the heart of life (artwork)

and this, my friend, is the heart of life...

shirt

buttons on with hair on them,

and a girl that once

grew with my sleeve;

a bag of straps that overflow

to hammer-heart in elastic breeze

the only thing felt odd about

is to elbow through

an elbow pleat;

and embarrassment to live without,

hence clinging to the column spree

Could be the most personal bunch of lines I’ve ever written. Dan Dunn wears one too (many, actually) and so does Anthony Montana. I wear a shirt and I like wearing it: Kind of not entirely one for ‘slipping it on’.

Read this if you like your shirt. Like this if you’re wearing one.

summons

Another paranoid piece of messed-up fiction that I came up with. Messed up because it's half untrue. And don't even ask me about the other half, okay?

not another word that fails

to get my mind a mind divide;

like dirt upon a standard spade

that digs out everything I find

in my hand this diamond held,

sparkling in the night that shines

the air around, of shoeshine self,

in a winter that it left behind

so wind it up, I need the hour

of water cans in garden ride;

you know I’d use it, and use it good,

if you could get back to my life

'Little Rhymes'? Oh, I don't care where this goes. I just wanted it outside my head so I could see it new; see you new and find something out of that. Let me not state the obvious (unless you'd guess it anyway).

tomorrow

Guess I didn’t quite ask myself the obvious, but why is this an important thing to have written about? And for once, you know, I guess I could answer that. Because there’s this feeling of being too much in a dream that one forgets to be real? No it’s not an ‘Inception’ thing, I’m not one for it, but it’s just… everything happens in a dream, everything’s within reach that the fight of reality almost turns absurd and postponing becomes the thing to do.

tomorrow

crossroads up a road ahead,

count of miles tonight in bed;

a shorter foot and two a pace,

I’d get there even at half the rate

farther with the fight of fog,

frozen to the closest spot;

peeking through the ice around,

with warmth I sent to sit it out

same about the state of her,

half my thoughts, digested words;

struggle spent to make the plane,

and steal a smile and know her name

staring at the mountain wrought,

digging in and digging round;

a minute off my mind, withdrawn,

from the song called ‘do it now’

gutter stench on surface felt,

on every moment passing by;

I take today to wish me well,

tomorrow’s when I live my life

yesterday

yesterday I found this thought,

to write it in, to write it out;

reminded me of fallen stars,

of folded papers, golden clouds

I stand myself in the thick of rain,

hope to find you there again;

in water with my mind awash,

I close my eyes, and that is all.

I might frown at the finale, I’m getting too obsessed, kind of. Maybe that’s wrong, but I don’t know, maybe that’s exactly what’s right about me? But I hate this, you know. Not how I sometimes defy it, but I hate how I live exactly what I write at times, and how they’re almost always exactly traumatic. And the strangest, yet most obvious thing is that I’d never want to do anything about it. To ‘YOU’.

THE HEART OF LIFE

This had been coming on for a while, when I had thought of an uncle who had died sixteen years before and how I strangely hadn’t missed him at all and that’s only because I never knew him enough to miss him. And it’s like, every single time that a person I knew has died, I’ve never felt a pang of thought that lasted too long, I’m not specifying days here for I myself am not aware of when my thoughts had moved on. The mind had put this thought of mine to a self-evaluating module, and I figured that every single person who I knew had died had somehow left my life or had become sort of temporarily detached (for ‘left’ sounds too insensitive of me) from my day-to-day deal and had embarked on something without me that every time I had heard the news, I had to grieve over a memory and just a memory at that, and as vivid as I claim my memories to be, I don’t think they’re that powerful though. Or maybe I’m aware that they’re just memories and nothing more.

Constant chant of ‘Who am I?’

a cog that turns the wheel of time;

stalling trying to turn it back,

a sideward slide, then running fast

No time to spend on those who came,

weakened with the bright of day

and left before they caught my sight,

or those who made no mark inside

Of those who left some depth explored,

in photographs and things they wrote,

of family and closest kin,

of odours that once washed my wind

They left indeed with said goodbyes,

ensued deletions off my mind;

for finer weeks and Sunday stops,

with conscience finds in ration lost

In times but I do think of them,

and maybe wonder where they went;

and an inside view on outside passed,

a scorch of eyes and stroke of hair

And water finds no slight of salt,

in resolve to live ahead without;

my worry lines in ‘fine’, disguised,

and that, my friend, is the heart of life…

I don’t know if this is an apology note on my part or merely a self-directed justification to a skeptical being inside me, but yes, this is yet another addition to my ‘Little Rhymes’. And by the way, this is NOT my version of the Mayer song. It's just a poem that's named the same, and I wish for that clarity of thought in those who read it.

MISERY

I'm aware it's a little more 'Half Nelson' than I intended it to be, and a lot of previous lines too, yeah. But still, it's kind of a break-through. I'm proud of it like I'm proud of everything I've given birth to, and subsequently disowned.

When have I rejoiced

in the vitality of life

to know for a fact

that I haven’t died?

When would this cold

help rid me some flesh

so I can feel to the bone,

unsheathed from the comb?

When would my night

be spent in the day,

with the time I’m awake

and things done would stay?

The answer to lies

in moments of truth,

with poison in mind

lies sweetness construed?

Walking to wind up

with circles of thought,

and helical advancements

in safety be brought…

And an alternate being

would wake up to her,

and lie without shame

and smile from the dirt.

'Little Rhymes' sees an addition after quite a while, and so does my poetry folder. Felt like Dan Dunne finally wrote his novel, but I know I just scraped half a page. 'To you', as usual.

'SPHERE' OF THOUGHT.

It's not the kindling of poetry, not the trigger of efflux, you know. I lay on my bed, gaze at my ceiling fan go about its chore, and I get up with four lines in mind that I didn't want to waste because of the same.

"White noise from my ceiling fan,
tranquil when I'm self-absorbed;
but when in bed, its chaos felt,
is this what clarity has brought?"

This isn't the first time, I've always seen right from when I knew to 'see', that the blades are deceptive. And no one can actually tell which way the fan's rotating unless they've seen it go from first shot, and face it: You wouldn't think it's worth the time. And that led to something like a 'Dreamers' extrapolation, like how you see the chaos only when you're absorbed in it, and that means an absorption out of yourself, which is like egesting yourself out of your inside, a self-hurl, you know, and without it it's poetry. And it surprises me how something can be two separate worlds, totally unconnected, but then again, your mind and 'everything else' are sort of contrasts too, so it would only explain and strengthen why there's a difference. But that also undoubtedly raises the question as to what is 'sane': Is it the chaos, or is it the poetry, or is it the very stout line in between that finds it could accommodate more than ninety nine on hundred, or exponents of the same? And that is not a scary thought, but certainly not answerable. Because it's just a frame of mind, an interstice between two phases of when I'd think I know what I'm doing, as opposed to when I'd admit that I don't have a clue.

I'm hungry. 'Certainly'.

'ORANGE'.

Came up because of a couple of things. A curious analogy and 'Cello Song'. The first has to do with the painful thought that the independent is best when left alone, although it's her company I'm bound to strive for. Something I tagged immediately to a girl with a basket of oranges, who wouldn't accept my help or the fallen orange offered, letting what she left to stay left behind. Second's the immense rush of orange patterns visualized as Nick Drake kisses his 'Cello Song' to life. But it's predominantly a contest on 'shade' that I made up in mind, myself. Something 'she' is oblivious about.

"A cloud of thought
its stalk to poke,
a pulp descent in mind, provoked;
enchanted hum of 'Cello Song',
in worldliness
of world beyond;
a slither down the air, amused,
its wither render gases bruised,
of flaming mistress -
her one-eyed stare,
and eye-patch time of sibling pairs;
atrocities of feudal kind,
in work of wonder, of art, defied;
and excrement
and the find of fall,
and treachery, and truth
but most of all
the auburn maiden, her basket full,
her weight in whole in dangle, would;
the poet's eyes
in eloquence, trace,
in frailty, her shirk of grace,
and of rescue aimed at fallen fruit,
in heart despair,
her mind intrudes;
his final flash of fondest smile,
for scarlet stained,
her eyes beguiled..."

I don't think I did justice, or at least that hasn't found its way to me yet: A sense of being engulfed by myself. If it does, I'd live with it. If it doesn't, I won't say it aloud. Fifth in line to 'Little Rhymes', a burp to spike the spark of mind.

'ODYSSEY'.

Couldn't help but feel there was something stellar about this. One of the most accidental of things, though, I don't remember, I don't even know if I intended to write anything on these lines, and the beginning hardly seems to be a 'beginning', or so I think, but I love the way it shaped up. Not like 'self love', I see it through entirely different eyes, a sort of self to non-self admiration, which would mean it's only true that I consider myself the creator solely when I create and I'm just another person when reviewing what's been created. Same crazy fan, same ruthless critic. But only saner, I suppose.

"Shuttle to that forlorn star,
in gases, through,
in void be caught;
paying heed to hasty hit,
plastic sheet on cosmic drip,
frosted in, from fall to fall,
when in her heart,
would warmth embalm...

A thousand miles in years,
in trance,
from stagger-through
to float, enhanced;
in tranquil rid, this siege reside,
in dream, in dream,
in dream, no sight...

A flash, a burn, a shattered vibe,
of blindness fee
for truth imbibed;
her eyes, her eyes, for self abscond,
for fear and doubt,
in hope be gone..."

To you. I see no other place where this could possibly come from. I don't see where else this could go, either. A picture to adorn what's yours: Your name. Enough said.

VERSE.

I wasn't sure of anything when I wrote this. Thought I had it done when I rode back to my room, wishing to flush it off my mind, onto here and for all I know, I might as well have stopped with the whole thing, deeming final that which didn't even make it to here, but something didn't feel right and I couldn't possibly have gone ahead with what didn't appeal even to me, that's a disqualification at first level, a debar. And then this came along, unintentional. Iced-punch over a furnace, and I thought I'd take it, for I'm burning already.

Inspire within, an inside sight
from myself to myself, a window:
an 'inside in' for outside view,
an orphan gift of escape route,
of citizenship of world bereft,
of sunshine, oceans and buckets in red,
dripping of this melon slice,
on featherbed tongue
with my nose on my eyes.

I was delighted when I was done. It's the sort of delight that engulfs when you had no idea as to what you were doing when you were doing it, and when you liked what you got when you thought you were 'done' (although you would have had no clue as to whether you were really 'done' when you thought so). If you do not empathize with this scenario, then find and replace 'you' with 'I' in your mental word processor. I'm sure it takes lesser time.

On shallow convention, and law abide,
'unrest' is my word, whilst you belong
to dream, to sleep in world of song,
where rugs are warm, rags in knit,
thirsts all quenched, of fires unlit.

This fits too, strangely, and this is officially what missed out, being an entire mismatch in intention and purpose, it was an aberration for sure. I wanted this out of that document.

ANGRY CAT

I don't know when exactly this happened, or maybe I do. Wait, yes I do. It was when I was making this right turn on my cycle, inside campus (I'm sticking to just this detail, because people outside might not connect right if I got down to particulars) and I thought, "and so, the angry cat said 'I'm on fire.'". I guess it had something to do with state of mind (as if it it's not, any time!) because I remember that I was being rather 'angry', because I know I was angry the whole of last week and it was only the night of Friday, the nineteenth that was an exception (not to mention the early morning hours of the twentieth) and I didn't develop on that, I merely had this idea where a cat gets set on fire (an outside act) and it sets itself on fire (an inside, personal act) just to counter the fire that's been set on it. Like, fighting fire with fire.

Collar tight,
whiskers spewed,
a sunset stare
with frisks of fuel;
an arched stance
to face her tired,
the angry cat said
"I'm on fire."

It's not unexplainable that everything I conceive always makes this shift of perspective... no, not of perspective, but of subjectivity, from me to 'her', and I guess it's always something about her and it's like I cannot do anything about it. Because that's 'her', you know. That's you: Someone this poem wouldn't exist without? Yes, pretty much.

I made a document called 'LITTLE RHYMES' and I added this to it, along with my previous one. That means I'm sticking to my word, with PVA glue. (No idea as to what that expands to)

BEWAILING YOU.

Little thoughts that come and go, and I usually let them go, always hoping for the really big ones to come, or else stretch the little ones to something big, perhaps so much that it ends up sounding odd than convincing. I guess that's what a 'mismatch' or 'inappropriate' means. So, as a new resolution, I had decided to not let the little affectations leave unseen, and I have resolved to not make a mountain out of them either. Let them be the sand dunes they are.

If you are just a wisp of smoke,
that deep inside, my lung behold,
with every gesture,
every quote,
a tenner touch, to thousandfold;
and poles of heat in cold, apart,
my force of say, this wind retards;
in heaven stead,
in hell construed,
struggling for a moment's truth...

But you are just a wisp of smoke,
in daffodils and diamonds, clothed;
no ocean strained,
no feather moved,
as off my chest, to the world I blew.

I wish this comes to be the first of many. It feels bad not doing anything, but it's worse to leave something hanging, I guess. I won't do that.

LINES

I thought I’d name this post as ‘Rhyme and Reason’, on a personal point of view that the said terms can never come together, as one has to always have an element of absurdity or at least, ‘obscurity’ for the sake of rhyme and no, it’s not a compromise, it’s just words slowing down for the tune to run with them, and once the pace is set, they’d just quicken together.

“words are stalled in a line,

it’s tough to make up my mind,

‘cause there’s not much of

rhyme in reason;

this is just my rhyme”

Setting aside the fact that I got to write ordinary lines, there’s a hint of pride that I got to twiddle my first tune and associate legit words to it. Very simple, and I got reminded of a ‘Swell Season’ song called ‘The Verb’, so I thought I’d write something sober, yet emotional, reminiscent of the stuff that Glen Hansard comes up with. So I guess this could be my tribute to him and to ‘Miss Incredible’ Marketa Irglova, and to the amazing music and lyrics that they come up with, solely to mesmerize and induce an amount of joy that can’t quite be paralleled. ‘Strict Joy’, as they put it themselves.

I’m not going to complete the song. I don’t know enough notes to do so.