"skilful" poems
my love is building a building
around you,a frail slippery
house,a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning
of your smile)a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)
my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)
when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall
crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
laborious, casual
where the surrounded smile
hangs
breathless
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Their boat turned in towards us
ready to board our vessel
to take us to their island,
a fastness, craggy, bleak, treeless.
To winter peat fires, gales, darkness,
weird northern tales of gods and trolls,
black nights seared by bright light curtains,
a violent Viking heritage.
A place where cold sea and ocean
overturn the crippled sea stacks,
our lives in the boarding party's
hands and our skilful Shetland pilot.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
O It’s Nice To Get Up In,the slipshod mucous kiss
of her riant belly’s fooling bore
—When The Sun Begins To(with a phrasing crease
of hot subliminal lips,as if a score
of youngest angels suddenly should stretch neat necks
just to see how always squirms
the skilful mystery of Hell)me suddenly
grips in chuckles of supreme ***
In The Good Old Summer Time.
My gorgeous bullet in tickling intuitive flight
aches,just,simply,into,her. Thirsty
stirring. (Must be summer. Hush. Worms.)
But It’s Nicer To Lie In Bed
—eh? I’m
not. Again. Hush. God. Please hold. Tight
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the bigness of cannon
is skilful,
but i have seen
death’s clever enormous voice
which hides in a fragility
of poppies….
i say that sometimes
on these long talkative animals
are laid fists of huger silence.
I have seen all the silence
full of vivid noiseless boys
at Roupy
i have seen
between barrages,
the night utter ripe unspeaking girls.
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Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains.
The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads.
But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child
You shout, 'The swifts are back!'
Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther
Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields.
Swereee swereee. Another. And another.
It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs.
The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether.
These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers.
But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers
Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves.
Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for
Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them,
All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms,
They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains.
Here is a legend of swifts, a parable —
When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds,
The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things
Like shoes, with long legs and short wings,
So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk.
And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this,
'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky
On condition that you give up rest.'
'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest.
We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep,
Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms.
Let us be free, be air!'
So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies.
He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives.
He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet.
Then he released them, Never to Return
Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so
We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but
Bolts in the world's need: swift
Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply
Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing.
The grace to say they live in another firmament.
A way to say the miracle will not occur,
And watch the miracle.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
A short and an earlier popular poem of mine. Hope you like it! Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.
THE SURF-RIDER !
See him riding gallantly the crest of
waves,
With dexterity and poise and flowing
grace!
He rises to descend, to rise once more,
As the waves keep rolling towards the
shore!
Like those surfs the Rider continues his
mellifluous dance ,
Be it in England, in Spain or in France;
Riding high on waves as if in a trance!
The wind churns up the waves as it rises
and swells,
As the Rider manoeuvers his wake-board
riding those crests before it breaks !
Like a gymnast he executes strong cutbacks
- to reverse his turn,
His spirit dominate as the waves rise and
churn!
He did take his time to perfect his art ,
Having loved the sea and the surf from the
very start!
He learnt to live in moments just like those
dancing waves,
Floating on their crests as his blood within
raves!
Those surfs like musical notes rise up and
fall,
Where some surfs are short and others tall !
Like a philharmonic conductor par-excellence,
He commands those waves with his skilful
presence!
Friends, riding on Time’s moments is no mean
art,
But like the Surf-rider one must make a gallant
start !
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
My soul, there is a country
Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry
All skilful in the wars:
There, above noise and danger,
Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,
And One born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.
He is thy gracious Friend,
And—O my soul, awake!—
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of Peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;
For none can thee secure
But One who never changes—
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
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1054
Not to discover weakness is
The Artifice of strength—
Impregnability inheres
As much through Consciousness
Of faith of others in itself
As Pyramidal Nerve
Behind the most unconscious clock
What skilful Pointers move—
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shuffled into the hallway
the laughing ignorance
stews in its bathrobe and cigar
at the edge of its own manicured lawn
with a pale eye it it calculates
with a thin cold lip it ponders
he makes his lazy way to his bed among the spilled leaves
makes his way to the comforts of eyes closed visions
the laughing ignorance proverbial
fool in ragged cloth dancing a jig
on a spring moon's grave
flowers in hand and wreaths of holly adorning
his head like a crown of soft thorns
his skilful laugh echoes across the barren field
littered with the passing of days
strewn with the formulations of nights bitter embrace
no mere words can delay or
mislead the way that darkness creeps into the mind
when alone with its own devices
done with his jig
he sits on the springs moons grave
and sips at the christmas wine
savoring its crisp life on his tongue
the laughing ignorance still wearing
the dancing fools leather shoe
is a hobbled prisoner of his laughing jest
no other time or place has room for his kind
for his pantomime of long lost victory's
on beachheads of distant sandy shore
his rancid eye calculates me
in all my rumoured mistakes
and he speaks to that dream not to me
so i will leave him here
standing in manicured existence
of his own sour pain
the fall will find him sleeping sweetly
on the spring moon's grave
and it will renew him
leaves swirling down as the world steals the crown
of the tree above
he will be a young man once again
renewed by the promise of maidens dancing
and the dance of winterlight on snowbound fields
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
down the time antediluvian
the search is continued
for a joyful jiffy
filled with fragrances
which birds endorse
by their skilful flight
synchronised,
and dancing tulips
in the eastern winds
those new buds
on tree branches
in month of march
glossy yet soft
that fill the greenery
in a dried canvas
of snow laden winter
and squirls
check their hiding places
hoping,jumping, running
climbing up and down
branch to branch..
as if nature
in its perpetual cycle
offers its bountiful
generously.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:48 AM UTC
LEARN FROM THE OWL!
Many of us think of the owl
As a foolish, ugly fowl:
It can neither strut like a peacock,
Flaunting colourful plumes,
Nor, like the shy nightingale,
Sweetly sing, every spring:
But the sages of ancient Greece,
Seeing the night bird's virtues rare,
Said nothing foul about the owl,
Admired its bright round eyes,
Sharp and keen, able to see its way
And fly in the darkness of night:
Eyes, quite strange, looking not sideways,
But always straight and always right
And quickly turn its agile neck
And see all things happening
Behind its back as well as front!
In all directions ,the owl can see
But, from different angles do we ever see?
Boastful humans, full of pride,
Who speak ill of the humble owl
Can scarcely match the skilful owl,
And a poet who loved this little bird, wrote -
"A wise old owl sat on an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke,
The less he spoke the more he heard,
Why can't we be, like the wise old bird!?"
********* M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
1. Owl Of Night
Hoot cracks the night air,
Rustling rodents stands frozen,
Shock, swoop, attack prey.
2. Bat Of Night
Clear sight of blindness,
Sonar sounds rebound; its wings
cut fog; vampire.
3. To The Eagle
Giant golden flight,
Endless grace and smoothly glides,
Strong; its nation falls.
4. To The Graceful Swan
Elegant swimmer,
Pure white like virginal snow,
Paired to bitter end.
5. The Butterfly
Multicoloured gift,
Taken by the gusts to blend
like petal to plant.
6. The Butterfly Effect
Toxic explosion,
Hong Kong is destroyed; travels,
Condemns London air.
7. King Of The Jungle
Magnificent beast,
Ruler of his skilful pride,
Stalks African plains.
8. Roar Of A Tiger
Powerful calling,
Echoes ‘cross the heated land,
Mighty animal.
9. A Proud Cat
Sits in the garden,
Ears pricked, curled tail, statuesque,
Pride clear in her purr.
10. A Dog
…is a mans best friend,
…brightens the darkest of days,
…guarantees friendship.
11. The Wolf
A midnight howler,
Ghostly happenings occur,
Silhouetted; still.
12. The Polar Bear
Camouflaged in white,
Against the snow he hides out,
Tough, sturdy and pure.
13. God and the Devil
One high in the clouds,
Symbol of goodness; he’s blessed,
One below the ground.
14. To The Heavens
Are you really there?
Floating land of peaceful rest,
Will I be let in?
15. To Hell
Overwhelming flames,
Dead with red burns, smoke filled lungs,
Worse than hell on Earth.
16. To Mother
You granted me life,
Cared, and still do, for my health,
Made happiness real.
17. To Father
Encouraged and led,
Guided me with your being,
Created this man.
18. To My Siblings
Sister and brother,
On my shoulder no my back,
Love, care, lend and steer.
19. To A Child
Tiny newborn boy,
Asleep in his mothers arms,
The storks’ joyful gift.
20. To A Friend
A supporting hand,
To turn to, cry with and trust,
To laugh with and love.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
I'm a master of disguises
Skilful at charades
So many different characters
Through my life I've had to play
But my true self is amazing
Though concealed in vulnerability
So please go deeper than the mask
To unveil authentic beauty
(C) Pixievic
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
All I want for my people
Is an education and a means that's skilful
So we can tap into our innate
Compassion and wisdom
We're all wrapped in our personalities
And back at a distance
So we suffer when dealing
With our own brothers and sisters
And I'm a suffering witness
Trying to preach the Science of Living
So as to penetrate the ego
And put us back in position
Like a relaxed spine in meditation
When you're comfortably sitting
The current is a bit too much for most
In this lively river
But when you're able to capture the moment
Waves are still water, like a picture
I hope I paint it vivid
A heart is radiant in Harmony
I hope you catch the rhythm
Imagine in a mirror
Love, compassion, joy, and equanimity
Characteristics of an awakened mind
I'm just trying to reflect its brilliance
Staying mindful
And of self, I try to keep desires empty
To be of benefit
Takes pure will and stainless intentions
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC
Some three, or five, or seven, and thirty years;
A Roman nose; a dimpling double-chin;
Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant of sin,
Are yet acquainted, it would seem, with tears;
A comely shape; a slim, high-coloured hand,
Graced, rather oddly, with a signet ring;
A bashful air, becoming everything;
A well-bred silence always at command.
Her plain print gown, prim cap, and bright steel chain
Look out of place on her, and I remain
Absorbed in her, as in a pleasant mystery.
Quick, skilful, quiet, soft in speech and touch . . .
'Do you like nursing?' 'Yes, Sir, very much.'
Somehow, I rather think she has a history.
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SHAKESPEARE'S MIND AND ART *
In the memorable words of Ben Jonson,
Shakespeare, the great Bard of Avon,
"Is not of an age,
But for all time."
Endowed with a brilliant mind,
Worldwide knowledge and intuition,
He comprehends the changing trends
And creates enthralling situations.
With his amazing knowledge of man's nature,
Creates admirable, everlasting characters
Like Hamlet, Macbeth, Caesar and King Lear,
Rosalind, Miranda, Shylock and Portia.
Skilful blend of wit, irony and humour,
Youthful merriment, song and dance
As well as poignant scenes of sorrow and remorse.
Dialogues lively, powerful and spontaneous
Enrich all his comic and tragic scenes.
In his inimitable way, he describes -
How "..the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven
And as imagination bodiesforth
The forms of things unknown,
The poet's pen turns to shape
And gives to airy nothing,
A local habitation and a name."
The world cherishes his poems and plays -
A perennial source of delight and solace.
******** M. G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
(Copyright: MGN)
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
From the cradle to the grave
We're manhandled and manipulated
Manoeuvred like chess pieces
Arranged in columns, in statistics, in order
Our worth is determined by skilful orientation
Influenced by others, employed by others, used by others
Faceless, nameless, featureless, utilisers that
Make sure we are kept within our boundaries
Yet, all these words have one thing in common MAN
Unscrupulous influence unfairly deployed
Ensure that our managed manhandling is exploited by the MAN.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
The skilful masters (of the Tao) in old times, with a subtle
and exquisite *********** comprehended its mysteries, and were deep
(also) so as to elude men’s knowledge. As they were thus beyond men’s
knowledge, I will make an effort to describe of what sort they
appeared to be.
Shrinking looked they like those who wade through a stream in
winter; irresolute like those who are afraid of all around them; grave
like a guest (in awe of his host); evanescent like ice that is melting
away; unpretentious like wood that has not been fashioned into
anything; vacant like a valley, and dull like muddy water.
Who can (make) the muddy water (clear)? Let it be still, and it
will gradually become clear. Who can secure the condition of rest?
Let movement go on, and the condition of rest will gradually arise.
They who preserve this method of the Tao do not wish to be full (of
themselves). It is through their not being full of themselves that
they can afford to seem worn and not appear new and complete.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC
Why does the right hand get all the good jobs,
like greeting visiting dignitaries
(such a pleasure) ,
or blowing farewell kisses to the one you love
(such sweet sorrow) ,
or playing the melody while the left
has to oompah along in the bass?
Right-handers get the best adjectives too.
I mean, we’d all like to be
adroit (as the French have it) .
So why do we poor southpaws have to be
gauche or, while we’re about it, gawky?
Tactless, without grace, ungainly, awkward,
physically and socially inept, that’s us.
And Latin’s no better.
We’d like to be dextrous too.
What makes us
sinister? Was Dracula
left-handed, or something?
Even when we can hammer
or saw or paint or drive a *****
with either hand equally,
or cut the nails on both sets of fingers,
they only say we are ambi-
dextrous, which is a bit of a left-handed
compliment, treating the left
as if it were an honorary right,
as if it had no right
to be skilful
in its own right.
I suppose my left hand ought to be grateful
(in this respect) that I was not born
into a tradition where it is laid down
what each hand can do. It could have been
condemned to a lifetime
of bottom-wiping and not much else,
and becoming cack-
handed in more ways than one.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC
Oh god, where do I even begin?
Maybe with his eyes.
Blue. Bright blue, staring into mine. And yeah, he's on the stage, and I'm in the crowd, but they're blue. Bright blue.
Maybe with his hands.
Skilful. Elegantly skillful, over the keys, the strings, the drums. And yeah, he's on the stage, and I'm in the crowd, but they're skillful, elegantly skillful.
Maybe with his mind.
Maybe with mine.
Maybe with how we think alike,
Or how I feel like he gets me.
And yeah he's on the stage, and I'm in the crowd, but he knows and I know and if only one of us would stop being so shy and awkward and just talk to one another.
I've fallen into this hole on my own.
Don't kid yourself,
It'll never happen
But I can't let go.
Where do I even begin?
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:47 AM UTC
Darker than six combined winter mid nights
The uneducated minds
For they know not when and how to use their knowledge
Knowledge without character
Is tea without sugar
The superior complex do
As the inferior complex do other wise
Life has the wise and the other wise
Those that stand things before understanding
Undemocratic knowledge
Retaliate democratic knowledge
Global democrats
Are likened to a boxing ring
‘Jab, hook and uppercut!’
Opponents hit each other hard
And destroy not each other.
Gracious, after a tough contestant
Embrace each other with unity of purpose
It’s indeed a game and gambling of knowledge
Confidence building knowledge
Vision-less vision knowledge
Knowledge engulfed by the hocus-pocus
Vampire of' ‘Anointed' knowledge
Illogical malicious transmitters of words
Utter knowledge with utter amazement
Indeed,
Knowledge is power
Power to do evil...or power to do good.
No thief, however skilful, can rob one of knowledge, and that is why knowledge is the best and safest treasure to acquire
L. Frank Baum accurately observed
“The greatest enemy of knowledge is not illiteracy ,
It's how we illusion knowledge
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
.
Far atop the highest clouds,
down below the deepest seas,
all the space thats in betwixt,
words will flow with skilful ease.
At every point upon the compass,
around about three-sixty degrees,
the tumbling omni-present sound
of words upon Poetica's breeze.
So fly high above the clouds,
and swim deep beneath the seas,
Poetica is freedom to express,
and Her words no law decrees.
from 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica
© Pagan Paul (23/09/17)
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Thea, the goddess of the earth
Sits like a rock in her chamber of woven light.
The fortunate who enter here
Are blessed and tormented and burned and held.
They arrive knowing that they must make a sacrifice;
They do not pay in money but in tears,
In truth wrenched from the soul,
In accountability and naked raw awareness.
None who arrive do so lightly
But all who come leave lighter.
Their confusion unraveled through skilful enquiry,
Cut by a sharp silver sword of truth and knowing.
Enter - but do so with reverence and respect.
This is a place of healing!
Men and women are unmade and made here.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
DON’T TRUST MY WORDS
Don’t trust my words as even I, myself
of all people, have begun,
quite often,
to doubt my own utterance,
the urgency, this (self-professed ) poignancy
behind these skilful, self-deluding words,
For,
how could I speak against myself,
be my own accuser,
and become the laughing stock
of all those around me?
You see,
I have become a prisoner
of my own words, the seeds
sown since my childhood
have taken hold
surreptitiously
of my whole being:
I have become what my words
want me to be.
So, my love, if you still love me
or think you still love me or know
still what love is
you should not ask,
but be quiet… look into my eyes,
feel my pain, share my sorrow-
we would both find truth
beyond words
in this borderless silence.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:55 PM UTC