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Re-statement of romance
( Wallace Stevens )
The night knows nothing of the chants of night.
It is what it is as I am what I am :
And in perceiving this I best perceive myself
And you. Only we two may interchange
Each in the other what each has to give.
Only we two are one, not you and night,
Nor night and I, but you and I, alone,
So much alone, so deeply by ourselves,
So far beyond the casual solitudes,
That is only the background of our selves,
Supremely true each to its separate self,
In the pale light that each upon the other throws.
Ceremonial
by Eduardo C. Corral
Delirious,
touch-starved,
I pinch a mole
on my skin, pull it
off, like a bead—
I pinch
Title: Don Juan's not Dead
Author: Zahra Jannessari Ladani
Don Juan’s not dead
He drinks the tragedy to its end:
The devastation of all his loves
Whose funerals he will attend
With garlands and gloves.
Don Juan’s a surfer
– from love to love – a jester,
With Cupid’s bow and arrow
And Tiresias’ eyes hollow
– the Seer – the blind-sneaker;
Don Juan’s a ghost,
Words of revenge his boast,
With images of hatred recruited
To murder loves not yet requited!
Of sleeping instincts a waker
Crushing them after:
Don Juan lives forever!
THE ABSENCE OF LIGHT
The walls grow white with moss,
As the cold wind blows in,
The lights flicker and crackle,
And your ghost floats in.
You're not a hologram I want to mess around with,
To see whether my fist passes your heart through,
You're a low tune in the darkness,
That tries to give hope to the living,
Only to make it evident,
That reality is worth your squishing.
So you create a vacuum and I'm left contemplating somewhere in the middle,
A paranormal noise, the sucking of silence,
An aluminum can crushing under pressure,
That the noise that once cursed the existence of living,
Suddenly feels worth a try.
And the walls grow into habitats,
Of pigmented saprophytes pushing limits,
The room becomes an ecosystem,
Of millions of experiments that tell it it's crushing,
The walls are now full of moss,
And the cold wind is all there is.
Titus Daudi
Two ThouSanD & Sixteen ReVieWs...🚶🏽🙎🏽♂😎😮😴
I most definitely cannot write so many for a read....
Even if that was reality
*January* the month of resolutions🤗
The month where sizes and perspective is taken into consideration for clarity of the picture🙂
Don't zoom in too much
But don't zoom out as well
Just stay in between 😀
For our resolutions take time to be adjusted these days🤔
*February* is a short call from change
You still in between love 😍
So valentine and leap years take attentions for dinner
And bring dreams back home 😀
So when the saints still *march* in...in actual sense we do march in and out
Like independence day can be relived again💂🏽
When we do know the past unlike a tape cannot repeat itself twice .🖖
*April* come like the moon😯
Hide in between the sun🌚
Because I cannot wait to not feel this heat 😶
Built up with lessons and classes taken all this while
Built up with conversations that I force myself to engage in because there are no like minds✋👐
Yeah *May* I love this summer😀
Because *June July and August*
Are for Lots of things👯♂
Lots of network being built 🌐
Fun
Seriousness
New short term bosses 👨🏽👧🏽
New looks
Mmm ill kill for the juice in my room😩
Darn....ill scream for the drinks on frequent supply..😩
Then I see *September* again
Back to this heat
Moon where are you 👀
No sunsets
No cool moments
Love breaks
Priorities changed😑
Getting more down to the earth🙄
Seeing all the dust lost to me👥👤
Reconnecting with hommies that stay forever 🍷🍗
*October* Is same
*November* comes distress
But at least i say
All these will pass
Not my best last months
*December* here I dream of frank harris...Alexander wayne...the life to take my mind off the now🍾
The music to bring clarity to mind. 🎧
The new view i crave for each day🔑
I see this now
I'm not cold
I Still feel...i'm just looking with a new view
Laughing with a new look😆
Rolling with new shoes✌
Two thousand and sixteen reviews if said even for the umpteenth time will not change my view of how years come and go without our approval 😊🤗😬
||Potential®
"The life we crave...the excitement and relief we seek...is all here...is all you".
Running, running
far away
Escaping dreams
of yesterday.
Faster, faster
there I go
Forgetting things
you'll never know.
Dying, dying
deep inside
Find a place
for me to hide.
Catching, catching
up with me
No more running
from reality.
Stopping, stopping
let me cry
Finding a way
to say goodbye.
Vk
It was a quiet way by Emily Dickinson | Friday, August 04, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
It was a quiet way—
He asked if I was his—
1 made no answer of the Tongue
But answer of the Eyes—
And then He bore me on
Before this mortal noise
With swiftness, as of Chariots
And distance, as of Wheels.
This World did drop away
As Acres from the feet
Of one that leaneth from Balloon
Upon an Ether street.
The Gulf behind was not,
The Continents were new—
Eternity it was before
Eternity was due.
No Seasons were to us—
It was not Night nor Morn—
But Sunrise stopped upon the place
And fastened it in Dawn.
Title: Profiles, Profiles Everywhere
Auhor: Zahra Jannessari Ladani
You take a tour of the virtual world,
Where they are:
Profiles with photos and statuses,
True or False.
There they are!
You check them,
Young, old, men, women,
Even robots - or as they say - bots;
It's a whole historical gallery,
You check and read, and check and seek.
People - or are they avatar spirits freezed?
You're frightened!
You seem to be in the graveyard:
The electronic necropolis!
But then, profiles won's cease,
Even the cemetery is full of them,
Where you linger upon each tomb
Checking and reading, checking and seeking!
Again: young, old, men, women
In an earthen gallery with
Profiles, profiles everywhere!
Imaginary morning glory
( C. D. Wright )
Whether or not the water was freezing. The body
would break its sheathe. Without layer on layer
of feather and air to insulate the loving belly.
A cloudy film surrounding the point of entry. If blue
were not blue how could love be love. But if the body
were made of rings. A loose halo would emerge
in the telluric light. If anyone were entrusted to verify
this rare occurrence. As the petal starts to
dwindle and curl unto itself. And only then. Love,
blue. Hallucinogenic blue, love.
Telescope
by Louise Glück
There is a moment after you move your eye away
when you forget where you are
because you’ve been living, it seems,
somewhere else, in the silence of the night sky.
You’ve stopped being here in the world.
You’re in a different place,
a place where human life has no meaning.
You’re not a creature in a body.
You exist as the stars exist,
participating in their stillness, their immensity.
Then you’re in the world again.
At night, on a cold hill,
taking the telescope apart.
You realize afterward
not that the image is false
but the relation is false.
You see again how far away
each thing is from every other thing.
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Candlelight by Tony Hoagland | Sunday, August 06, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk
to worship the moon rising
like a yellow filling-station sign
on the black horizon,
you feel the faint grit
of ants beneath your shoes,
but keep on walking
because in this world
you have to decide what
you’re willing to kill.
Saving your marriage might mean
dinner for two
by candlelight on steak
raised on pasture
chopped out of rain forest
whose absence might mean
an atmospheric thinness
fifty years from now
above the vulnerable head
of your bald grandson on vacation
as the cells of his scalp
sautéed by solar radiation
break down like suspects
under questioning.
Still you slice
the sirloin into pieces
and feed each other
on silver forks
under the approving gaze
of a waiter
whose purchased attention
and French name
are a kind of candlelight themselves,
while in the background
the fingertips of the pianist
float over the tusks
of the slaughtered elephant
without a care,
as if the elephant
had granted its permission.
Who knows if the moon's a balloon
( E. E. Cummings )
who knows if the moon’s
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky -filled with pretty people ?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds :
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where
always
it’s
Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves
Walking the Dog on the Night before He Is to Be Fixed by John Stone | Saturday, August 05, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
As far as I can tell, old chum, neuter
is neither here nor there, but in-between,
a state that has a certain charm, like pewter,
prized for durability, if not for sheen.
Tomorrow night you’ll stroll in wary fashion
after the sleep, the knife, the careful scars
that promise to put an end to wayward passion
not to mention long-imagined wars
for territorial rights, a lady’s paw.
Tomorrow the thermostat is set on cold
in calculated stern hormonal law.
What I know of this is what I’m told:
All veterans must come before the vet
on calendars either canine or lunar.
All lose that first fine frenzy to beget
whether it be later, friend, or sooner.
I toast us both then, Franz, in our decrease,
though there’s no way for you to know that I’m
also tugging manfully at the leash,
waiting doggedly for the nick of time.
In the wide sea of life..
We all trying to survive..
Sometimes we sink .. and sometimes our heart sink..
Sometimes the water gets cold.. and sometimes we get cold..
Yet we keep on swimming towards the horizon hoping that theres a shore..
We swim through dark we swim through day..
We get lucky if we get a bay..
We have to swim our way..
Its our own journey and its on us to make it happy and gay...
Sorrows anger n grudges will make you heavy and will make you slow
There will be dark storms on your way but make sure you dont carry them
All you do is wait for that moment when sun again shines on you..
Like you others are swimming too..
Why not be happy and unburden yourself..
Why not make yourself lighter and easier..
Why not help others swim better and reach the hope of horizon too..
Aarti
Dark August
by Derek Walcott
So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won’t come out.
Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.
She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,
she does not come out.
Don’t you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain? But I am learning slowly
to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,
so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,
all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then
I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.
I wanted you to come to me and refresh my soul. I wanted you to be the dream of this night owl. I wanted you to come to me and sway my belief. I wanted you to be my only relief. I wanted you to come to me,and set me free. May be I was barking up the wrong tree. I wanted you to love me and be a cure to my heart, but you worsened my wound by rubbing salt.
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Exotic Perfume
by Charles Baudelaire
When, on our late, hot autumn afternoons,
Eyes closed, I breathe your breast’s warm, heady scent,
I see a sun, fixed in the firmament,
Shining on dazzling shores: strand, rolling dunes;
One of those lazy, nature-gifted isles,
With luscious fruits, trees strange of leaf and limb,
Men vigorous of body, lithe and slim,
Women with artless glance that awes, beguiles,
Lured by your scent, led on to charming clime,
I see a port, all mast and sail,
Battered and buffeted by tide and time;
And all the while green tamarinds exhale
Perfumes that fill my nostrils and my soul,
Blending with sounds of sailors’ barcarole
Why should I want the holy moment of birth,when it will be finished with mouldering?
Why should I like the developement and cultivation,when the result is utter devestation.
Why should I be happy,for lovers meetings,when it will be ended up with seperation.
Exotic Treats by Laura McKee | Thursday, August 03, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
Especially on long drives through the country,
you like to tell that story about your old girlfriend
whose parrot was killed one afternoon
by a raccoon who stole in through the pet door.
It was horrible, you say. Feathers everywhere.
Are you laughing? Stop laughing.
She really loved that bird.
Roh:
UNBLOOMED BIRTH
(On Syria's condition)
Even a thorn helps to built nest for the bird to live in...
Where is your unbloomed heart?
Even a tree help to provide shelter the woodcuttter...
Where is your unkind heart?
Even dark helps to reside bright for the night...
Where is your cruel heart?
It is impeccable I am alive, live like moribund,
It is apprehended my life amidst the fusillade,
Lost my childhood here;
Although,
meanwhile a child rapturous one, inveigle his birth.
Meanwhile a child kissing his mother,
Meanwhile a child hanging in his father's Arms,
GOD, where your unhuman heart?
-By AVDHESH KURIYAL