"swansong" poems
In this poem, I speak directly to you-know-who-because-it's-you.
Dear old friend, don't miss me ever,
If I had some genuine value in your life,
Now I add the element of request, please,
You know that most of my poems are for you,
Whether normal or proposing you to be my wife,
Please do not spoil your career being busy in vain,
The social network & apps are a total waste of time.
The social network is not a place for social service,
It is only so harmful for your own career prospects.
This is just my last request to you, Kripiji.
I know you are upset with this preaching,
But please take the positivity from this post.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
A swansong of the Indian Partition...
Kal humaare ghar ke diye bujhe rahenge,
Kal hum kuch rishton ke liye rote rahenge...
Tomorrow the lamps of our home will remain put out,
Tomorrow we shall keep crying for some relations...
Rishte un bantwaara hue kheton se,
Rishte un bhatakte hue jawaanon se...
Relations with those partitioned farmlands,
Relations with those misguided young men...
Rishte us chamakti Multani mitti se,
**Rishte us damakti Pakhtunkhwi **** se...**
Relations with the glistening soil of Multan,
Relations with the bright snow of Pakhtunkhwa...
Rishte Ganga ke us Bangali muhaane se,
Rishte Sindhu dariya aur samudr ke us mel se...
Relations with the Ganga's Bengali estuary,
Relations with the confluence of Indus and the Sea...
Rishte us Balouchi kapaas se,
Rishte udhde un kapdon se...
Relations with that Balouchi cotton,
Relations with those clothes torn away...
Rishte luti us izzat se,
Rishte mari us bahu se...
Relations with the disrobed honour,
Relations with the slain bride...
Rishte jo sajaaye the mandap mein,
Rishte jo likhaaye the jannat mein...
Relations decorated inside the temple,
Relations written in the paradise...
**********
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 2:10 PM UTC
I heard, my rainbird singing Meghmalhar* alone,
my heart was broken in to pieces, as her wistful tune hit it,
her swansong it was, I realized.
I knew grief was her wings, how can I make her confine
to this garden and sing, when she wants to be on the wings?
I watched her from behind the bushes
thinking to give her the freedom to sing her swansong.
In to the rain clouds , she flew up, only a feather she left behind,
for all the memories of my music filled days with her.
Torrential monsoon rains lashed, thunderclaps and lightening
made the sky a war zone, I saw her
flying in to the heart of danger, without concern,
my eyes followed her far and away, one last time,
a drop of tear on the corner of my eye,
sears my soul all the time.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is
A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
!!!!!!cities
A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real
Continents wither where the flies glue their
regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)
Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement
The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all
I can
hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)
The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
Watches
Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /
his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome
to:
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
You beautiful,
Beautiful
Woman you --
I'm in awe of you,
You lovely woman
Oct 24, 2020
Oct 24, 2020 at 3:08 PM UTC
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /
Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /
Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /
(—Se' lah)
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 12:00 AM UTC
Chatting cold conspiracies from across the coffee table.
Pangaea on the rocks - sweet, sober, civil silence.
When did the degradation become so severe?
Time ticks down and friendships fade to acquaintances.
Spine tingling tempo of the pitter-patter rain drop percussion.
Galloping triplets trickling down from the temples of thunder.
Hands of the clock clap in celebration of another hour killed.
Two o’ clock Coca-Cola to crown the king of carbonation *****
Naming off artists to impress the drunken temptress.
Taunting the room filled with glimmer-eyed, lovestruck libidos.
All the kids are struggling to remember the horoscope they skimmed.
Brains drained to the point of puking in mouths, poisoning the passion.
With whiskey laced erections, this night chants a swansong.
Illegal lane changes and tiptoe key turning roustabouts.
The Hubble eye can’t detect the silent thoughts left hidden.
Dreams within dreams, lost in a cloud of exhaled acceptance.
Tonight, you fizzled, and tonight, you sleep alone.
These are the danger days. Timber!
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Wordsong, wordsong,
Lovely as birdsong.
Could be a Pop Song,
But never a Swansong.
Could be a rap,
And all that *******
For Rap is easy,
Lemon squeezy.
But rap has beat
And words that repeat.
Rap has rhyme
Nearly every time.
Rap even has metre –
Who can beat her?
Yet wordsong is melodious too,
Giving us a worldly view.
Poems of love and dedication
Even human emancipation.
Whoops I’m slipping back -
Back into that addictive rap.
You must remember to read out loud –
Silver lining on every cloud.
Poetic landscapes catch our gaze,
Brightening up our mundane days.
The river of life keeps flowing on,
Iambic metre our beating heart.
Read it like you’re singing a song,
Write it whether or not it’s Art.
So play those words
So full of feeling
Just like the birds
And so appealing.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\1\2021.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 5:53 AM UTC
Autumn approaches
hiding her dance of decay
beneath russet skirts.
Evenings bleed early
through chill days
bringing steel dawns.
All falls silent
as leaves pirouette gaily
to the swansong of summer.
Birdsong threads remain
as harmony takes flight
to sheltered shores.
Autumn approaches,
bitter winter tracing steps
in her glorious wake.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Marriage as a choice,
Needs a voice...
A voice I have found in myself,
A prospect I found in yourself...
Do not be deaf as I recite my proposal,
Do not be dumb during the appraisal...
If you preplanned rejection,
Consider this my swansong...
Come on now,
Know me more...
Read my poems and stories,
Listen to most of my songs...
Know me more,
And forget yourself...
Leave your ego behind,
Welcome my love in your mind...
Make space for me in your life,
I am not fat, I am not huge...
I am confident of my art,
You will find me straightforward...
Straight and ****
That's how I operate...
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC
Alas, awakened to the glorious smell
Of grieving petrichor and lichen
Intoxicating scents of spells,
Has left my thoughts forsaken.
Aggrieved, unclean,
I wash myself in the river,
Alone again, once with my mind,
The cold water does bring a quiver.
Rushing gently across its bend,
Its current does drag along
A heartache inside a massive depth,
A misery that floods it anon.
It seeks to help wash stains of past,
Blood from mistakes without thought,
Caressing my hands as I dip them in,
It cleans at the souls I’ve wrought.
I’ve brought spite to all I’ve been,
I bathe in hatred and stigmata,
Correctional growth of paradigmatic folly,
Proves equality to tumultuous fodder.
-
There has been death here,
Drowning and sickness,
Villainous nature subjugated
To corruption and bleakness.
Disparaging remarks whispered of men,
Bring to light lost life and love,
Discouraging thoughts of mine herein,
Anticlimactic and soulless above.
The trees began to whisper,
Moving slightly in the breeze,
I thought I would move quicker,
But something that couldn’t trapped me.
-
Bringing about a fallout cloud
That kept my mind thus smoked,
It is hard to cherish anything
That the water itself could soak.
-
I wanted to leave,
But I was locked in the wood,
I began to need it,
Like any Stockholm would
The treasure trove in which I was kept,
Was something of a fairy-tale
It hid monsters, death,
And only one nightingale.
Its swansong allowed me to sleep,
Gorgeous at night, it cast in weep,
A story of one so scared, The fear of bleeding out
One day upon the growing creep.
Vines and lies surrounded me,
Its whole existence was false,
Nothing could be this natural,
And the dead forest scoffed.
-
Could there be someone else here?
Doubtful, I began my search,
Through vasts I spied, time again,
But nothing upon this earth.
The forest fell in love with my heart,
Its emotions curious to her,
She tortured me with affection,
My reality was blurred.
I found my way across her floor,
Trekking miles to a never-end.,
Purgatory does not know this pain,
Hopeless abandon, fell unto myself to fend.
A trip, a fall, unique and random,
I impaled myself with a sharp cry,
A sharp palisade jutting out, I then whispered
“What if I don’t want to die?”
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.
Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.
If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the lust for any other heart.
O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
**Dear Picture-in-my-head,
I wish I had you for my reality instead.**
Your star spangled banners,
your dim faded lights,
that alan walker music
misty, misty night.
Him,
from the corner of eyesight
letting his frown drop,
asking me in. Our time.
An audacious vivacity,
the merry sliding down of unhinged desires.
A mating of intellectuality,
less of skinny lust, discarded mask and pride.
Wafting smell of earth drenched in season’s first rain,
halting words breaking the initial stranger pace.
Cups of ginger tea than ***** and ice,
living the moment than getting drowned in haze.
I could whisper my secret wishes -the one that involves a mountain top,
a leather jacket, bullet ride
an unfaltering speech – woman of the moment,
a potential done right.
You could tell me about that night you cried,
That misunderstood age
Your favourite cartoons,
And their funny ways.
We could draw the clouds on our palms,
The ones that compliment a picturgasmic sunset
Feel the lightness of solitude,
the sweetened somethings in the nothing.
The breeze would crash against me,
Before it hit you softly in the face,
And it would feel just right,
To let you have a bit of me this night.
**It would be good, or even better;
but it’s just stuck in letters.
For it’s a trapped swansong – in a party with people I barely know,
and wouldn’t want to, at the end of the night.**
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
**Preened to perfection, paired for life
in ritual courtship, as partners they dance
arched wings held high, necks entwined
both pirouette, and waltz through the night.**
... ... ...
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 10:35 PM UTC
wild night videos
for the dark web
3 Atlean men
and a girl
she got it
by a mob
of Moroccan **** rockets
and will pine
for the rest of her days
screaming to the hells
in a reimagined language
the regression to Lilith
**** *********
the world
when hell touched paradise
***** and man handled
shot by shot
mouth to ****** to ****
split and folded
tooth and nail
to drive the ****** tides
of the world
***** monsters like
T Rex
force a ritual infliction
butter meat of dreams
pain sensually
reworked into pleasure
blister-hot and oh so sweet
married to a paradox
like feeling bad
about feeling good
give me your ankles *****
an unveiled immediacy
right off the bat
i got just the girl
confiding in me
so ready to die
like an Aztec princess
to be the star
like a peacock
in an engorged circus
blizzard of jealous snakes
strangled fanged and spewed
a swansong exhibition
in blood-soaked ponytails
a bobbing head
and choke throat ***** picnic table
with mayonnaise wounds
mediating power
in a psychoanalytic fetish
death is not death
but performative submission
her body ransacked
in tooth marks
and red tipped *******
steaming eraser head
pulses
a **** soaked
chicken on a plate
eradicating reality
are you gonna eat that?
pass the ***
collapses time
lust
custodian
of human archeology
**** piñata
bearing gifts
of squirty pork gasms
******** and cuchifritos
corpus of ****** horror
as liberation
crosses-temporality
and breaks the vessel of time
oow
Nefertiti where are you
a tongue up the ***
sniffs
Prada's Candy Perfume
**** blinking licks
up there where havoc lives
in **** **** farm country
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 2:28 PM UTC
safe in the fortress of my heart
i looked out on the mysteries of my world
reveled in the complex dance of lovers united in
burning desires and passionate loves
and then i heard a distant swansong
heard a distant love affair promised behind
such lovely phrases and alluring photographs
but as the truth of it resolved itself in minds eye
i could see it failing in the crisp moonlight
i could see its painful ending that
is as sure as a rising sun
that it would leave me
in a dire thirst
a depleted soul
please pull me away from this swansong
this enticing tale
for its sweetness clings to me
its promised loveliness and beauty
are only facade for such a dark and lonely place
i will end up believing such a tale
i will fall victim to such a beautiful thought
and the swansong will be spread to yet another
lover torn from the worlds complex dance
of true beauty and love
safe in the fortress of my heart
this dire tale sweeps up against me
trying to wear me down
i call out that others should be aware
i cry out that others should see
this swansong so pretty and beguiling
is such a dark thing
i will hold out for the dawn
i will stay true to my love
and there i will breath easy a summer's day
in there i will find loves true tale
loves complex dance of passion and desire
i will once again dance happy and free
with all the other lovers wrapped in
the warmth of our passions
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
Anya sings words I would
rather she have not spoken
and decimates what little remained
between us all.
He looks to me and I
pointblank-sawnoffshotgun refuse
to meet sight of sapphire sky eyes
now too singing along
to her song.
My mother always said
you were two sides of the same paper
and you will both slice me the same.
But scissors always win;
laceration's chorus croons to all.
Origami smiles
so carefully cultivated as
I kindle our final swansong,
a celebration in flames -
simultaneous ignition of
friends to lovers
and that irrevocable rendering; razing
lovers to ash.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
You spirit me away to Greater Eden, /
In the redolent throes of /
Ethereal /
Romance. /
Reverie is magnified in your absence /
As I wonder upon /
Your /
Towering arms. /
Your heart is an impearled grand piano, /
Singing to me symphonically. /
Each key, weaving a tapestry /
Of the sonorities in amour. /
Beauty is your cadenza, /
As your radiant moonbeams /
Whisk me away to /
Twilight En Amour. /
May you be mine, /
Until the stars evanesce /
From The Charred Canvas of /
The Night Sky. /
I am yours, /
From sea to shining sea /
Uttering one-thousand words in solemn prayer /
That our union may ne’er deliquesce. /
May these words imbue you /
With the ardor of ages /
That we might procure in the heat of romance, /
The silver wings to soar heavensward. /
You are my forevermore, /
You are my swansong, /
You are my euphony, /
You are my musicality. /
You are my poetry, /
You are my eternity, /
You are my whimsicality, /
You are my Ivory Knight. /
(—Se’ lah)
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
My new novel
Is now available
On the online circle
Of Amazon Kindle
As a soft copy eBook
And as a traditional
Hard copy novel
It set it in beyond COVID19 days,
Read what I write as a PhD scholar.
I know that China modified it,
Naturally, CoV won't affect us so much.
China altered it in the Wuhan lab,
They made it a novel Coronavirus,
They called it nCoV19, ask why,
Because they engineered it in 2019.
My novel talks about it,
This sin is punished,
Not just by India,
But also by USA,
And everyone sane,
There happens WW3,
The Negative Axis powers are:
China, North Korea & Pakistan
Indian Army has HuSaVe's,
Human Safety Vehicles,
Robotic suits that the DRDO creates.
China copies them,
Removes the human part,
And makes GHOST's,
Global Human Omission Safety Transformers.
The story is built with a lot of action, some technology and a bit of romance,
A lot of red shades make the story, some blues for it and a bit of pink,
For writing it, I wasted not a microlitre of real ink.
Indian Army comes up with TASIP,
Terrestrial Army Soldier Improvement Program,
And the protagonist, Ravindra Thakur is selected to be one of them.
He becomes a genetically modified soldier,
The DRDO has a specialist scientist Dr. Malakar who does it with his team,
CRISPR-Cas9 is used to elongate all his telomeres,
And now he has stronger chromosomes.
Ravindra & his batchmates can handle extreme doses of hormones,
Adrenalin, human growth hormone and testosterone to name a few,
These hormones can otherwise **** people in such high overdose,
But his sixth sense is strengthened and even the seventh & eighth senses top with those,
You begin to read it and if you can't put it down, blame it on me,
Cross-references to my previous novel help bring your heart closer,
Yes, the novel is sci-fi, army, diplomacy and hypothetically viable too.
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 4:24 AM UTC
She’s a tragic prodigy of her time, hammered nails and spring posies
Playing peek-a-boo to keep the cards from running out
Beautifully highstrung forming charts out of tomorrow
Ghosting sunsets waking up with clubs and spades
What is the the horizon but a roll of the dice, 1’s and 5’s
She’s cloaked with grey roses spun out of lace
Stars tell the future reflected in the dewdrops resting on her pillow
Fashionably awkward and impeccably immaculate
Swansong embodied
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
step into the surf.
waves surge over your ankles,
unexpected speed, threatening push.
wade thigh-deep on sea legs,
digging your toes into the sand,
timing your steps with the waves
as earth and moon play tug-of-war.
the drop-off slingshots your heart into your throat.
making slow progress to the ******* --
you're unfamiliar with this marine rhythm.
the ocean knows you don't belong on this dance floor.
stand up, fighting riptide, undertow.
side-tackle weakened waves
hitting the ******* like brick walls,
each an oceanic supernova with whitecaps imploding.
surrender to one,
let it ****** your feet from under you,
immerse you in its raging swansong.
it traveled a thousand miles to die
on this insignificant strip of coastline.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
In a castle constructed of bones on a mountain high,
our hero sits alone on an ivory throne,
waiting for his current state of jejune to pass.
Whisperings of a voice, mellifluous air,
a singing so beautiful his heart skips a beat
at the gentle murmurings of such an ethereal voice.
And so he vacates his ivory throne
in search of this songbird that has invaded his walls,
the voice instils a certain hiraeth in his mind,
that village once so dear to him that now lies in ruins
due to his incandescent bursts of magical madness.
The owner of this voice, the eloquence, the elegance,
the image in his head that of a maiden on a rock,
as naked as the day she was born
and bathed in an iridescent sunrise.
A scintilla of a break in her voice
and she begins to sob at the meaning of her words.
He finds the source of this angelic sound,
a woebegone but comely creature supine on a table,
her eyes staring into heavenly mountains of madness.
She does not look to meet his wild-eyed gaze,
instead melting away until she is nothing at all,
leaving only dancing embers and phosphenes where she had lain.
He hears this burst of angelic quavers every day
but his madness permits no memory of each
to reside in his brain, comfortable and snug.
Instead, he suffers this delusion every morning,
when his head his quiet and thoughts are oblivion.
This siren swansong has no source in reality,
it is the last vestige of a mind damaged by time and solitude,
where the dawn chorus each morn’s twilight goes unheard,
but the ghostly choral vocalisations of a bitter memory
break his trance and he searches for the only sound not real.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 8:03 PM UTC
I looked into your eyes,
Hoping these to be true,
What I didn't see were lies.
I dreamt about you, please,
Holy Love of mine were you,
Who new loves you better than me?
Innocent they look as pure as ice,
Hopping without any rue,
When did I not see the lies?
I hoped for it to sustain long,
Hell, I didn't know they'd rust,
Where should I sing my swansong?
I trusted your romantic promise,
How you broke my trust,
Why these deceiving eyes?
I now suspect that you lie,
Hey, you can't cheat on me,
Whom new did you learn to love?
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
Tie a knot in between
Tear the flesh off my skin
Rip my heart to let you in
A parade of lust in a bloodstream
Kiss the fears off of my eyes
**** the venom of a thousand lies
Rid me off of this wretched demise
Say a prayer as the candle dies
Call me home like a church bell ringing
Prepare a swansong that is worth singing
In every verse and line souls are wailing
Listen closely as they whisper"They're Waiting"
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC