"recites" poems
Depression is my soulmate
He fell in love with me
He couldn't wait
Depression lays in bed with me at night
Follows me in my dreams
Holds me back from the light
He wants me all to himself
He whispers sweet nothings in my ear
Convincing me I can't survive by myself
I try to get away
but he holds so tight
He says I have to stay
He pulls me close, slow dances with me
When I'm with him , he recites every bad memory of the day
I start to believe this is all my life will be
I want to think it isn't true
but is it?
it might be?
I have no clue
Depression doesn't like when I have a friend
He gets jealous of happiness
He makes a big fuss and that's usually the end
When they leave, he reminds me that hes here to stay
I lay in bed crying
He comes in, holds me till I'm okay
I know I should get away, find help
But not even my mother believes me ... whelp
Depression meet my parents without my knowing
He made them think when I'm free from him ,the real me isn't showing
I guess hes my better half
The side of me that makes them laugh
But I can't get away, its too late
I lost the key to freedom's gate
Apparently this is my fate
Depression is my soulmate
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
She
points her
toes in the shoe
until the crease scars.
She won't fall until the script
says to do so.
Breathe.
Pause.
Now
Fall.
The
doll models
the Pas De Quatre
buried within act two.
Toes fall and up and jump
and flow.
She
recites the
moves in a secret
Diary of Dance:Swan Lake.
Breathe.
Pause.
Now
Fall.
Breathe.
Get up.
Smile.
Bow.
Now
cry.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
Shanti, Shanti, shanti
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
/
Many days
I do not read any newspaper
Even do not see television
At all
Many days have gone
After You
I do not read any poetry
How to feel that since this morning!
Repeatedly hear identifying tunes on the air
Your arrival in the sky,
The air reverberates
Looks like another day
In the Paradise,
In another song,
Which brings the soul
The Aroma
Everyone is coming out
From all sides
Young Old
Babies Boys
Women Men
Everyone
Everyone is clapping
Singing the song of the same tune
This song is not the song of Rain
Not even a lamentation
The Southern breeze whispering your words
Slowly Said,
The Little Tailor Bird
No, No,
Not such a summer afternoon
Not even a hurricane warning
Each of the human eye
Follow the Eastern Sky
Tireless Eye
Watching the sun,
The Red Sun,
You went to bring dreams for us
From the Sun
Hundreds of thousands of people
In his next question
Hand with Flower
Shoulder to Shoulder
Today will be the day of strangers,
The poet will come
We are standing in the flowers
Fist full of dreams to take
Float in the sky with white clouds
My dreams are calling again
Today is not such an Autumn
But Still feel like an Autumn
Indeed,
The poet will come,
A poem in the New
Where each word will be spoken dream
Love to be evacuated
Poems that will repay
The debt to my Ancestor
Take revenge on thee
For their injustice,
Torture
Poems that would bring the stars
For our next generation
A poem that would bring the red rose for my darling,
Would bring such a smile to my mother's face
As Moon that smile
And that is simply killed false dreams
Will we ever Released
Sing Freedom Songs
The Poet,
My beloved Poet
You will come,
Will surely come
And will recite your immortal poem
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
You saw by panes held by thin wire.
Two-ways seeing crumbled fire.
I remember autumn
Checking at the bookstore
In your vans on film you wore
No conception of bottom.
A kid from Mexico, 15
Convincingly my age unclean
Walk summer down West Sylvester
Powder sugar walkway, tester
The ******* **** is blue
Wild eyes tell me you knew.
Back across the fairchild lot
He slid to drive; I told- we bought
They'd taken off without their lights
He barreled lone known route recites
As I scream STOP
IT ISN'T WORTH IT
I'LL GET YOU BACK
PULL OVER, ****
No one taught us how to quit
We rotten without teeth to grit
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
“We love what we don’t know, what it’s lost already…”
Jorge Luis Borges
I hang on to your portrait, in front of me;
among candles, copal, and all those things you worship in a mexican altar to the death.
You are my invisible jaguar,
you appear before me, between dreams, and I fell alive.
Full of wounds,
lacerated by my absence,
I put your portrait in front of the altar that my mind has conceived,
and you seem to hold the paradise's secret in your hands,which are made of ashes.
Then, according to the mexican & catholic tradition,
like a rural priest,
you start to draw a cross, made of the ashes of your magic, sacred hands.
The smell of the whole,
sacred being that exists in this spiritual plane,
lays on your profile, so beautiful embodied in your portrait,
which I prefer above any other reflex.
Finally, when I think on your lips,
is when I stop believing in anything else,
and just keep on holding the devotion that I worship to your portrait...
Then I chase each single one of the naked,
flaccid,
vulnerable memories of you,
trying to protect me.
I think of you,
so profoundly and vividly right now,
that my skin transpires,
bleeds,
my muscles are tense,
and my mouth recites your name with all and its last name.
I wish that, under a supernatural power,
you're also thinking of me, at this precise moment,
and that some thought can touch me below my skirt,
and make the skin of my white buttocks to bristle.
White –Blanca in Spanish-; the name of one of my childhood’s friend.
And the same color of your so polish, european skin.
The rainforest of your sacred Chiapas.
I need you excruciatingly.
Like a dagger into my body.
I will like to see your portrait being devoured by the flames,
but I do not have the courage to throw it to the fire,
for its image will become strongly painted in my mind,
and the effect that you exerts towards me it will be more powerful.
Dangerous.
I had a dream a couple of hours ago,
it was me,
so earthly,
being blessed by your voice,
and the tattoo you have on your left arm, being kissed by my simple mouth.
Our skin,
together,
united,
white,
is the wall where the moon lays on,
Lays in our bodies making love,
in a black hammock,
conjuring with our pneuma to the whispering of the rainforest...
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
I feel.. m left in the darkness where no one recites..
M the only one who is left behind..
I too wanna growup like every flower..
But i have to hold on till the morn..
I don't know why everyone has to pass this phase..
Even knowing these are the obvious days..
Why do i feel so low.. the dilemma and anxiety even though i know..
I want to find the way out of here..
from where my life proceeds no where..
I really don't know where to go and what to do..
All i know is to hold on till i get the right door..
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "गीत का जन्म" published in Hindi Literary Magazine 'Veena' in June 2013
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
When the wounds given by you gave much pain
Lightening occurred and cloud thundered
Downpour started, Poetry sprouted
It consoled and fed ambrosia
Relieved wounds, brought relief
Brick should be answered with stone
The poet also knows this
And also believes somehow
But throwing Brick is beyond his nature
In response to the brick and stone
He recites poetry
He sings a new song
On hearing his song
The one who wounded him, barks first
Then loudly bursts
Throws brick and stone again and again
The poet again recites a song
Keeps Smiling and Smiling
Creates a new poem
This proves beyond any doubt
Brick and stones give birth to Poetry.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
गीत का जन्म
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
तुम्हारे ज़ख्मों ने जब दर्द बख्शा
बिजली चमकी और बादल गरजा
कविता फूटी और जल बरसा
उसने मुझे संभाला, अमृत पिलाया
घावों को राहत दी, आराम पहुंचाया
ईंट का जवाब पत्थर से देना चाहिए
कवि भी यह जानता है
पूरी तरह से मानता है
पर ईंट चलाना उसके बस की बात नहीं
ईंट और पत्थर के जवाब में
वह कविता सुनाता है
गीत नया गाता है
जिसे सुन सुनकर
पहले तो मारनेवाला भुनभुनाता है
फिर जोर से फनफनाता है
पुनः ईंट और पत्थर चलाता है
कवि फिर गीत सुनाता है
खड़ा खड़ा मुस्कुराता है
नयी कविता बनाता है
इससे यह सिद्ध होता है
ईंट पत्थर कविता को जन्म देते है|
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 10:14 AM UTC
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
Not a sophisticated white wine woman.
I don't need more than one fork and I
don't know what to do with more.
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
who will watch the stars from atop a desert bluff,
naked, beside me, as cars scurry like ants far below us.
I want a girl who drinks whiskey
not a woman that sips reds and explains
my nihilistic future intents.
Life is to beautiful to plan on a ****** future.
I want a girl that drinks whiskey
and tells me like it is while laughing at
all the incongruities in that truth.
A girl that recites poetry and literature from
a truck bed surrounded by enraptured steers.
I want a girl that drinks whiskey
who pours her shots neat and drains her glass
Who lets each and every glass be
laden with experiences and laced with frivolity,
knowing that the cup itself
is nothing but a vessel for life.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Crickets sing midnight songs
With melody of
"Chee-cee,
Chee-cee,
Chee-cee."
The rain drops
Slide off leaves
Above and
Splat
With rhythm of
Plot plot,
Plot plot.
The gravel recites
A raspy verse
With a crinkle crunch,
Crinkle crunch
Under my step.
I think I am alone,
But for these
Soft voices singing
Sorrowful lullabies
As I walk the long path
To dawn.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
You are like a poem
my mind recites to me repeatedly
Even if thoughts of loving and losing you
Bring me into tears
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
***Mmmmmm...
At dusk when the
moonflowers show their
faces to the silver stars.***
***Mmmmmm...
At dawn when the
monflowers hide their
faces from the golden sun.***
***Mmmmmm...
You will find me
under the shadow of the willows,
dreaming of him as he recites
verses of poetry to me.***
Mmmmmm....
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
Her soul screams rainbow, but the words that take
Shelter under the roof of her mouth are
Part white, part Othello. I wish she could
Be herself… more yellow, like angels that
Drip kaleidoscopes over Italy’s
Stone white cathedrals. Her soul screams rainbow.
Her shoulders are crowned with the head of a
Tiger, yet she still loses sleep over
The opinions of sheep. She beams false glow,
And her thoughts grow like Venus fly traps on
The concrete. Her scars sit on a checkered
Floorboard of sporadic emotion, and
Her poetic pain paints grand pianos.
Know she not that heaven recites her soul?
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
A rose stares at me
At the bedside table.
Reposed and still, it is
Withered by time,
Drizzled with tears and
Years of waiting and
Wanting for love's
Redemption.
For a moment, it recites
A poignant Villanele
Inscribed on a faded
Photograph of young
Lovers. There was a
Promise of forever,
But forever is a word
That belongs to fairy tales.
There is no fairy, only a
Tale of fair reality that even
The Sun sets in paradise...
Another rose stares at me
At the bedside table, she is
Reposed and still. Nightfall
Comes, as she leaves our
Room, darkness invades the
Horizon. The rose has ceased to
Bloom.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Everyone says
"Oh, don't worry! It's just a phase."
Or even worse,
"You'll grow out of it soon."
And so you begin to think
That the quirks and smirks
You see in the mirror
When you've wiped the shower fog clear
Are somehow wrong and undesirable
To the masses of others outside your door
Even if what you see makes you happy.
And so you try to hide
Behind conformity and masks
Of aloofness,
Of apathy,
Of indifference,
Of nonchalance,
Until you yourself begin to believe
You've passed the phase!
You've grown out of it!
You're finally someone whom the world
Can pour its love and adoration on!
And so you wait for that sparkling moment,
When you go from ugly duckling
To ravishing debonair desirable swan,
Yet the days turn into weeks into months,
And finally years have passed away
But nothing happened.
And you find yourself wiping away
The shower fog with a tired hand
Only to see the quirks and smirks
That used to make you happy
Are gone and for what gain to you?
Where are the masses of adoring friends?
Where are the praises of who you've become?
You're all alone like you've always been.
But I ask you,
Is this really who you want to be?
Where's the girl who recites Chaucer?
And rolls down grassy hills?
Where is she whose snarky comments
Could hours of hilarity fill?
Where's the girl who laid bricks
Side by side with her father?
And imagined up the neighborhood
Olympics with his other two daughters?
So I'll ask you again,
Face in my mirror,
Are you happy?
Is this who we're going to be?
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
The ancient banyan tree is huge, its parallel trunks,
Go across , spiral out, spread branches,
Sheltering birds; doves or eagles, it doesn't bother.
Above that a kite lost mid way on its pleasure flight aimlessly circles.
A grey half moon tries to remain inconspicuous in the day light.
A single engine Cessna sky hawk from Bangalore flying club,
Laboriously crawl across the sky like an overeaten caterpillar.
He remains,
Oblivious of the world around, and its many preoccupations.
Within a craggy nook created by the irregular stem of the banyan,
The old man sits like an idol, totally alien to the world, that is in its Nataraja's dance*
A long, grey, shaggy beard; serene radiant face,
Stunning any one, looking at him with the contentment blooms there, a radiant flower.
His rags for long time has not seen water, its obvious,
A soiled turban around his head is tightly tied, yet he looks regal.
He is silence personified, has no needs, it seems.
He breathes freedom day and night, no dependency on others,
Sounds, discordant and confusing, from the nearby road, fails even to touch him,
The dust wind that circles around, only creates a halo for him.
A plastic bag full of stuff, his worthless belongings, lie by his side, like a severed head.
An old news paper he holds, to shield him from the setting sun's attention.
On the third day I found out, he has friends.
Though there seems no need to speak, words are too precious to waste, isn't it what he implies?
A dark, frail woman driving back her buffalo and its calf after grazing in the fields,
Stops in front of him smiling, he smiles back; for the first time I saw a smile speaking to another.
A silent exchange of feelings, I could experience, even in nature, since then. An awakening he brought.
Every time I watch him, with an open mind, the contentment I see, recites wordless poems
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Midst the mountains, sitting so high
Gazing down at a turquoise sea
Nature recites love songs to me
As I release contented sighs
Crickets chirp, sparrows sing, my spirits rise
This is a world to be relished and prized
Midst the mountains
Imagine Earth in perfect harmony
Forgetting war, strife, victim's tortured cries
Escaping all life's pain and lies
Resting here where my heart is free
Midst the mountains
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC
The magician waves his hand over experience and knowledge,
Recites the incantation of flight and gravity,
Power rises from the dust of the trade, illusion, distraction
Become miracles, levitation becomes reality.
Great spans suddenly shortened, distance is misplaced,
Total control so fragile, dependent no longer on magic
And spirit, now on man and mans machine. Propelling
So high, in reality and fantasy.
Experience becomes the magic wand, the incantation,
Clouds and winds become the dust of the trade,
Storms and lightning, the evil. Return inevitable,
Returned desired, the feather floats softly home.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
He asks her to write a song for him,
She composes for him, her poetry...
He asks her to tell him a bed-time story
She lulls him with her poetry...
He asks her to sing a song for him,
She recites to him her poetry...
He asks her to dance with him,
She moves him with her poetry...
He asks her, to be his girl.
She smiles, and gives him her poetry...
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 1:44 AM UTC
~
This love is so exclusive
That turns me too illusive
When I am in a dream
She builds the stream
When I write a poetry
She recites the piece fluently
When she sings a song
Dreams longing me too long
So my heart is under lock and key
Which could only open by she
~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
Look far beyond your nose
Imagine the wording prose your mind recites despite the fights between the lights;
Stand-back to back with your enemies
And believe that you are safe,
A mistake;
Craving knowledge of everything from your existence
To your beliefs
I believed I was falling down the trail
And all hail the misguided princess;
She's so misguided the North Pole becomes south
And the south;
Exiting from her mouth
With a flow; the beautiful candles of her heart.
The beautiful candles of her heart
Those that lit stormy fire inside mine
Those that lit up the dark pits of something I forgot about,
And all about my whereabouts
I see the signs of inconclusive doubts
Over my forehead, reflected upon people's faces;
And eyes look at me with non-empithetical sympathy
The symphony of eyelashes flapping over a lost identity.
I'm lost.
All those spiritual stoppages
Are causing my hands to shiver
All those figurative speech as she caresses her words
Preparing mine to stutter
Are making my eyes darken
And my faith to dismay;
I may,
Or may not be the person you want to find
But I find you the person I was never looking for
Yet I still crave the carves you carve on my hands.
The snapping bones of anger;
The cracking knuckles of regret;
The apprehensions preconceived with the threats;
The young man lost his track
The young man lost in the wild
With ideas even wilder
And actions that do not convey his messages
For the circles of bees become limits to his being;
For the frontiers of fighting lions
Become barriers to his block,
That upper corner in dying arteries; hidden
Way over the Mediterranean seas forgotten,
That young man is creating chaotic cancellations,
Phones typing messages of hesitation,
Brains articulating pieces of his own creation,
A salutation be upon my buddy
The young fellow who got lost facing everybody,
And everybody cheered as they watched;
His being stepped on, and heart being stabbed
The chats between the minds
Become cramps
The cramps in his existence become fatal agitation
The agitations in his life become psychiatric misinterpretation
For he got it all wrong
Everyone got it all wrong
But does that stop him?
Let alone
Does that stop all the fake men who built their empires upon forged pillars?
Killers,
Of characteristics;
Followers,
Disciples and students
To a dark lady
Typing her last words of goodbye
Over a phone that’s found in her palms
Yet lost,
In a young girl's heart.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
A poet Jot's word's
Even whilst being broke;
A poet writeth his last stanza
In his deathbed whilst he chokes.
A poet in the living
Beyond his death;
The poet recites Poe
Whilst quoting Macbeth.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:24 PM UTC