Democracy – Leonard Cohen

“Democracy”

It’s coming through a hole in the air,
from those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It’s coming from the feel
that this ain’t exactly real,
or it’s real, but it ain’t exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
from the sirens night and day,
from the fires of the homeless,
from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It’s coming through a crack in the wall;
on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account
of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don’t pretend to understand at all.
It’s coming from the silence
on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered
heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the sorrow in the street,
the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin’
that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of God in the desert here
and the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on
O mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
Past the Reefs of Greed
Through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.

It’s coming to America first,
the cradle of the best and of the worst.
It’s here they got the range
and the machinery for change
and it’s here they got the spiritual thirst.
It’s here the family’s broken
and it’s here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open
in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It’s coming from the women and the men.
O baby, we’ll be making love again.
We’ll be going down so deep
the river’s going to weep,
and the mountain’s going to shout Amen!
It’s coming like the tidal flood
beneath the lunar sway,
imperial, mysterious,
in amorous array:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on …

I’m sentimental, if you know what I mean
I love the country but I can’t stand the scene.
And I’m neither left or right
I’m just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I’m stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I’m junk but I’m still holding up
this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

 

Goblin Men

midnight_main

Here is a classic by Christina Rossetti. I came across this one while watching Midnight. Midnight is the tenth episode of the fourth series of British science fiction television series Doctor Who. It was first broadcast on BBC One on 14 June 2008. David Tennant, plays the Doctor in this one. It is quite an episode.


Goblin Market
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
One whisk’d a tail,
One tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
One crawl’d like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
“Come buy, come buy.”
When they reach’d where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One rear’d his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav’d the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long’d but had no money:
The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr’d,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answer’d all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather’d up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn’d home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck’d from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay, hush,” said Laura:
“Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;” and kiss’d her:
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crow’d his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows,
Air’d and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d;
Talk’d as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
“Come buy, come buy,”
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?”
Laura turn’d cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop’d from the root:
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
“Come buy, come buy;”—
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax’d bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch’d for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown’d trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;”—
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear’d to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.
Till Laura dwindling
Seem’d knocking at Death’s door:
Then Lizzie weigh’d no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Laugh’d every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes,—
Hugg’d her and kiss’d her:
Squeez’d and caress’d her:
Stretch’d up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
“Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs.”—
“Good folk,” said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
“Give me much and many: —
Held out her apron,
Toss’d them her penny.
“Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,”
They answer’d grinning:
“Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.”—
“Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss’d you for a fee.”—
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call’d her proud,
Cross-grain’d, uncivil;
Their tones wax’d loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbow’d and jostled her,
Claw’d with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
Twitch’d her hair out by the roots,
Stamp’d upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,—
Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone
Lash’d by tides obstreperously,—
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,—
Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,—
Like a royal virgin town
Topp’d with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer’d by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her,
Coax’d and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Kick’d and knock’d her,
Maul’d and mock’d her,
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh’d into the ground,
Some div’d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish’d in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,—
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear’d some goblin man
Dogg’d her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she prick’d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch’d her hair:
“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin’d in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”—
She clung about her sister,
Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
Tears once again
Refresh’d her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loath’d the feast:
Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks stream’d like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense fail’d in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topp’d waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watch’d by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laugh’d in the innocent old way,
Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
“For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.”

In Broken Images

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Ron Hicks, Gray Day, Milan

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves

Crabbed Age and Youth

Crabbed Age and Youth
Cannot live together:
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,
Age like winter bare:
Youth is full of sports,
Age’s breath is short,
Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold,
Youth is wild, and Age is tame:-
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee;
O! my Love, my Love is young!
Age, I do defy thee-
O sweet shepherd, hie thee,
For methinks thou stay’st too long.

-Shakespeare


I also happened to start and finish reading Tuesday’s with Morrie yesterday. A wonderful book on youth and ageing and dealing with dying. 


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt

Autonomy

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You must remember Tim,
Tim was the little boy, whom life
handed a blank slate, and when Tim
asked – what should I do with it
Life replied – why Tim anything you like

Tim is also the little boy
The little boy who doesn’t conform
Tim, our Tim, is the Tim, who doesn’t give a fuck

Tim has independent thought
A much scarce resource in our times –
autonomy – he owns his life’s plot
Even if it doesn’t work out some times.


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt

Aimless

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Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was as white as snow,
and everywhere that Mary went
the lamb was sure to go.

But, of course, the lamb is just a metaphor
For Mary’s clingy friend Christopher
This timeless rhyme is actually about
How aimless Christopher never comes out

It followed her to school one day,
Which was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.

So in the end when the children cry
Why the lamb loves Mary so?
The teacher in her reply, meant to state –
When you can’t dream, you learn to imitate.


Here is an alternate ending to this poem –

Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was as white as snow,
and everywhere that Mary went
the lamb was sure to go.

But, of course, the lamb is just a metaphor
For Mary’s clingy friend Christopher
This timeless rhyme is actually about
How aimless Christopher never comes out

He follows her to school one day,
And even when the teacher turns him out
He patiently waits about
Till Mary re-appears.

Why does the lamb trail Mary though?
The eager children cry;
Why, if you can’t lead, you have to follow
The teacher thus replies.


Which one do you like ?


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt
Picture Credits – here.

Perfect

Stand up, sit down,
Do this, don’t do that
Write in cursive,
Speak in bold
Life your chin,
put your chest out
pull up your jeans
button your shirt
don’t gel your hair
don’t laugh so much
cover your mouth
while you sneeze
don’t let your hair
fly in the breeze
don’t lie, don’t cheat
no funny business in the backseat
Be kind to women
and to kids
do not call anyone
a pig
no cussing, no curses
respect the Church
and you must worship
not just your work, but also god
follow the rules, even when
they are flawed
stand up, sit down,
your back, keep it straight
there you go, now you are Perfect.


In response to today’s Daily Prompt

Connected.

“A call for Mr. Hopkins from Mr. Bell,” said the operator
Click. Snap. Click. Done.
“Mr. Bell, you are connected. Go ahead and take the call.”
Mr. Bell, “well this is awkward, I much rather fancy the telegram”

Ting, ting, press, click.
90-912-334
Press phone button.
Really old Nokia Phone.
Connected.
“Hi darling, well this is awkward,
I much rather fancy the phone”.

Speed Dial. Press 1.
Call Tim. Connected.
Tim cannot be reached right now.
Please leave a message after the beep

“Can’t reach you! What is the point of
all this connectedness? ”

<Enter social media mode name>
Click Message. Connected
Type – call me Clara.
One tick, two ticks,
Ticks turn blue.
Clara is typing…
“quite much like modern-day telegram
isn’t this?”

The circle is complete, connected.
Not yet, wait.

In the wee morning hours,
Lying in bed Macy’s lazy hand
reaches for Mike,
Mike is away for a jog.
Macy thinks – I am making pancakes.
Connected.
5 miles away, Mike smiles.


In response to today’s WordPress Prompt

Blank

Tim was given a blank slate.
” What do I do with this?”, asked Tim.
“Why Tim, anything you like, anything”, replied Life.

So, Tim, took a white chalk
and drew, and scribbled, and wrote
Till his friends called out to him
“Lets go Tim, lets go out for a walk”

Life looked at the white slate,
“Tim has done his bit, now so should I”,
And in threw life –
influences, surroundings, experiences ornate

But Tim had free-will, and every time
Life wrote on the slate
Tim said, “Oh no you don’t, that’s mine,
It’s mine to dictate.”

Life wrote, Tim erased,
Tim created, life debased
On it went – Life, Tim and the slate
Back home, they called it – Tim’s fate.


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt

 

 

Phase

image

It’s just a phase
And like all else
This too shall pass,
Said she, when he told
Her – I love you

It’s just a phase
And like all else
This too shall pass,
Said she, when her family
Lost all their fortune.

It’s just a phase
And like all else
This too shall pass
Said she, when her sister
Battled depression and doubt

After the night,
Comes the day
After the day,
Comes the night
Life is in phases
And everything passes.
Everything –


In response to today’s daily post prompt
Image link here

South

country-picture-england

I will be going South
in a few weeks
not the metaphorical south
but the real one

There is a fear, it is yet unformed
what will happen in the South?
anxiety always has been  a part of anticipation,
the resistance before the adaptation

I have gone South many times before
the metaphorical south, not the real
Experience such has shaped my being
Without going South, I wouldn’t be me.


In response to today’s Daily Post Prompt

 

Chaos

He tells her how his days pass,full of desire for her and her body,
he tells her how he longs to touch her and the things he will do to her

And there is chaos in her head, in her thought.

Chaos, chaos – the loss of words, the loss of thought
None of that heart skipping a beat!
Primal raw need, that is her chaos, and his.


In response to today Daily Post Prompt

Crossroads

when a lover stands at the crossroads of telling her the truth or making it seem reasonable – 

ron hicks paintings woman
afternoon at a cafe

Should I tell her now, as it is
or should I, after some, analysis ?

Should I make-up a story, a tale around
my behaviour, a good solid background?
Or should I tell her straight
of my scheming ways, all these days?

She loves me and she trusts me
but I am rotten from the inside
Rotten, rotten, rotten –
How can she trust me?
what does she see?
why does she love, me?


In response to today’s Daily Prompt
Image link here

Earth

earth-day-image

A thousand years ago
humans still fought
a thousand years from then
power is still sought

A thousand years ago
some ideas were too radical
a thousand years from then
some ideas are still not rational

The Selfish Gene survives
as the Earth gets flatter,
Here around –
the ideas don’t matter


In response to today's Daily Prompt
Image Link - here

Locked

ron hicks validity

There was a house in the street
this house was always locked
Everyday life moved around it
and no-one ever bothered to knock

Late in the night when life became still
One could hear the house talk
But no-one ever bothered to knock
And the house remain locked

Such is life, it always moves around
And no-one often knows
what resides behind
locked doors –


In response to today Daily Prompt -
Image link - here

Fog

girl in fog.jpg

It was a foggy night
when I walked into your house
wearing nothing underneath
the tight velvet coat

It was also a foggy night
when I held his hand
and spoke for hours
ignorant of what it meant

It was a foggy night
when you too broke my heart
and I always thought
it was the fog
which tore us apart –


In response to WordPress's The Daily Post Prompt - Fog
Image Credits - here

Choice

 

girl at bar
bar at the folies bergere by Edouard Manet

Choice

Dear men,
If a woman expects you to pay for
your first date or the latter ones,
don’t date her.

For every dumb girl you meet,
10 smarter ones are out there
the metaphorical cake here
you either have or eat.


Thought 
There is a plan in the unplanned unfolding of life.
 And the plan is, for you to see.

Image Credits – here.

 

The secret

And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.

bw-black-and-white-couple-cute-favim-com-3581377

I loved thee, though I told thee not,
Right earlily and long,
Thou wert my joy in every spot,
My theme in every song.

And when I saw a stranger face
Where beauty held the claim,
I gave it like a secret grace
The being of thy name.

And all the charms of face or voice
Which I in others see
Are but the recollected choice
Of what I felt for thee.

– John Clare

Giving up smoking


There’s not a Shakespeare sonnet
Or a Beethoven quartet
That’s easier to like than you
Or harder to forget.

You think that sound’s extravagant?
I haven’t finished yet –
I like you more than I would like
To have a cigarette.

– Wendy Cope, 1945


 

He asked me why I don’t open up

quietPlace
A quiet place – Ron Hicks

Like a strong dose of oxygen he jumped into my life. He gave me his words and he took some of mine. Slowly he started to care, hurriedly too much he shared. He would look at me softly in the eye, and ask me – what is the reason, why are you so shy? I could not look back, I could not look up, I would just be quiet and I would just smile.

He asked me often, why don’t you open, why don’t you open up? I would take his hands, I would place them in mine, I would let him hold me, as I slept by his side.

I let him hold me, I let him take my words, he did not know but I had already opened up.

He told me then he did not love me,
he walked me to his door and softly kissed me.

I see my words crumble,
Into the elevator as I stumble
In my head I hysterically laugh
this is the reason why
I don’t open up.

He called her Carolina

walkway_picture.jpg

I want to build a shack on a shore that looks like a shipwreck on sand with a lighthouse on top. She would stand in a slanting titanic position and go by the name Cafe Carolina…
And inside there would be bars, cafes, restaurants with big ass balconies
And cute waitresses in pirate outfits.

And while sad men would gather around the poker table
And while some always won for some lost
Some happier than some not
Breezy still knew all his bluffs from far away
sharpening his cue near the snooker table post.

And yes, She would flick her knife at him from under the hat
And yes, he would kiss an older woman
who would beat all the younger ones by miles at that..
And while strangers would find their world strange
The penthouse would floor itself in Penrose tiles..
The cartoonist around the blue horizon
would still be sketching the comic strip of post modern lives..
The Jazz would still be conspiring without any given lies.

Carolina took in all.. the old, the bald, the tall
the ones judgemental, the ones not at all..
Against the bright orange sunset
Against the all powerful judgemental god
That day Carolina stood tall.


A gem by a friend of mine, yes you have read his works, but in case you haven’t here they are

Do not go gentle into that good night

294f99c4875414e3fd44763cb36ed180

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas

Make elephant faces at each other.. and later share a laugh together.

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I miss you, I am a bit stoned, but I miss you none the less.
I see traces of you in the fading memories of our evenings shared
It’s been so long you are almost missing in even the towns of my past
I cannot gather your face and yet I still remember..
I remember how you tilted your head a little every time you smiled
I remember the time we spent beside the pond to later chase the bus
I remember the times when life was still full of possibilities
and how we dreamed of so many that never got found..
I remember you..

I remember the things you said and yet didn’t
And yet I cant find you in the towns of my past..
I have fallen in love with many and have fallen out of love
I have been to lands far, quite far
And I will be there in some period of my life,
In an airport of some part of the world,
I will be there and you will be too, playing with your little daughter
I would be surprised to know you have aged with me too..
For in my memories you are still looking down at a page full of equations that you don’t quite get
And chew a fat strand of your hair in the process..
And while a beautiful girl would be kind enough to bring coffee for her and for me too..
I would see two versions of you..
Make elephant faces at each other.. and later share a laugh together.

– Maverick


 

This friend of mine, a physicist, wrote this poem. He will probably put it up on his blog ( yes, he sketches too, a cartoonist he is) too but then he is very lazy. But if you have really liked his poem, then please like it here.