Poetry is wonderful. From my first poem written on the Goth invasion of Rome, to my latest Indigo – it has been a fun ride. I will not say that I polished my skills. Poems become better as your mind grows. If you’ve been writing with a same stagnant style for a long time, understand that you’re stuck. You need to flow. Yeah baby. For fellow Indians – Behene De. The lyrics, dear bits of population. Listen to the words he sings.
Uncontrolled Frank Poetry is an explicit expression, a state of mind and a work of art. It is like a blind splash of colors on a virgin canvas. And that gentle wonder in the eyes of the artist, when he sees the perfect shades thus created. Here, in this post, I would like to share some snippets of my poems over time. From my old blog, mainly. That was where I wrote most of them.
It’s my old song bouncing around
On my walls, it paints my heart,
On my walls, it paints my world red
Oh golly, my old song bounces around
In glee, In glee.
From Old Song Bouncing On My Walls
I looked up again.
Believing myself to be in my Twenties.
The tea was all of Forties.
But that one crazy sky above was younger than us.
And its passion was driving me crazy.
My silly ol’ Sky was Eighteen and I’d fallen for it.
From Sky’s Eighteen
Mind knew no Body
It was everywhere around us
It lived our dreams then.
Her touch was unreal.
Her words, even more.
She said it then, I remember.
She said it and she held on to me tight.
And we smiled.
And then she slept again.
As stubborn as a thought could be.
From My Stubborn Poem
Youuuu keep my brain working, baby!
Youuuu, I truly won’t flatter.
Youuuu, keep my kidneys working, baby!
Youuuu fill up my bladder.
Annie fills up John Denver’s senses.
But you, Coffee, make me lose mine.
From The Coffee Song
Words often don’t make sense.
They just tumble out,
And it’s even funnier
Because the chatter is silent,
And it’s the nib that does the talking.
Words often limit our thoughts
For they have a structure
And poetry is simply an attempt
at forging the Unknown.
An extempore play,
When the mind is set loose
Upon one’s world.
Is this poetry?
I do not know.
I’ll call it words, structured.
To soothe me early this morning.
Random thoughts kiss me good morning.
From They Kissed Me Good Morning
Though my Spirit tries hard
To escape into the skies
Love keeps it among others
Is unbearable indeed.
From The Unbearable Lightness Indeed
What is a Question
but an answer in itself?
What came first, the chicken or the egg?
Or the mind that asked?
From Mind That Asked
I taste the air
For the first time
Since I closed the doors
And stood out
Against the illusory walls.
One step on the solid air
For the Air, I build.
Child of the High Winds
From High Winds