at last,
Life force relies in blood, impurities of constant change I need since I have already passed away theoretically I am most likely already dead
A music box plays for me alone, transient melodies from the recurring memories of a brighter, vivid past, to which I am are unable to return to,
Ahh, phantoms, a nuisance of the mortal life I have escaped alike the shooting stars over a clear, living,traveling, dark blue night sky
Have I toiled well, hard or long to achieve heaven, yet have become stuck as the devils tool in a illusionary world with no end ?
Flowing water seals me away, I cannot cross when it rains, and need a polite, kind invitement to intrude and cause wicked bloodshed
Sleep, so I may can be innocent until the sun has sunken down to rest,
Slumber, the world of dreams is free from weaknesses to purification,
With great magic, comes a devils recitation, engaging in a distant dream far beyond the grasp of my crimson, blood drenched hands,
Unable to advance, shadows of those who have forgotten the fear of darkness spread and creep around, hidden in nights embrace
Empty consciousness I am attracted like a fluttering butterfly to the gentle reflected light by the full moon in its fullest sensation,
Raise this song of love and paint it in a moonlit night for me,
Dance with me, until we aren't part of this world any longer, dear,
Sounds melt into silence, structure forms within chains of destiny,
Even if tomorrow were never to come, I couldn't care less,
For now, just let me rest my eyes
~ Umi
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Please forgive my hesitation
at instigation of flirtation.
Did I ensure my elimination?
My romantic assassination?
I'll gladly partake in any placation,
for any chance of indoctrination
to the centralization of your concentration.
An operation of admiration.
A correlation of inflammation.
Your gravitation brings animation,
exclamation and elongation.
My specialization is duration.
Not to hint at a connotation,
but I feel a certain **********
by an obligation to a certain destination
where your presentation gives me restoration.
Petrification?
Total mind evacuation?
Would clarification bring fascination?
Stimulation!
Salivation!
Gratification!
Insinuation of fornication?
A simple salutation to syncopation.
Would a single bright carnation
be enough of a motivation,
for a two way relocation?
Would poetic recitation
be sufficient lubrication
for collaboration?
A consolidation?
Or an exacerbation of isolation?
Please hold no reservation,
I've only got one aspiration.
To achieve a higher elevation;
by means of inhalation,
or a certain recreation
involving a bit of perspiration
along with physical communication.
Does this seem such a bad situation?
Or are you ready for pure elation?
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 12:56 PM UTC
I'm stuck inside
The psychosis
I know this
I have a doctoral degree
In Reality
I have been taught
The architecture
And structure
Of the grand psychosis
I know this
I have been goaded
I have been guided
I have been shown
Inside
The minds of men
Who whirl around
Their imagined worlds
Boys and girls
Unaware
Fighting phantoms
In thin air
I should dis appear
Yet
I find myself
Still
Inextricably
Involved
In ordinary appearances
I'm inside
The psychosis
I know this
HELP!
Sean Hunt
Windermere November 9 2015
https://vimeo.com/145132005 (recitation)
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
you say i love you
like it was some kind of recitation
and i was fool enough to listen till the end of the recital
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
741
Drama’s Vitallest Expression is the Common Day
That arise and set about Us—
Other Tragedy
Perish in the Recitation—
This—the best enact
When the Audience is scattered
And the Boxes shut—
“Hamlet” to Himself were Hamlet—
Had not Shakespeare wrote—
Though the “Romeo” left no Record
Of his Juliet,
It were infinite enacted
In the Human Heart—
Only Theatre recorded
Owner cannot shut—
2.6k
St. Teresa swoons to herself.
The angel’s impish face laughs
At her pain.
Bernini’s operatic sculpture bound
Behind bars.
Perfectionism, restorationism,
OCD.
Outside, a gypsy woman begs
For centimes.
Inside, scaffolding dims Teresa’s glow.
Art sacrificed to the future,
Content to die in darkness.
A monk dozes in his rosary.
Recitation of dreams.
No legend in the sacristy:
Teresa’s book remains
Unread, dull behind glass.
Ecstasy of love: her path toward God.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:20 PM UTC
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
65
I can’t tell you—but you feel it—
Nor can you tell me—
Saints, with ravished slate and pencil
Solve our April Day!
Sweeter than a vanished frolic
From a vanished green!
Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen
Round a Ledge of dream!
Modest, let us walk among it
With our faces veiled—
As they say polite Archangels
Do in meeting God!
Not for me—to prate about it!
Not for you—to say
To some fashionable Lady
“Charming April Day”!
Rather—Heaven’s “Peter Parley”!
By which Children slow
To sublimer Recitation
Are prepared to go!
1.9k
The simple answer is they were just stories masquerading as promises:
I love you, misunderstood application
Alcohol, induced honesty
Hands, need no prompting
Making love, choreography
Compliments, grammatical recitation
Place in your heart, the corner lining.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
i'm just bored of having to feel what other people
feel, limiting the realism of things,
a woman with a child's severed head in moscow is
sensationalism to them, but when they get a mild
reality, Kashmir chilly on the palette, they make
cheap Monty Python jokes to scare the facts away...
the so-called satire that requires canned laughter;
was given a library of 25 philosophy books,
not one of them by an englishman,
went as far back as the greeks,
i guess the version of english egalitarian
was not worth a communism,
somehow the two synonyms became
antonyms... 25 volumes of philosophy,
not one english philosopher...
the english intellectualise: i.e.:
regurgitate facts....
the english do not philosophise,
i.e. instead they cite facts... they're intellectuals by rite
of citation, the citation of facts,
they can't philosophise i.e. not cite (facts)...
they intellectualise, they cite and recite
facts with a dogmatism that fears a demolition
and no rekindling of interest...
to philosophise is to avoid citation:
to work from nothing,
the english cannot philosophise because
they intellectualise and by intellectualism
they cite and recite facts like an ave maria
pi = 3.14... Galileo's spectacles...
etc. the english cannot philosophise, they're
just intellectuals, they cite and recite facts,
they cannot engage from non-citation or non-recitation
of a fact, like a greek might ignore a stone
and fool himself claiming it's nothing,
the english cannot allow a confiscation of
a subject and treat it as nothing,
it would not make sense as to why charles i
was the precursor of the french aristocratic en masse
meeting with the guillotine if darwinism wasn't
discovered on the islands of Galapagos...
although i beg to differ with a thought on Gauguin
and the islands of Tahiti: make a turtle yawn
and you'll jinx yourself a blessing to live to be one hundred years old.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Recitation of Allah
Water of life or immortality is hidden in the dark
Only Khizer has the honour to drink to become immortal
He became everliving to live an eternal life spark
Allah has given him this wonderful opportunity to sparkle
Recitation of name Allah has the power to enlighten heart
And makes a lover directed to the edge of eternity
Once said Allah surround entire heart and body to each part
This is what makes a slave ,slave of Allah being free
This recitation is a constant source of pleasure to celebrate
Acceptance of Allah bestows all merccy and kindness
It is a straight path which opens on reciter every closed gate
Allah is eternal light of heaven and earth with the bless
Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright July 2020 Love Remains
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 1:02 AM UTC
*A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.*
Ecclesiastes 3:5.
long, long long
have I known
the contradictory meaning thereof,
for I authored it,
time immemorial
till the day came
when understanding parted,
left for another prophet,
another poet,
for this how the world's words go,
round and around
left me
re commencing
re imaging
re imagining,
new era words,
newer versions,
new heards
newer mergings
stones and embraces
ha!
"Two of my favorite things"
no, that's been done...
"Let's go get ****** and..."
nope, that's been done
So,
spark sublime divine
give me a second chance,
compose me a vision
that gathers these
mutual funds of
contrasting similarities
in a bow tied connection
singular, worthy of
song and daily recitation!
*her embrace was a stone necklace
around my throat,
sackcloth was my shroud,
to the sea bottom was impaled,
by the stony apparition
of the unrequited embrace*
Ugh
*My beloved's embrace,
cracked the stones that surround
my uncaring register,
the cold still waters that hid it
now boiling from
her gathering me in*
better.
one last try before I repent
*embrace the stones
that obstacle the journey,
gather them in, together keep,
for they are the markers,
you have used,
you have been,
you have exhausted,
so long after the body ashed,
these words will trace for
those that follow the path
you marked with
these same stones
you gathered in
olden days of
simple joyous embrace*
this will,
must have to
do,
for the stones of
the angels of sleep have
arrived and undeterred,
upon my chest have,
inscribed and placed,
while bidding me adieu,
tucking me in,
gathering me to my rest,
a closing eyeing embracing,
in drowsy voices half clear:
sleep prophet,
the work done,
the words piled,
the stones now
mark your the
you final resting place
upon them ecrivez,
In The Future,
Keep It Simple Stupid
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
Never disown hope
In the swallow of storms
Give up the recitation
Of all previous forms
I was an affirmation
Firm in someone’s grip
Hidden under doorways
Now I’m about slip
Reminders of destitution
Reaching for solutions
Running the prestidigitation
Trying to solve my situation
Never disown hope
In the swallow of storms
Give up the recitation
Of all previous forms
Give the revolution
Take your hands from the die.
I never give up.
One must see the sky
I captured the vision.
A new world inside my eye
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
This is for the dear teacher
Who was once training me
For a programme where I was
Going to recite some beautiful poetry
To a girl all of fourteen,
Fresh, energetic, and naive
She gave a piece of advice and inadvertently,
Changed the course of her life
Yes, life!
Here's roughly what she said-
*Ghazal, you do NOT have to
Pause at the end of each line!
Because sometimes in poems
The sentence may continue
Beyond, so let the words flow
Like a Conversation,
And you'll notice how much better
Will sound your recitation*
Something absolutely plain, yet
So meaningful, that today I wonder,
If she hadn't told me this simple secret
When would I, by myself, discover
That my words were allowed to spillover
Into the next line!
I can only look back in amazement
To thank her, and thank her some more
For saving all of that precious, poetic time
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
Her poetry was like a living organism
that changes form every minute
by the chemical change it undergoes
within me, the reader's mind,
each avatar did a dance different
so much the symbols and cryptograms spoke
right from time capsules of subconscious,
I had to choose from this or that.
I looked deep in to her eyes and read silently
words, one feels are severely limited, at times
much goes unexpressed for want of words
"exquisite" in such occasion is an expression
that has lost its sharp edges, due to overuse
so i smiled, I hope in a way most expressive
of the spirit the poem reflected
but more was in the poem, I sure felt,
beyond my view, some hidden pathways exist
my ears craved for hidden voices, and I told her this
evening set the stage for her recitation
we walked the country road and she began
very solemn at first, then the words took
a life of their own and became palpable
I felt I was in presence of an oracle
who receives divine command from universe
a spirit that sprung from subconscious
was heard speaking in her throbbing words
the folk walking the path stood and listened,
the look on those faces were unmistakable
a knowing beyond the meaning it was.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
I was visiting my older brother and sister-in-law, when he emerged from a storage room with a box filled with family"artifacts", photos, etc. In that box was a 78rpm record, created in 1947. I was not quite six years old. This caused the eruption of a memory long lost, for it was recorded by my kindergarten teacher; my recitation of a poem titled, "My Sore Thumb", written by Burges Johnson. It appeared in a 1921 publication of a book, "Youngsters:" Collected Poems of Childhood", published by E.P. Dutton Publishing Co., which is now part of the Penguin Group. I only had to memorize the first stanza.
ENJOY!
"My Sore Thumb"
I jabbed a jack-knife in my thumb—
Th' blood just spurted when it come!
The cook got faint, an' nurse she yelled
An' showed me how it should be held,
An' Gran'ma went to get a rag,
An' couldn't find one in th' bag;
An' all the rest was just struck dumb
To see my thumb!
Since I went an' jabbed my thumb
I go around a-lookin' glum,
And Aunt, she pats me on the head
An' gives me extra ginger-bread;
But brother's mad, an' says he'll go
An' take an' axe, an' chop his toe:
An' then he guesses I'll keep mum
About my thumb!
At school they as't to see my thumb,
But I just showed it to my chum,
An' any else that wants to see
Must divvy up their cake with me!
It's gettin' well so fast, I think
I'll fix it up with crimson ink,
An' that'll keep up int'rest some
In my poor thumb!
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
Roadways have flayed greyed arteries
Into the greenaries of the land.
A kingdom of metallic cities,
An empire built upon shifting sands.
And bombs stain the badlands
In dusty countries far ashore.
It is a time for distractive actions
And a constant state of war.
But what a dull reality!
To focus on the undulations,
The consequences of being free,
The purge of the weaker nations.
For life can be easy
If you live through glossy pages.
The life and lies of a celebrity;
The superficial ages.
A sorry state for families
Who talk only about the weather
And other temporal pleasantries,
On their proud suites made of leather.
Oh, what a poor affair!
Caring more for the clouds above,
Than the climates of our world-weary hearts,
and for all the ones we love.
And lo, we're careless and carefree
for all that does not appear on screen.
They'd gush over some royal baby,
But not pine over the unseen.
Our modern sicknesses
Are conjured and conceited too.
For what value is there in compassion,
If oneself is feeling blue?
Does charity begin at home?
You once said it does nothing at all.
But is home solely what you own,
In a world so close and so small?
These questions are silent,
But they are asked in the thousands.
By all those that are used to deaf ears,
Across all oceans and lands.
To the soft-hearted I call thee,
To not be so stilled and so dampened.
By the weight of the majority,
the crowds of the minds unopened.
And to myself I hope,
That we shall meet dear reader.
Above your recitation of my words,
To something more real,
To something much clearer.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Days pass like winter winds,
But memories of ****** sins
Of prisoners mine forever live
So long as I shan’t forgive.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
Atop a bench of elm,
The throne that rules this realm,
I, judge and jury, tread
The path of justice dead.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
A soul, grieved and daunted,
By malediction haunted,
Shall drop before me, praying,
Whilst I lean in, saying,
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
“He is not I. Silence
Your foolish pleas of guidance.”
“I beg!” he shall say, “Save me!”
“Nay,” I shall say, “no mercy.”
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
His penance I shall write,
And with eyes blank as night,
The soul will gaze, pleading,
With eyes he shan’t be needing.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
Their prison is not a cell
So solace cannot dwell;
Their fate: a wall of stone
Where they shall hang alone.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
I shall place his wrists in chains
Though I have not the reins
To latch his iron locks:
He bound himself to the rock.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
With a cry of a thousand woes,
A coal black mass of crows
Will swarm the soul to feast
And eat the morbid beast.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
After which, I shall call;
A soul shall approach the wall.
He shall gaze upon my empty face
Praying for fickle grace.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
Pray as he shall, no salvation
Follows recitation,
For I alone decide
How far from the path he strides.
IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 5:40 PM UTC
Coat the old snow, grey and dirtied
To pristine white, and show the crowds.
Coat the sky in endless flurries
Hide the truth in snowy shrouds.
Let them see it solid, flawless
Before the footsteps break the dream,
And show the past we hid for solace
From knives that cut the fragile seams.
Tell them it’s a perfect wonder,
Nothing damaged, nothing black.
Don’t let them see the dying embers,
Don’t let them look behind their backs.
If they ask how it’s perfection,
Smile sweet, then smoothly lie,
In the endless recitation:
“Who cares to know the reasons why?”
Don’t show them all the broken windows,
Hidden in the snowy hills.
Swallow all your heavy sorrows,
And grin against the biting chills.
If they ask about the color,
Tell them snow is clear and pure,
And we’ve no need for any other,
That whiteness is the perfect cure.
Coat the old snow, white and plain,
Create the dream and make it last.
When they’re not looking, hide the pain,
Hide the truth and hide the past.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC