Poetry

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When you give the first word to Wordsworth, there’s not much left to say is there? (though for the record I like Alfred Lord Tennyson a good deal more, I just could not find an appropriate quote) ∗∗

I absolutely admire the way in which poetry can allow one to express themselves so so thoroughly a limited number of words. However, here we are met with a beautiful paradox, in spite of, or rather despite the limitation in the words, the meaning is boundless-stretching as far as the width of your imagination and as deep as the pit of your belief. It is, in my opinion, the purest for of written thought, it is the hearth of not only angst and upheaval, but of love, kindness and beauty.

The poetry in this page, is specific to the human condition, one which we all ail from.(unless of course you are a non human in which case I apologize for the exclusion, we thehumblehumanists can only write from experience) The joys and sorrows of this existence will be enumerated, encapsulated and explored, not only through the lens of language, but the sluices between those words also.

Thank you for taking the time to read and share what I have no doubt you will enjoy and reflect upon possibly. The poetry will appear as blogs also.

Why do we writer write some of the skeptics may ask? Hardly a profitable or successful business. Well that answer was offered to this question a little over a century ago,

“And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.”

Tennyson. I knew I could figure him in somewhere.

Enjoy

Thehumblehumanist

∗∗(How lucky would it be to have a name that was actually Words Worth and also be a poet? William had it made for himself from day 1)

 

@apurva2000

The Placid Canvas

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I look at the pale white canvas and it stare back at me,
I search for some motivation in its bare surface
But I find none, there is none there.

Nothing but the angular sides of a square
Frustration courses through my veins and sparks off at the synapses,
My mind creaks and groans.

But my face remains placid, Devoid of expression and hollow.
And I choke on what I was never meant to swallow.

I am at school now and receive a scolding,
For matters that remained outside my feeble holding,
The sneers and jeers ought to move my to tears,

But my face remains placid,

Devoid of expression and hollow.

And I choke on what I was never meant to swallow.

Back at home I hear my parents fight,
I cook my own food that night,
And eat alone under the harshness of the fluorescent light.

I wallow over the teasing in school,

Of the times I was made to look a fool.

But my face remains placid,

Devoid of expression and hollow.

And I choke on what I was never meant to swallow.

One month later

I am at school now and receive a scolding,

For matters that remained outside my feeble holding,

The sneers and jeers ought to move my to tears,

But they do not instead I find a voice, that fights and hollers with conviction

My mouth forms words on its own volition.

I return home with the bloody right eye.

With the satisfaction that I saw myself try

then in front canvas do I sit,

And Paint,

I paint with dark hues and bold red

on the edges of the canvas, pale yellows do tread

There is a thin film of the palest pink

And caravans if magic in the darkest black ink

The paint it dripped, the paint it spread,

I looked at the once placid canvas

Where I now could see a reflection of myself.

My face would no longer remain placid and hollow

I would never go back to choking on what I could not swallow

 

@apurva2000

Fracture Lines

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Fracture lines.

I can see them ever so clearly,

Not on the glass pane though…

The pane is new.

 

Fracture lines

I see them in your eyes.

Your wonderfully expressive dark dark eyes.

Are now besieged

With doubt, fear and worry.

 

I do not talk to you,

Generally.

But I will sit down and hold your trembling hands steady.

I will tell you that I sense,

Even feel your pain and suffering.

 

I really really hope

That if i stay long enough.

you will be able to see the fracture lines

In my eyes also.

 

fin.

 

Poetry

The self and the selfie

shadow-self

Snap snap..snap snap….click away,

On your smartphone, posting pics up… to know what other people will say,

What other people will think.

Waiting for your fickle esteem to soar or sink.

you attempt fashion yourself into a vision of seeming perfection on tape

Posing with a pout, a twirl a smize or a fish gape.

When I look at you I see how you facial features have become a slave to empty likes.

Your face glows with every popularity hike.

your breathing rate changes with each comment.

your eyes flutter frantically over what Anil has to say… and Darya and Kent.

There is an actual human being under that selfie,

A self, who need not besmirch her face with lackme bronzer to cover up her acne

Because the selfie can hardly hope to capture the awesomeness in you,

but you worship it, tricked into believing that it is true.

I hope to find a way,

To understand that it really does not matter, what Anil and Dariya have to say…

I hope you find a way to become yourself someday

for now sweetheart you only are reducing youself to be

#yourselfie.

 

 

By @dearastilbe

 

Destruction-An introduction.

We all face conflicts in varying intensities through the course of our lives, and I have noticed that it is human tendency to try and find solutions to these problems. However, more often than not, I have found that in my pursuit to uncover the root of my problems, I only feed the already raging fire of mental discord. As a result, I tend to give up all expectation and surrender to whatever destruction my mind wishes to subject me to. It is not that I find any solutions to my problems at the end of this but I oddly do feel more at peace with myself.  

Destruction

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Insignificance is poetry.

But poetry is not insignificant.

To be insignificant is to become.

Chaos and order are two sides of the same coin,

as is destruction and birth,

as is beauty and terror.

Charcoal strokes on silken white

pregnant with meaning

yet meaningless to the mundane.

My mundane is composed of Fear and desperation for absence,

which formulate self-loathing,

and eventually self-destruction.

Whoever said, “To self destruct is to liberate.”

But not in absence. You must be Here.

To be Here is to indulge in the very feeling you desire to fight.

Unarm your steel thoughts,

your cognitive weaponry.

Knowledge will not help,

It will only try to heal and find purpose.

No. To dissolve is to de-solve.

 

By @dearastilbe

Desire

Desire- An intro

Exposed to romance at a young age, I have been consistently drawn to the element of desire in human nature. However, in contrast to this spirited energy, an internal feeling of resistance and refusal has arisen within me which gives me the general impression that I am not worthy of experiencing such passion. This sense of rejection within me has been shaped by some of my experiences in the past which hinder me from being present and motivate me to seek salvation in the never ending possibilities of the future. Moreover, I have drawn reference to one of my most favorite plays, A Streetcar named Desire by Tennessee Williams in which one of the central  themes are appearance and reality or fantasy and illusion.

 

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Desire

Hoping against hope,

I take salvation in the uncertainty of what is to come.

Memories cling like infants desperate for their mothers,

They trail along the frail ends of where

her nerve cells are undone.

The Now is the iron thumb

of the law of attraction,

I pit myself with the pity

of pretty desires,

Desires like love and lust and physical magnetism.

They reside with my salvation

I call them lies.

But pretty lies they are that make up my mental prism,

A battlefield where hope fights hope,

and want and longing are thrown in catapults

to destroy the enemy’s hostile siege.

From this destruction arise honey sodden paper planes,

Like words saturated with meaning that are lost on me.

So to you, I ride as I always have,

In a Streetcar named Desire.