Upon the hand hold on to the wick of light,
till the candle slowly feasts on its height,
Oh! that is what death does to soul,
melts away the earthen bowl.
On a dreary day when all was awake,
you went into darken sleep hardly to remake,
any thing worthy or any fake.
I vow to have you walking and awake,
to remember only the silken route,
taken by the death on to the fortune suite,
where it will align not to any witch or God,
But to say recline here as forever lost.
Death has done what is the magnificent cost,
for the beauty to pass into oblivion,
for ever and ever to lie in recess of the heart open.
I am the sullen ridge over the dolorous waters
who but I will drink
from the deluge
a placid face to the
eyes rolled I part tenter looks
upon my face upon
the bobbing water
I stare at the
silvery streak of pale moon
the long lost class
of thirty five years hence
stares back in
silence over the floating water
as if the time has
spun a dark noon
which is upon us to
tell the fate of a passing girl
who obliged to the
task of heavenly care
did indeed sideways
her heart flung
but her smooth kiss
to the water does bring
a summer nest in
which to cosset love
and lie forever till
eternity is brought down
by April soon.
For a surmise of the heavens, they move ungirdled
from infinitude to infinitude as if from pillar to post
runs the ant as a mole about the mountain and
with the clipped wings fall the birds
on to the land of the certitude,
I partake the heavens to be the mountain
This is the world of ideas you form when the world itself dissolves
into nothingness and
in the idea of nothing the total time elapsing
till you stop on a
sunny day and watch the shadows forming on dust
of memories when
thought over again and again while sipping gin
and from within the
orbs the loveless fragrance enchanting the tongue
taste of the gin as many suns form around the orbs
a many-glided universes for the soul to emerge and begin to dance
The ghost would calm me down for he is a preserver of true form
of the form vanished with the eloping night that I hoped to perform
Poetry as it seems has no end to itself, it continues almost into eternity such that the poetic muse began with the first rain the man has witnessed and would go through till eternity. Thus the poetic muse is divine in regard to the spirit it endows the life with, whether consciously or unconsciously. Now the natural question that arises is, is the poetic muse with the imagism it stresses on has any relevance as a literary device?
Should we trust the musical notes which on number of cases go far-fetched in making the phrase sound musical? Or should we improve upon the sentence structure instead, by introducing a rhyming sequence? Still the most powerful question is, can the language of logic be reinvented to suit the case of metronome? The blank verse is actually emptied of meaning by relating predicative logic. The emotion of man thus is undone.
On this day the saints stood away on the plank bemoaning the nagging fear, Stephen Hawking is true about the Godless universe but from where the material of our cognition came from was big bang. But from where the matter pops up so far nobody knows. may be the God is not redundant and in verse there has to be a patron saint of the poets.
If only imagism could portray the necessity of Godly experience, it might still be a useful literary device.
I am going to retire in a day or so from being your lover
while I bid time in hell’s inn is no mean joke
that to stay on and on forever is a tale of charismatic bluffer
I must be afraid that love is a second hand toy for a moony bloke
who would rapture at the first delight
having found a gem in the sands of pastime
And close the call with a shrug of being a penny-thug.
And you want him as your trusty folk