"spilth" poems
Herr Stimmung—purblind—moves in corporeal time.
Think how many, by now, have escape the world's memory.
Think, how all his wandering is only thought. Having once tried to
live in the quasi-stupor of sensation, now he picks his way through
areas of spilth, seeking the least among infinite evils.
His hope: intermittent.
To a person so little conscious, what would it mean to die? Though
he feels, true enough, death's wither-clench. Thinking always of
something permanent, watching the while how everything goes on
changing.
He has seen where Speed is buried. Eyes exorbitant.
He has the tension of male and female: active, divided. Anger and
lust. What he eats tastes exactly like real food.
He would search out interphenomena, if he could decipher the
interstices. The broken line. Immediate havoc. Circular heaven.
Square earth. He cries world world, and there is no world.
He claims superiority over the other animals, being the only one
who can talk, the only one to have doubts.
Herr Stimmung knows a whale is big. Its skeleton might shelter a
dozen men.
Not existing, not subsisting—insisting. Not object, not subject—
eject. (He works within opposed systems, every one of them opposed
to system.)
"Fillette"—in confusion he addresses himself—"n'allez pas au bois
seulette."
He knows who is allowed to wear what kinds of beads. He knows
how fruit trees are inherited. All his self-objects lie in the inoperative
past.
Herr Stimmung springs from a long undocumented ancestry.
He has a special attitude towards terror.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Sirens, ballads of anguish are singing, ears are ringing,
Our nightingale is shrieking, and children are clinging.
Our Kalyna is red, but wrapped in blood now, not love,
From the massacres aeroplanes bring from far above.
My uncle, enters the now upside-down house of his,
“Welcome”, with a phoney grin, and wariness he says.
The house holding memories is now clogged rubble,
In the land that shall never greet occupiers or trouble.
His daughter's dreams shattered, for the reverie of filth,
It matters not; the nation of his deserves blood spilth,
We deserve not peace, but the delusions of a hag pass,
May he rest in peace, along with the delusion he has.
My mother may never hear the raindrops fall again;
Missiles seal ears with noise, and the death of men.
The men, women and children, who will lead us all,
Through scorched fields with whispers old and small.
She is a hairdresser, she might braid hair for the fun,
But other mothers, braid the hairs of daughters gone,
They keep them safe under a pillow where they smell,
The warmth of days before the dictator's missiles fell.
Red and black are the only colours they pervaded here,
They wish for our colours to diminish and spring adhere,
But beauty routs the devil of ugliness and his conceit;
Our colours saturate our resistance, painting your defeat.
They shall not sprout in our fields, like poisonous herbs,
They "rescue" us, but the gunshots my brother disturbs,
We did one day exchange our dreams for a pistol facing -
Facing the bear who is destruction, within embracing.
Blood accumulated in heaps on the sleeves of killers,
Like a marvel detested in a chapter of stained thrillers.
But thriller this is not, it is lives of the innocent lost;
He plays chess in reality, after a coin he has tossed.
Mothers, daughters, sons and fathers are everyday slain,
but spring soars today, prevails tomorrow - in Ukraine.
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
Each day tears pour as rain,
Terribly hurt and torn going insane,
Hundreds of ideas hitting my brain,
Depression crutches each root of my vein,
You showed me that life has no gain,
And filled me with all types of pain,
To whom do I owe this gratitude of pushing me in drain,
Covering my body with words and feelings of filth,
Knowingly causing the vision of spilth,
And assuring me that my life is worthless living,
For which, till this day I am still grieving,
Of the bitterness you shedded on me,
With the cruel attitude you let me be,
I have learnt karma has its own way of dealing,
Till then am making my life worth living...
©sim
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Arete,
A mountain’s peak.
The image upon which
my gaze is laid.
Your hats are sharp, lopsided.
Connections undivided
as if the edges are the spilth
of what’s originally planned:
generic blueprint of it all
known only to eyes
And ears that are open.
Arete, stay there.
Cleanse their sight
Dispelling clouds of doubts.
Reveal the entry left behind
the unimaginable youth and
bring us to a higher truth.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 7:16 AM UTC
THE WONDERLUST(48)
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
The world is far away from me with azure touch of the sky,
No earthly turmoil, but amazing splendour far and nigh,
The beauty of the timeless Vast, the Green humming with Delight,
To that remote realm I want to soar in my amorous flight.
The plash of the fountains, the soothing murmur in the brook,
The close-clinging touch of Love's sweet lips and the bashful look,
Are ever vibrant in air around robed in aureate hue,.
The glad smile of the cherished eyes to begin the life anew.
The Heaven's surprise in the spilth of an ecstatic beatitude,
Makes me more mirthful in life's wonderlust solitude,
Longings turn insentient in an eternal Elysian clasp,
The Soul seeks release from the mundane transient grasp.
The heartbeats cease overjoyed with Bliss infinite,
The seventh heaven opens doors of rapture recondite,
The gladdening glamour of the glistening stars of the moonlit mirth,
The vain loiterer finds his aimless errand's Goal at last.
The fragrant opulence brought by the babbling breeze,
All rivers' routes of the ravenous journey in the Ocean cease,
The truant spirit seeks sojourn in an ascetic heart,
Desires die the death in the deathless Vast.
The lisping lips of love speak soft whisper sublime
The sylvan woodlands are sun-clad in an argent rhyme,
The radiant blossoms are bathed in the brightening mirth,
To welcome the newly-weds in the ****** vernal birth.
The Absolute sits alone, immobile in the Immortal firmament above,
To greet the new-borns in the greatness of His immaculate Love.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Anand Utsav Ashram Haridwar. 13th October 2019)
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC