Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Monday, March 4, 2013

My favorite poets so far

So, let me begin to tell you of my favorite poets so far. These are not all the poets I love but the relatively less popular ones whom you must read for pure delight and amusement. Most of the poets I mention here don't use heavy vocabulary and I feel their joy lies in that. Consider it as a post on my favorite quotes or poems, the kind that catch your eye and you want to quote them often. Also, I am not telling you why you should read them. I will only tell you how I found them.

Rilke, Lorca, Pessoa, Brautigan, Dunn

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
So, I was absolutely, hopelessly in love and wanted to write beautiful words to someone when I was in school. I used to be a big fan of Ruskin Bond and one of my favorite Bond poems is It isn't time that's passing by (Read it here: ruskin bond | Tumblr). I vaguely remembered the last few lines:
 

"This was your song:
It isn’t time that’s passing by,
It is you and I."

I guess something that draws me into poems is the idea of a broken situation. I also believe that the best love stories usually have no ending and that once you get to know someone, you can never get to un-know them really. Similar with love, once in love you can change the manifestations of concern but the relationship never ends. That's Rilke for me.
Here are my favorite lines that I hope will initiate you into reading him:

"For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
Which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so,
 Because it serenely disdains to destroy us.
Every angel is terrible"

Rilke reads: Duino Elegies, Letters to a young poet


Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
You find your poets in the most unlikely destinations, like recently I've been finding my music in television serial scores. Someone told me they learned Spanish only to read Lorca. Curiously, I looked him up and found the most beautiful Oxford Press book on Gigapedia with Lorca poems and parallel Spanish text (See here: Selected Poems: Federico García Lorca). Someone actually printed the book and gifted it to me. Someone else has my copy and Gigapedia is dead. Here is a mashup I wrote with a Lorca poem: Absent Soul|Yellow mouldy tattered paper. Also, you should know he loved the moon and lilies. The most dreadful Lorca metaphor:

"Death laid its eggs in the wound"

Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935)
This Portugese poet is a crazy find. Pessoa wrote his works under at least 81 different names. I heard someone talking about him at the dinner table and was so intrigued I had to look him up. If you are hopeless in a way that you have come a full circle and are jaded, Pesso will sing your song. That's what he did to me at least. At times when I am restless, I feel like him. Read:

"Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my  imagination and its contents, my personality - it's all evaporating. I  continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else,  that I thought something else. What I'm attending here is a show with  another set. And the show I'm attending is myself."

There is this wonderful blog that has many of his poems. You might want to start here: Poems of Fernando Pessoa


Richard Brautigan (1935-1984)
I discovered Brautigan on my way to Haiku. He is a minimalist poet from America. I have multiple Brautigan favorites but here's something so darn cute.

Boo Forever: 
"Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you. "

If you liked this, read It's Raining in Love, I feel horrible, she doesn't and Love Poem

Stephen Dunn (1939)
To be honest, Stephen Dunn isn't my discovery. I read a few lines posted by a friend and was so moved that I knew I had to look him up. I found him very recently and kept forgetting his name until I wrote it down. Here are the first lines that drew me to him:

"Tell your lovers the world
robs us is so many ways
that a caress is your wayof taking something back"

I think what Dunn does most beautifully is chop them sentences really hard, just where they are meant to. It's like a crisp dish, just warm enough, living up to every dream you might have had of how it tastes.
If you want to read more, try If a Clown and Testimony

That's all from me. Happy poetry reading :-)

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Dying in the dreams

2:57 PM A: have you ever died in ur dreams?
2:58 PM Me: yeah
two times at least

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have dead forever.

A: what happened after that?
Me: I was wide eyed dying on the street
I couldn't help dying
but I wanted to not die

The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever

A: you saw it in third person?
Me: no
2:59 PM I could feel it
like game over
like this is finally happening to me
A: wow that's cool!
Me: and dying can feel really flatly dead

The autumn will come with small white snails,
misty grapes and clustered hills,
but no one will look into your eyes
because you have died forever.

A:hmm...
I died last night
for the first time
Me: then?
A: didn't feel anything
Bomb blast

Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the earth,
like all the dead who are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

Me: didn't you feel parts of you dangle and fly?
3:00 PM A: no
Me: or at least some ugly burns
A: I was too close to the blast
Me: Boom

Nobody knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

A: yeah
Me: and you were dead
A: then I became a ghost, and started spying on people
anyways
It was on my mind, I thought no one died, since no1 knows how it feels

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

(Absent soul- Federico Garcia Lorca)

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

In buckets, a dozen by the port

The fish that stays suspended in water,
Opened in the middle like your coral powder box,
The fish onomatopoeic, resounds like the slap on your rounded buttock,
The fish ever emerging and dipping in, disappearing, like the splattering saliva
from the peaks of your excitement;
The fish when I rub it to the cheek,
Like your bony hands greased by caressing machines day long,
Is the so edible love letter that I write and eat away and bite and eat away,
Make another,
End up buying a fine one and in the honor of your ordinary, naive, not sufficiently emotive self,
My fantasies of you and the fish make the romance worthwhile.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Barber art

There was some actual(pictorial) art which is yet to be added.

Teeth between gaps
Tongue swipes like my ATM card
Crooked nod with a square smile
I want the one who looks down

Please comb with a drop of oil
Park the mush with a neat street in between
They are snorting in the garage
My backups for generator

Bread and butter
Bread and butter
Bread and butter

Please make me a fluff gummy bear for the date
The butterfly by the sill
Buried three inches deep
Her white little feet, in my soap tub

Eyes, gray tin pods
Black balls tilt from one to other end
When I don't scrub or chip cuticles
Her double chin, quick!

Throw the head back and laugh along!
Or, tape it.

Ribbons, clamps, rods, claws, china clay
Acne, fish fat, bleach.
Strap, stick, smooth, pull.
Bubble: Cinderella, make the mirror say it!

Tittick tittick... Six it is

Save me from myself!
(Please mix some alligator skin with herb)
Page me when the hemline's stained
Save me, please, bail me out
from the terror of beauty,
from barb(a)er-ious art!

Ps. I, the barber, lose faith in the truth of beauty by the day. So is the terror of this art that heaves upon me, the Godly maker, convincing me of increasingly hideous ordinary objects around.

Monday, May 18, 2009

She knows what she wants, at last

Is intestine deep sour and nostalgically pinched in all her vocal chords where a flood just passed by hitting the walls of insane uncertain gestures. I am trying to search for meaning and happiness. i am trying to search for a lot of dependability. She is off to the river banks where the sun sets and the waters are scanty. She wants peace, and understands how the heart suffers. This is what she wants alleviating from.

I have some talking to do
to the self
and some convincing
or there will be a heartbreak of a cloud
and a rainfall of words
have to drag the treasure to the cliff
and see it divulge in the orange brown sky
Take that treasure to the heights
Where everything else seems smaller in the eyes
Where wind blows at a startling Speed
Where u feel there is nothing else u need
Rational Thoughts Amalgamate with Irrational ones
The Outcome of the same is the one
The Solace it would provide would be on a skew
But you would be sure that there is something up new.

At last she wept. And there was rain brimming the roadside cups, the flautist just continued, never woken...

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Running amok

Stones are walking backwards by me
Cars are bumping into me all along
I seem to pull the rain so down
The yellow hat can't fly back up again
Sandal shape invaded by my toes
The road is gathered more and more
Like a seven meter sari and my greed for all its ends
Running tunes are grabbed by me
Poor notes are chewed out helpless
As the clothes are hurled into bags
Their peace is disturbed by all my drone
Even the last of laughs is not spared
They are all pasted with glue to my lips
The chair swivels under my bum's weight
All the mint washed down in my belly
So many missed rings are buzzed to lure
But the answers are never picked by me
The world seems spinning and riveting
Off and even out of bounds
Wonders comes to the back of mind
When I realize
I am restless and my hands
Are unscrewing the well fit globe.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Lesser words, more images

I
What was above the bed?
The empty ceiling sheilding more questions
lying beyond in the hermit sky.

What was under the bed?
The dead cockroach flakes
warm at peace.

II
Residue of exhausted lungs
Like Periwinkles on your doormat
Too dear to discard that
You silently elbow them
With closed eyes.

III
Donot claw at the dust
Leaves grain in your nails
Look straight, keep staring

Until the dawn sweeps in
Its blinding light
And you become numb
With fresh air.