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Poems About Poems About Poems

Poems about poems about poems-
More poems and more poems and more poems-
Poems poems poems poems poems-
How many poems?
How much poetry
Until there is no poetry at all?

But only 'words' and 'words' and 'words'
Until one goes far away
Where there was never a poem before-
And suddenly hears
“Let there be Light”.

And Poetry perhaps
Is born again.

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‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’

As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.

He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.

Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.

The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’

‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.

Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.

The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.

But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.

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Never heard before

Salute to you mother for your great service
You were so simple with no gadget or device
You did miracles for poor and downtrodden
You were remembered then and now even

You were dropped from heaven like Messiah or angel
You were shining star from every angle
We saw in you a divine light and followed
You never objected to but embraced and allowed

May be you had seen the tragedy of life
Thee time may not have been right or riddled with strife
You adopted to serve the mankind and particularly poor
Who were denied access and kept at the door

Whatever she did was never heard this before
Came on earth with divine message to serve therefore
To nurture the wounds and take care of destitute
She was her self complete mission as an institute

Lord had suffered cruelly at the hands of mankind
Even though he forgave them all and remained kind
You were seen as divine rose from beautiful heaven
You were successful to convey message even

She was preferred over many to be sent here
She had only poor at heart and offered prayers
It was seen as miracle in the form of Lord Mother
Who else could have been to stay here and offer?

Even though time did not show any mercy
She had ruled the hearts of many
Everybody wished very long life and prayed
Even though she had hint of death not being delayed

She was shining like star in the later part
Even though she worked hard as if was new start
She wanted to give maximum before departure
She thought of breathing last after making sure

She had tease in the heart for disturbing news
She wanted no more extension or reviews
It was made clear that her end was near
Even though she cried for those who remained dear


It was very painful to leave the mission half accomplished
It was not expected to be completed or left half finished
The divine wish was to be given first preference
The life was to end soon without any reference

The stars and sky may remain there for ever
So will be your name shined like star
You have gone back to the place where you had come
We had wept on your departure but God too waited for you to welcome

* Her name will stand tall in history of mankind*

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What Is It To See and Know With One's Eyes

WHAT IS IT TO SEE AND KNOW WITH ONE'S EYES

What is it to see and know with one's eyes
more Beauty
than one can tell
with one's words?

What is it to live a poem
and be unable
to write it?

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I am touched and will not be able to sleep

he touched her
thru the fingers
of his poem
about the deep
night and the
sleepless one
a true story about
him and her

writing, deep,
deep into the night,
about sleeplessness,

why?

did he not tell her once
that he never sleeps?
did she not believe him?
did he not tell her
that his poems come
in the depths of darkness
from the dark recesses of
his dimming soul?

at a time when twilights
have not even sprouted
yet?

that his deep thoughts
come like some strangers
capricious and whimsical
and on shorter notice
leave without goodbyes?

now, the cycle grips him
again, he writes unceasingly
like he is being chased by
his own ghosts,

like he is one cat
disturbed by the shadow
of his own rebelling tail,

he shall write,
and if she too
is not sleeping at all,
tonight
then she must write,
like him as if both of
them are twins
in thoughts,

and if there is nothing to
be written, why not read
and tell him what he is
blindly writing?

perhaps,
he will soon understand
his very own tragedies
perhaps she can figure
out the answers in his
written works


she must touch him,
like her brother or even
like her lover
and even kiss him

and he will sleep,
perhaps, soundly, tamed
by the softness of her love
perhaps, the answer to
all his questions.

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Only Words

Baby take my hand and Ill take you higher
cause my one desire is you and I need you now
More than ever if it takes forever and I know
These things are things youve heard
But up til now they were only words
Chorus:
Dancing on the lips of intimate strangers
Shallow like the city, now theyre vivid like the sun
Blinding me with spirit
In the night my private soul can hear it
Common as the hummingbirds
But they were only words
Now I feel like a wise old man
I now understand all the hows, the whens, the whys
These thoughts are mine for the very first time
Love it springs, it blooms, eternal and true
It may sound like nothing new to you
Only words
Chorus
Bridge:
Heres hoping that well never break the silence
Heres hoping that we never run from ourselves
Heres hoping cant and never, not now
And gee its time to go are words well never know
Chorus:
Dancing on the lips of intimate strangers
Oh yeah! now theyre vivid like the sun
Blinding me with spirit
In the night my private soul can hear it
Common as the hummingbirds
But they were only words
Chorus:
Dancin on the lips of intimate strangers
Shallow like the city, now theyre vivid like the sun
Blinding me with spirit
In the night my private soul can hear it
Common as the hummingbirds
Only words
Blinding me with spirit
In the night my private soul can hear it
Common as the hummingbirds
But they were only words

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The Only Words That Remain

blast furnace...
molded by turmoil
and endless struggle,

faces scorched by the trials,
endured and survived....
stripped naked, no baggage,

no need for guile.
the all of all on the altar,
the heart beaten honest....

and the only words that remain.....
...............are soul!

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Only words fly

Only words fly
And about two planes a day
In this debating-hall of race.
Realities remain on earth.
I wish my mother were the sea
So I would weep for the faraway
Troubled sea on the crushing Cape shore
But I think I was of desert born
On the steppes of the city.
Desert meets me everywhere
With her spacious inspiration
To make love and create.

I am not afraid for children
The world is younger here
And would not haul them down:
This flood of time is still.
Rains chill me bad
Sun warms me up and pierces me
Where I am cold and sad.
If I were not awaiting you –
Not expecting, not expecting –
This would not need to be.

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And In The Morning

(hall)
In the early morning when Im lying by your side
Doubts go through my mind, thoughts I try to hide
Lying there I wonder if your love for me is real
Or just another fantasy
Then I try to think about the way things used to be
Misty memories, hazy like a dream
All we did together, all the things we planned to do
There was only me and you
And in the morning I touch you
And I find youre still there
I want to tell you that I love you
Please never leave me
In the morning light I turn to look at you
And hope that you still care
When I look back on our life, the pieces fall in place
Words that went unsaid, pictures of your face
All those things we shared, yet stay together day by day
Cause our love was never far away
And in the morning I touch you
And I find youre still there
I want to tell you that I love you
Please never leave me
In the morning light I turn to look at you
And hope that you still care

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aphrodite - Goddess Of Love And Beauty

APHRODITE – GREEK GODDESS
OF LOVE AND BEAUTY!

Hesoid the Greek poet, lived in the latter part of
eighth century BC;
His writings form a major source of our Greek
Mythology!
He has said that when Quranos the ‘Father of the
Sky’ was castrated by his son Kronos, - @
His severed genital was thrown into the sea!
And from the froth and foam of the sea arose the
beautiful Aphrodite!
The goddess of love, fertility and beauty!
She was also the protector of sailors at sea!
The notion of ‘love at first sight’, had originated
from the beauteous Aphrodite!
Seeing her beauty and bewitching power,
Zeus the Godfather, planned to keep other Gods
away from her!
So he married her off to Hephaestus the god of
blacksmiths and craftsmen;
Whom the Romans later called the Vulcan!
Aphrodite is associated with the dove, those
cooing birds of love!
She is also seen to ride her sacred bird the
Goose, - on a vase painting of antiquity!
And she is also the Greek goddesses of fertility!
The Renaissance painter Botticelli’s famous
painting inspired by Hesiod,
Shows Aphrodite on a giant scallop shell, -
Coming out of the sea in this world to dwell!

Aphrodite is said to have helped Jason to obtain
the 'golden fleece', -
From the kingdom of King Colchis, by making
the king’s daughter Medea to fall in love with him!
She is also reputed to be the principle instigator of
the Trojan War!
And as the story goes, when hero Peleus was married
to the sea-nymph Thetis,
All the Gods were invited excepting she!
So she planted on the banquet table a 'golden apple',
With the words inscribed - “For the Fairest”!
Hera, Athena and Aphrodite vied with each other,
And finally they decide to appointed an arbitrator!
The arbitrator they sought, was to be the most
handsome man from the mortal lot!
So a Trojan shepherd by the name of Paris, was
the man they finally got! #
Those three goddesses who were in the fray,
Secretly decided to bribe Paris on that day!
Hera the Queen of Olympus, promised to make Paris
the ruler of the world!
Athena the goddess of war rattled, that Paris will never
lose a battle!
But the shrewd Aphrodite who had sized him up, -
Promised Paris the most beautiful woman's love!
The subsequent elopement of the Spartan Helen with
Paris to Troy, -
Led to the siege and destruction of Troy! ##
But Aphrodite always protected Aenes throughout the
War,
Till he established the dynasty of Roman Emperors
on the Italian shore!
Aphrodite remained as the Roman goddess Venus,
Inspiring lovers, artists, painters and poets en-mass!

-Raj Nandy
07 Sep 09
New Delhi

FOOT NOTES: -
@ Ouranos, husband of Gaia- the Mother Earth, had imprisoned her
sons in Tartarus – in the depths of the earth! Gaia through her son-
Kronos got her husband castrated! When the genitals were thrown into
the sea, from the foam(‘aphros’) - rose Aphrodite! And from the blood
of the genitals which fell on the earth - rose the Three Furies! ! !
# There are other versions! This is the ancient Mythical version!
# # Homer in his Iliad says Aphrodite was the daughter of Zeus
and Dione. In his Odyssey, Homer narrates the story of Aenes, and
his wanderings and how he became the mythological founder of the
Roman Emperors - in Italy! The famous marble statue of Venus de Milo, with her both arms missing; was discovered by a peasant in
1820, amongst the ancient ruins of Milos island on the Aegean Sea!
*** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY RAJ NANDY ***

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Fear and Darkness Are One

Fear and Darkness are one
Light and Beauty are one
Night is Fear
Morning is Beauty -

Life is Morning and Night
And endless long afternoons
In which it is not clear
Whether Morning or Night prevails-

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As Simple As Closing The Door And Opening Another One

don't you worry about what
recently happened,
it is nothing much to be
talked about,
no one wants to recall
a sad subject matter,
but i want to tell you,
before she went away
she stood up
opened a door and
walked a little farther
about a meter away and
she opened another
door against too much light
someone guided her
i saw that and then
without looking back
she dissolved like ice
on the floor of sand

then we pretend we do not
forget her
oh, we have other topics
in our lives

love, for instance.

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And Thou Art One

And Thou art One--One with th' eternal hills,
And with the flaming stars, and with the moon,
Translucent, cold. The sentinel of noon
That clothes the sky in robes of light and fills
The earth with warmth, the flowering fields, the rills,
The waving trees, the south wind's elfin rune,
Are One with Thee. All nature is in tune
With Thee, O Father, God--and if one wills
To humbly walk the fragrant, leaf-strewn path
And kneel in reverence 'neath the vaulted sky,
Hearing the hymnals of the waving trees
And prayers of the soughing winds--what hath
He less of heaven in him than we, who cry,
"God in our creeds doth dwell and not in these?"

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The Usual Protest And The Unusual One

the usual protest is when you
say something for the person to know
that there is something that you do not like
and that you want that something to be
corrected or at least be improved a bit
but what you say falls on deaf ears

the unusual one comes next
you pretend that there is nothing wrong
that nothing is unusual
and that everything is smooth as usual
and you do not tell anymore that something
is wrong and both of you goes on with your lives
as though there is nothing wrong
and that you are well and
too submissive
and of course this pleases her
to her core

the other one asks if you're ok
in the middle of a cold weather
and you will say
everything is perfect
despite the shiver

and then she will find out that
one day you are gone
an empty house shall not
even tell her why

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The Fool And The Brave One

What do the fool
and the brave one
have in common?

Both stick their neck out
and risk danger displeasure.

The brave often do foolishly
pursue perceived noble cause
“in the face of all odds uncounted”

Counting might cause
brave heart to lose heart.

But the cunning insightful fool
like in a famous Shakespearean play
is a lightening rod a touchstone of truth
when all others lie or hide the fool
is he the only one sure to tell the truth?

hiding in supposed stupidity
like immunity a cloak of invisibility

I stick my neck out
at risk of beheading

discussions most necessary
polarize people

fits of anger rage brutality may
follow an unwary
gentle sincere soul in all honesty

we can and will agree to disagree

my style may inflame
in the shadows
it is safer to remain


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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one

I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship

I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home

I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work

I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job

I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child

I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub

I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter

I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school

I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing

I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum

My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …

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Patrick White

When Imagination And Reality Are One

When imagination and reality are one
and there's no recourse for civilization
to distinguish between them by usage and consensus,
and the light of the stars isn't condemned
to a life of hard labour as a torch in a coal mine
looking for diamonds you can drink by the grailful
until you're as satiate as oblivion, there's no doubt
the mind is an artist riffing on the new strings of the rain
or painting it in picture-music like a poet or a scientist
who look deranged to those who've averaged out
the crucials of the mindscape like the odds of a lottery,
convinced as they are like pilgrims walking
from one end of their sacred asphalt driveways
to the other, that one size fits all, and that these
enlightened journeys without destinations
are just circles that haven't been squared yet.

But if you're off on your own,
making roads with your walking you're the first
to set foot on like the moon of a spaced-out planet
you're trying to turn into something habitable,
remember it's an act of compassion not to lock the door
to the available dimensions of the future when you leave.
Remember that all six of your senses
live in the world you creatively visualize
like the aura of the life that surrounds you
like an ongoing masterpiece of incompletion.
Without them you might be a master of making trees,
but, hey, man, where are the birds?
I don't hear anything singing.
There's nothing to taste or touch or listen to.
No appearances to deceive your consciousness with.

When your eye's got an idea of the kind of star
it wants to be, before it's learned to see, it never shines.
Wondering what flora to root where in the expanding abyss
of the night before you, scatter the stars across the firmament
as if you were sowing the unknown seeds of the wildflowers
that scuttled themselves like arks
in the cracked creekbeds of your neocortical starmud
and waited patiently like hibernating frogs
for the conditioned chaos of the rain
to come like a flashflood of life-nourishing insight.

And when you're annihilated
by the mystic terror of your own freedom
jimmying with the G-spot on your prison locks
to get them to open up like a coven of doves
that want to release their omens like feathers on the wind
that can scry and fly where they want,
don't linger in the doorway of your liberation.
Hesitation is the flypaper of light.
Stare straight into the eyes of the Medusa
until she's the one that blinks first in the savage snake pit
and the stone bird of your heart thaws like a volcano
potting islands in the draconian heat of its bloodstream
and the Gorgons start dancing to the music of their classical hair-dos
as if they could hear the wavelengths
of a pan flute lapping nearby like water.

Kiss the serpent fire on the head
if you want to honour the shapeshifter
that sets your dark energy free to assume the form
of the world that moults the chrysalis of your imagination
that reassembles the rubble of the last gasp
into a house of transformation that fits you
like a bubble of supple skin where you alone
are the myth and physics of its origination.
And whatever world provides you with the mindscape
of your exploration, you recognize by the style
it's painted in as everywhere a work of your own
signed by the wind in the left hand bottom corner of the sky.

Hard to tell the wells from the fountains
in the mingling mindstream that flows like life lines
into the frayed deltas of your palm. And what madness
hasn't always alloyed its backbone to the swords of the sane
defending their indigenous traditions of soft metal?
Don't stare into your cauldron as if you were trying
to read the future by the lint in your belly-button.
Actualize your magic and stir the womb a bit like a master of departures
with an intuitive genius for unitive metaphors.
Mix the paint on the palette into necromantic shades
of new underworlds weeping jewels on the roots
of the fireflowers bearing forbidden fruits
they'll carry by the armful with them out of the garden
like refugees running from an abandoned embassy
that used to give them shelter from themselves with impunity.

No limit. You can live in as many worlds as there are
grains of dust and pollen, where you're not allergic
to the stars, and the constellations come like the empty baggage
of a book that hasn't written a word to anyone,
nor appointed an alpha like the book end of a beginning
to balance the long vowel of omega at the other extreme
to let you know when it's all been said, and it's time
to lay the cornerstone of a myth of origin of your own,
a pebble in the random tide of providential events,
that doesn't need more than one leg to stand on
like a heron hunting fish in the bestiaries of the moon
that's finally given up its dead like a graveyard of Orphic skulls.

Imagine your way like smoke through the eye of a keyhole
into spaces you create by your very being there
to summon them from the abyss, a carillon of dragons
on a holy day of reptiles when the lowest are blessed with wings,
or wall yourself into an aesthetically sealed garden
where the rain perennially washes the blood of the children
who finger-painted the flowers on your thin skin off,
and luxuriate in your fastidious appetite for insignificant details.
Mind is an artist. Able to paint the worlds as a sin of omission,
a sum of destructions, or the negative space of a hand
breaching stone with a spiritual tattoo on its palm,
indelibly invisible as nothing for whom nothing is out of reach.
Make heaven. Make hell. Who you are is where you live.
Nest in a bell like a bird under the roof of your mouth
or root like lightning in a cloud you left unweeded.

Out of the random ignitions and annihilations of dark matter
bombarding your senses like anti-photonic fireflies
emerges a world of shadows into the light
of your imagination like the rising of a new moon
engendered out of you restoring yourself to it
like a lost atmosphere that got carried away by wings.
You can say things into existence word by word
or you can talk them to death in the silence
that follows the ghost of ideas like darkness follows us.
Or you can let the night bird deep
in the solitude of your heart sing
your fervent yearning for a companionable world
into being sweeter than the immensity of your creative freedom
to long for it as if what were missing
would always seem somehow more real than what was not.

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After I'd produced about two dozen pen and ink drawings, one evening I decided that they needed poems to accompany them. I still have no idea where that notion came from, but it took me about two hours to produce verses for these creatures.

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I’ll be born again and again

What desire comes to your mind,
You yourself have no control over.
I had many uncanny thoughts.
Be India without summer.
Be England without winter.
I want freedom of sex
To have whom I love
Or at least the one mutually loved.
I want a long innings
Without being bowled or caught.
I want to retain lust till the end.
But all wants remain unfulfilled.
I shall be born again and again.
26.03.2001, Pmdi

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In Narthex

Leave me with abba
after devastation. There was
blood before the dawn.
The feathers were floating.

And why should one weep
when the lake was dry
and there was a corona
discharge from the man's face.

I remember not, all the
ugliness of life, when I was
growing roses in my books, like
a moon striking my pen.

The road was there, the tree
was there, but your footprints
were not to be seen. Where have
you gone my words, I was waiting?

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An episode just ended

She, thirty five, and I, fifty five,
Were together and fell for each other.
Her modesty was her beauty;
Her reticence was her essence.
She was a receptor and I, a depositor,
As far as love was concerned.
She made me younger and I made her sexier.
The episode was enacted for three years.

She was the cause for my poetic act.
I have penned in hundreds poems
About my love for her and gave her them.
I left the place a decade ago with tears.
A maiden call came from her to my thrill.
It was not for renewal of love but on purpose.
Her son came and camped with me and went.
She has ignored me; I had no pain to ignore her.
23.09.2010.

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