Posted in Perturbations

Not a poet

The ritual

To have mother’s breath on your forehead,

The warmth of her blessings,

That Pink and honey of cherry blossom,

The tenderness of breeze,

The scent of spring

And the passionate yearnings of love,

All escapes me

I write on a quiet Monday noon

And at numbness of still midnights,

With swollen aching feet

While the madness in me

Flows on paper to find comfort

And smiles with pride.

~**~

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Posted in Gotta tell you!

How I understand poetry

White Space

Here I sit,
at my word pro,

the white space
staring me down,
but not out.

I experiment,
juxtaposing
pseudo-random words
into pretentious,
premeditated
poetry.

Then with an afflatus,
words flow,
whispered by my muse,
into lines and stanzas.

~ By Peter E. Williams

What is poetry? The crafting of words? You are driven by an afflatus, pick up an idea and decorate it with words as cleverly, as beautifully and as effectively as you can. Is it a false rendition of a truth? But where is the truth? It renders someones perspective only which might not be true. As a matter of fact, any form of art cannot be measured up to materialistic truth but to the higher truth. That is why an artist is said to be closer to the god, to the ultimate truth. The less materialism it conveys, the finer is the work. Poetry is not just about arrangement of words. It is about the realm of imagination, about subtleness, fineness, exquisiteness and craftsmanship.  It’s the transition from material realities – its falseness to the imaginary progression. When you are capable of sensing the subtle physical/material quality of words and imagination, you understand its falseness, the illusion it creates. Words or imagination are never the truth. They are born and they die. And when you transcend them you land into the realm of mystics.

**

Posted in Collections, Poetry

For the Traveler

Every time you leave home,
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.

When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you.

~ John O’Donoghue

* Free image saved from Google.

Posted in Poetry

Old & New

Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not.
Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own.
Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger.
I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter;
I forget that there abides the old in the new,
and that there also thou abidest.
Through birth and death, in this world or in others,
wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same,
the one companion of my endless life
who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.
When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut.
Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose
the bliss of the touch of the one
in the play of many.

**

* Image saved from Google.

Posted in Poetry

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

**

* Image: Google

Posted in Collections, Poetry

Closed Path

I thought that my voyage had come to its end

at the last limit of my power, that the path before me was closed,

that provisions were exhausted

and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.

But I find that thy will knows no end in me.

And when old words die out on the tongue,

new melodies break forth from the heart;

and where the old tracks are lost,

new country is revealed with its wonders.

* Free image saved from Google.