Why do we write about love?
Why not instead about this pen:
this pen, so many words to come out of it
leaving its mark on the pulverised wood.
Whenever, wherever, always ready to spill
to divulge its contents upon this pressèd sheet
not a screech, not a sound—always willing
willing for its ink to do its spilling.
If only people were so willing
to be loving, to be kind.
Instead, they just enjoy drilling
into the depths of each others’ souls.
We’re a babbling bumbling band of baboons
doing nothing but complaining from our cosy cocoons.
It would be wonderful to whack our wretched worries
and the terrifyingly terrible atrocities of terror
us humble humans have hence held to hold
instead of crazy conflicts and crooked cops,
we really need ninety nice notes
from gallant gods gloating gloriously from the Garden;
then those torrid tortuous (un)tranquilities would suddenly stop starting.
Life’s many facets
discussed and examined
not to mention religious tenets
who were rightfully refuted.
All this while the summer breeze
refreshes these moving thoughts
reminds me to freeze
and enjoy these resplendent sights.
Speaking in riddles
easy it would be
if this orchestra of fiddles
showed me how to see
and indeed how to know, how to tell
a riddle from a fiddle
and showed me how to stop the dilly-daddle.
So many questions in my mind
who knows what answers we’ll find
more questions that devour from within
not knowing what direction to go in.
Life’s many facets
discussed and examined
not to mention religious tenets
who were rightfully refuted.
All this while the summer breeze
refreshes these moving thoughts
reminds me to freeze
and enjoy these resplendent sights.
Left, right and centre
and of the faraway stars
and of our collective future
as students who do not frequent bars.
For it is this thought-provokingness
which gives me utmost joy;
these conversations ridden with thoughfullness;
no, it was not a ploy.
Rather, quite a wonderful time
of refuge from life’s sour moments
a solace paradigm.
Many months ago,
a large bonfire was lit
upon the dust and ashes
of events that preceded it.
A loving, tender warmth
radiating from within;
but the erratic, flying sparks
distracted; instead of a grin
there was confusion, worry
a fear, perhaps, of not knowing when and where to begin.
Or when to end.
Over time, this bonfire coughed and wheezed,
the months took their toll;
transformed from luminous explosions
to almost being extinguished whole.
Yet it endured.
Its embers, glowing in the shadows,
that warmth from them radiated.
Until, one day
be it today,
it has been rekindled.
It has come out of the corners
to once again take centre stage
as I try to turn a life’s page,
it has taken on many colours.
Alas, help it, I will, to grow.
For there is something she ought to know.
Although even myself, I am not sure
whether this uncertainty has a cure.
Only time will tell
whether this sentiment upon which I dwell
should be shared
or as it was until now,
be left as an unattended bonfire:
source of much internal ire.
Sitting here thinking
about a feeling that’s sinking
sinking deep, out of reach
its return, you cannot beseech.
To arrive at it, if at all,
you must dive into the darkest depths
past the frozen thoughts and dead sentiments
further beyond the night passions
the colour, from bright cyans
into the deep, dark marine abyss
holding your breath, anticipating what is to come
as you reach Neptune’s cave
barred with personal lore, away you gave.
Gasping, gulping for breath—
for those precious, dear feelings
to impede their passing
stop the cranial proceedings!
Alas, the ocean of the mind is ever vast
not one, not you nor above ones
can open many things past
experiences into memory passed
who, who are you
to have the keys to my thoughts of blue?
It is of a seductive simplicity
this sentiment that spends eternity
slyly hiding in the shadows
till the song of sparrows beckons.
A full orchestra and symphony
no, nothing to do with money
in tandem with reggae and metal
life finally reveals its petals.
Be-bop-a-doodle-ing down the street
greeting all you meet
with that gorgeous full-toothed smile
your joyous promenade can continue for many a mile.
As the saxophones and tubas reach their overtures
you think of organising local tours
for this stunning land you live in
so gobsmackingly beautiful, blimmin’!
For once, the sun glimmers in all its might
the awesome local landscape, a sight
everyone ought to behold
to see things in this way of old.
With us from our very cradles
from places of which sing angels
of glorious, golden, honey-like dreams,
that life’s gloominess redeems.
But this celestial drink will not last
as all things, it shall too come to pass.
That is, however, not to fear
for many moments like these are near
all one needs to do
is breathe in anew
and feel the heavenly bliss:
the feeling of true happiness.
Do you ever sit here
and gaze upon the stars
burning so bright
casting these heavenly sears
in a cloth of the deepest blue.
Cotton wool wafts by,
choking, strangling as it floats nearby
the light of countless faraway suns
celestial fathers and sons.
Their might cannot be fathomed
by any tools we here possess
nor can the secrets be revealed
of their heavenly address:
no gods will of them confess!
But you, my friends, I urge you,
Go!—Go, before all else takes you
before earthly life breaks you
for it is you who we will remember
and call you leader, captain—O Discoverer!
Reflecting upon the tenderness of years past
ones lived through emotion alone
now that our love does not everlast
like a beautiful, solid, stable statue: now overgrown.
Once mighty, strong, full of artistic wit
already dethroned from its might
today, a weedy, thorny pit
a rather grim and sombre sight.
A thorn in my side, ever it bleeds
remembering you draws my energy
makes worthless my romantic deeds
long time past, we were in synergy.
Can’t thy leeches never leave?
Go into the abyss of time
something you managed to achieve
a feeling, gloriously sublime.
Yet you haunt me still
as I look into this flower’s eyes.
A new future, build I will
of splendour and affection will arise
with or without your aid
my memory of you will fade
as this beautiful lady blooms
with all her sweet perfumes
without your pesky fumes,
a new life proudly resumes.
This poem is a continuation of or ‘sequel’ to the original If only she knew.
Holding that strip of canvas
a faint, distant smile.
Plain to see—a result
of weeks’ dedication;
wherefore has this been made?
The colours are so beautiful too—
if only she knew.
Steps back, a lady depicted
bright, ripe colours
fertile, lush greens
with deep, rich umber
and glowing blue;
if only she knew.
The cloth falls onto the ground,
a mind of its own.
But from a distance,
such a small shred
grows—north, south
in every heavenly path.
Fills the room;
now there are two;
if only she knew.
The painter, elsewhere
a sweating, nervous wreck
pulse beating on his neck.
He hopes deeply
almost beyond hope itself
that the message will come through
and she knows
what he feels is true;
if only, if only she knew.
Beautiful lady is perplexed
thankfully remains unvexed.
Wait—a gasp—she sees it;
her heart, matches with a flit.
She’s been looking in a mirror:
make no mistake, this is no error,
this glorious canvas
painted with such tact, class
heart now a chargèd rod.
This painter—oh god
such a charming gentleman
his affectionate way definitely can
stir up the wildest feelings inside of me
ones even I have not managed to see.
Such beautiful emotions of many a hue
That was the moment,
that was the moment she knew.