"scholastic" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future's endless stair;
Chop us, change us, **** us, **** us.
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.
Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow,
In the present what are they
while there's always jam-tomorrow,
While we tread the onward way?
Never knowing where we're going,
We can never go astray.
To whatever variation
Our posterity may turn
Hairy, squashy, or crustacean,
Bulbous-eyed or square of stern,
Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless,
Towards that unknown god we yearn.
Ask not if it's god or devil,
Brethren, lest your words imply
Static norms of good and evil
(As in Plato) throned on high;
Such scholastic, inelastic,
Abstract yardsticks we deny.
Far too long have sages vainly
Glossed great Nature's simple text;
He who runs can read it plainly,
'Goodness = what comes next.'
By evolving, Life is solving
All the questions we perplexed.
Oh then! Value means survival-
Value. If our progeny
Spreads and spawns and licks each rival,
That will prove its deity
(Far from pleasant, by our present,
Standards, though it may well be).
10.2k
today i will look for
chocolate and flowers
and find a pound of
belgian dark in my
pantry, and wilted
tulips on the counter.
i will hand write a
poem because it's
just so much better
on paper, and i will
serenade my darling
with bright eyes
on a scholastic field
after the last bell rings,
for at last i can stop
musing on possibilities
and begin to dwell
on solidity.
today i will bring you
a rose, for the petals
and lines and worn
down world-weary
ravines contained
in you; i will bring
you sweet darkness
in a plastic wrapping
for all the sugar laced
in with your hair and
irises, and despite your
fire and your heritage,
i will leave out the heat
of sacred mayan ritual
peppers because together
we'll be warm enough.
finally, i will lean
down close to you and
whisper what i have
not whispered for a
million seconds or more,
because i just haven't
had the opportunity:
Ya llegué, mi querida.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
If I could buy time I would save my last dime
To when it comes to when I'm dying
And tell the world as I was lying
The world can change
Just offer some change
To the poor on the street The hearts and the brains
Stereotypes are the death of humanity and if such continues caviar eating blacks and less fortunate whites and non scholastic Asians will begin to lose insanity
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds.
The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage.
However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “son of a ***** it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication.
The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity.
I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust.
The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields.
As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old.
Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
an anomaly
few roots are many roots of the same tree
from outside I am within the bark that encloses me
here ye here ye! polygonal me
mocking you an apology
all a'Riddle first due to the very nature
my skin my leaf
contradictory, the roots they twist on me
the vines of me
the veins of me
my pain you cannot see
my pain you cannot see
double vision two no three
four or infinity to a varying degree
my body tis' of thee, tangled up insanity
of thee I sing
***** from my fathers side
egg from my mothers side
brain and heart formaldehyde
let my moods swing
polygonal me an anomaly
normally unnatural
and artificially indeed
through means of fabrication
and good malicious deed
confiscatory generous
and metaphorically my breed
sarcastically scholastic
institutionalized branches
from the end to my seed
divinely soulless
constrictedly free
interestingly boring
grammatical greed
desperately selfish
slowly with speed
movingly static
hungry to feed
constantly moving
polygonal anomaly
how many sides
to a coin always flipping
to a coin always spinning
polygonal me
transparency
just
like
a
tree
there are many sides to a story
through shadows cannot see
the interlocking counterparts
elbows, knees, branches on trees.
who says they can't get along?
I say they have to disagree.
why can't they just let it be?
why don't you be you?...
and me be me me me me.
Just like a tree
whistling and singing
chirping with glee
waking me up at 6:30
though shadows cannot see
an anomaly sometimes
they play tricks on me
polygonal me
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 3:10 AM UTC
How exotic is this curvaceous dance within our brazen synaptic hemispheres?
The scholastic wisdom of the ages boldly pronounces licentiousness when Ashtoreth makes herself readily available to ravenous self-projections of post-modernity.
As we saunter around the parameters of entitlement, the monster will reveal itself with narcissistic glory whilst cotton candy is purchased by naïve populations of bewitched obedience.
Scan the desolate horizon where economical lap dances are nothing more than a mere mirage of repressed Oedipus conflicts.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Scholastic escapades of theft and the smearing of stools are a sure janitorial surprise in suburban utopia.
I have scraped dinner off my plate, onto the floor.
So, pick the tar which slowly drools down the shaft of wooden telegraph poles in the height of mid-seventies summers, whilst classic rock resounds her commanding octaves throughout the snow in summer.
I have always respected those who are elderly and have given thanks to solidarity whilst sausages spark in the frying pan.
Look at the crows as they maintain circular flight above the stony church steeple, and rebel against authority whilst you wet your bed.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
.i come across objects that, being inanimate... somehow impose on the inanimate conviction of stasis... faking their inanimate ontology... in stasis... becoming animate... smiling... and... for all the oddity... i feel... slightly bewildered by the welcome... like i'm expected... like i'm welcome... just prior to death... i know where i am being allocated a home... and.. its a home, which foundations are focused upon the virtue of... patience.
but i've seen faces!
carved into stone!
**** your rationality!
**** it!
let it die a nice, solemn death
of being reprimanded for
deviating
from the scholastic bedroom
antics... of:
revising rubrics...
i care as much for it,
as i might care for...
whatever the **** it takes
to conjure up a turd's worth
of custard...
let's see the ******* ice-berg...
then, only then...
will i bring out
the ******* Titanic!
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
168
If the foolish, call them “flowers“—
Need the wiser, tell?
If the Savants “Classify” them
It is just as well!
Those who read the “Revelations”
Must not criticize
Those who read the same Edition—
With beclouded Eyes!
Could we stand with that Old “Moses”—
“Canaan” denied—
Scan like him, the stately landscape
On the other side—
Doubtless, we should deem superfluous
Many Sciences,
Not pursued by learned Angels
In scholastic skies!
Low amid that glad Belles lettres
Grant that we may stand,
Stars, amid profound Galaxies—
At that grand “Right hand”!
1.1k
The hyacinth is glorious as she displays her gorgeous petals across dangerous stratas.
Crows may circle the church steeples in their scavenging plight for obscure answers, but the janitor is the one who knows what has been pasted upon the walls of scholastic defiance.
Cobwebs form across forbidden sandstone doorways in Horselethill, where sophisticated frailty is negated by the innocence of childhood mockery.
There is a particular smell from the cellar.
I know that chestnuts fall from trees in their designated seasons, where the threshold of the dawn is characterised by ****** of spiritualism and astral projection.
Just look at the patterns upon the side of the plate, and savour the olfactory experience of Nana.
Thank you for your basic expressions which were most rich in this age of debauchery.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
Paint left, humidity purgatory,
Sticky but practically peeled off, while
Water and lime, the kind you hear about
On infomercials promising to rid
You of Built Up **** is trapped between the
Panes they said they replaced but I don’t know.
Clothes piled with invisible coatings of
Dust from the floor last swept ten years ago,
And sweat from leaving the AC off
(Because saving a few bucks is worth it),
And sweat in stained dresses when you touched me,
And sweat in damp briefs when I touched myself.
Paper stacks, three years, busy work
And scholastic articles I should
Have read, say I will, but won’t pick up,
And verses I wrote that go nowhere but
Here and to a real poet, happily
Trapped at an average liberal arts college.
So instead of dressing or cleaning I
Call you, naked, a fattened odalisque,
Silent for hours, my thin mouth, a suture.
A fit black girl cut across the dog park,
She saw my bare shoulders, sloped pudgy pale,
We gazed in the other’s faces, but now
I can’t think what she wore, and she knows
I’m just sad, still: a ghost in the windows.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
You're growing fonder of me, I can tell.
But the position I'm in hurts like hell.
I love you.
I really think I do.
It may have always been there, or maybe it's something new.
We have nothing in common, you and I.
And to say I didn't care would be a lie.
We're just brown.
Together, in this white town.
That's the only reason you have me around.
You're cocky and scholastic.
genius and bombastic.
Capable of being more
Than the school system's *****
I hope you discover all that life has in store.
I love you.
But I hate the things you do.
I don't want to be your mom.
I try hard to remain calm.
Even if I think this path is wrong.
You overt your eyes in the hall
And it drives me up the wall
Your dark hair and dark eyes.
The need for normal will be our demise.
Being brown friends is no compromise.
That's why I'm so hard on you.
Even though I don't mean to.
You're too busy with applications
And pursuing dull aspirations
You're lack of time for love fuels my frustration.
But for now I'll shut my mouth.
Let your plan play out.
I'll find other things for us to talk about.
Like how brown we are.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
In halls of academia, where time drifts slow,
I wandered, a reluctant pilgrim, through paths I did not choose,
Amongst the throngs of souls, a mundane flow,
Bereft of spirit, in a sea of dull hues.
Yet in this grey, a beacon brightly gleamed,
A girl of grace, with tilak on her brow,
Her face adorned in patravali’s gleam,
She stood apart, inspiring here and now.
Her eyes, a window to a soul so deep,
Where ancient wisdom softly made its nest,
In conversations, time did sweetly sleep,
Each moment shared felt wondrously blessed.
With pedagogy subjects twinned with mine,
We walked the same scholastic path with ease,
But her spirit soared where other’s did confine,
Her presence turned the mundane into breeze.
Her roots in dharma, firm and deeply grown,
A conduit of the sacred texts she speaks,
In her young years, so much wisdom shown,
A luminous guide for all who seek.
Through states she traveled, stories she did weave,
Of Bhagwat Gita, timeless and profound,
In every word, a world one could believe,
Her voice a balm, where peace and truth are found.
On YouTube's stage, her light shines far and wide,
A modern sage in digital array,
She bridges worlds, where ancient truths abide,
And brings the past into the bright today.
In her, I found a reason to endure,
This vanvaas of the B.Ed's endless grind,
Her spirit pure, her purpose strong and sure,
Inspiring dreams within my restless mind.
Seasons this tale of admiration’s song,
In her presence, I find a sacred space,
Where soul and heart in harmony belong.
BY :- KANISHK
Aug 22, 2024
Aug 22, 2024 at 7:38 AM UTC
Today was the first day of class.
You should have seen all the people.
Everyone couldn’t have had class, some of them must
have been gawkers, the types that slow to watch
flat tire changings and car wrecks.
Some were carrying maps - freshmen.
Like student drivers they clogged the paths,
drawing a few looks.
They gaggle together like geese,
Jeeezus - shut UP and get ON with it, freshies! I thought.
Not ungenerously - I remember being lost - back in the day.
I have class, myself - in both the intrinsic sense - of style -
and in the “research for credit” ‘check in on the first day,’ kind.
Still, we’re parading, and I’ve always loved parades.
My one regret is that there are no mimes or elephants.
ok.. poetry..
Stress is somewhere in my propinquity.
See, it’s known to stalk this vicinity.
I’m not a freshman, so it hasn’t struck yet,
but when it does, and it will, you can bet,
that initially, it will shake my tranquility
and end our start-of-year festivities.
It will creepily creep, destroying my sleep,
until I prove my scholastic resiliency.
.
.
Songs for this:
Violently Happy by Björk
Schoolin' Life by Beyoncé
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC
Life lessons are stockpiled in my pantry,
I think of them as I look out of my front window.
The sweet smell of tabacco lifts from my pipe,
reminding me of times of naivety.
Laughter, my only defense from most of the deeds I committed.
It comforts me to know that even in my youth,
I knew I would laugh at myself for things I've done
Oh to be blinded by young love.
The strip of grey in my beard excites me,
They say with age comes wisdom,
I would venture to say not all of the old are wise.
For with life comes wisdom, and too many watched it pass.
To be loved right,
I am most thankful for this,
In youth we tried so hard to love,
Neither of us knowing how, these things dont just come to you.
Pain always came of our scholastic journey.
I look forward to what lies ahead,
I have at least lived enough to know,
I never knew,
To accept that, was my greatest accomplishment.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 10:41 AM UTC
“How does it feel, studying for your first exam of the semester?” My sister Annick dug at me, via Facetime.
“Oh, I’m miserable and no one even knows!” I exclaimed excitedly.
I already miss summer’s sense of infinite time and space, and life on the lake, with its big, wet, melancholy summer rains. But most of all, I miss the travel and delicious, swirling, excesses that form the dark side of long holiday freedoms.
I’ve been called excessive, I accept that and I have to check that aspect of my nature, from time to time.
“Don’t you have any brakes?” My roommate Leong once asked me, like I was some runaway train.
I remember last summer, how we almost eased into fall. As summer had faded, things changed and slowed down, as the European students turned back to their serious, ordinary lives. The bars and streets became deserted, carousels stopped spinning, arcade games were turned off, yachts sailed away, the eager summer wait-staff vanished from the elegant hotels. Brightly lit, summer-gaudy Saint Tropez became just another faded seaside town, where the paint everywhere suddenly seemed chipped and cheap.
This year, we sped up, by spending the last couple of weeks in flashy, frantic, fluorescent Manhattan - oh, man.
Then BOOM, we were dropped, as if from a great height, back into university life, back to cafeteria lines, shuttle buses and the scholastic gridiron - which oddly enough, has a lot in common with the teenage world. It was going from a-hundred-mile-an-hour adult freedom, to dealing with all the old teenage issues, like homework, tests, studying, the endless clock-watch scheduling of to and from classes - you know, the physicality of academics.
It sounds rough, I know. We’ve been told that as seniors, we can expect an even more important and frenetic emphasis on social life. Yep, we’ll be stepping things up to a whole new level this year!
Woot!! Maybe I’ll even get to wear some makeup!
.
.
A song for this:
September by Earth Wind & Fire
Sep 5, 2024
Sep 5, 2024 at 2:40 PM UTC
My mother told me
the things that she knew,
things she learned from experience
so I would know too.
Boys just want the girls
shallow and plastic,
girls that will get them excited
not any scholastic.
So wait for the men
that's what she told me,
they'll want strong women of substance
that's what you should be.
I grew up trying
to be what she said,
focused on growing and learning
it's what I was lead.
But something happened
when I was a girl,
all the boys they came running
to make me their pearl.
I turned them all down
just like I was told,
for the men looking for special
men looking for bold.
Boys have stopped running
there's no one around,
but men aren't interested either
it's what I have found.
So there is one thing
Mom must have forgot,
I'm not anything notable
like she must have thought.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
Ruminating epoché,
‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay.
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay
Initiatives imperative consolidation,
Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
Forecast in vague extrapolation,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging Aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:24 AM UTC
You pride yourself on being an Instagram ******
To hide the fact that you're a scholastic flunkie.
Your body may be skinny, but your attitude is chunky.
But that doesn't matter, your boyfriend is hunky.
You're just another member of this generation.
Using social media to seek validation.
Unwilling to join the societal relegation.
You snap another selfie to provide esteem inflation.
Congratulations on finally being Instafamous!
Appealing to all, from beauty to heinous.
Leading the change to a society of nameless.
With actions to show that you are truly shameless.
As a child, Mom and Dad said it was "just a phase."
Growing up, you lived the life that was "all the rage"
But now that your face has taken center stage.
It's time to see how your true colors have aged...
Instagram should name a filter after you,
For all the nights that you went through,
Matching the right lighting and tone
For people to view on their telephone:
Your perfect hair,
Your perfect eyes,
That perfect smile,
Conceiling lies.
Your perfect body,
Your perfect chest,
Convince them all,
That you're the best.
2000 men,
And many more,
Still totally think,
You're an instawhore!
Congratulations on finally being Instaqueen,
The idol to girls under seventeen.
A product raisedon a Disney screen,
Maybe now you'll get what they truly mean...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
On bus rides, I often see grad students
suspended in their own scholastic slime
or as I call it-monotony. For instance, once
walking with what I presumed to be a friend,
I told them I had read Rilke they had presumed
that I had read it for a class-no. I read it for my
own pleasure, how trivial of me. One of the
most endemic pathological problems of
the university is that their mindset is
engrained, too rigid, too mundane.
There is no funding for creativity, the only method
is the paint by numbers system. No new poets
in the canon, anything new is cannon fodder.
The only way to cultivate a dream here is
to **** it before, it can infiltrate and pollute
the minds of the young.
Conformity at least is the religion of the
university, and life must go on as it has before
-stagnating. The university masters here
wield art with grand indifference.
In this presumed friend eyes, no
curriculum exists outside of what is assigned,
their own life is vicarious- a tenthhand extension,
examing the writing of a 1000 year old text.
They translate these texts while learning obscure
idiosyncrasies of Old Norse by heart. Little
do these "academics" realize that these people
who wrote these texts lived full lives: full
of love, betrayal, stab wounds , and dirt.
They lived more than these quibbling academics
who argue on about written contradictions of texts.
The irony irons on.
The greatest call for me is to write,
these texts were never meant to be dissected and
investigated scientifically. I think for me, at least,
they are meant to inspire, these works inspire me
to live. The madness of Don Quixote stills
boils in my blood, literature has encrazed me.
I yearn to live, love, and live so much I know
how to die.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
Ruminating epoché,
‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay.
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay
Initiatives imperative consolidation,
Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
Forecast in vague extrapolation,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
My poems "Asylum" and "Shining" won awards in the Scholastic Art and Writing awards!! I also won awards for my digital artwork.
I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You can find both poems on my page :)
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC