Do you have any more poems of yours that you could share

Do you have any more poems of yours that you could share?


ये शरद के चांद-से उजले धुले-से पांव,
मेरी गोद में !
ये लहर पर नाचते ताज़े कमल की छांव,
मेरी गोद में !
दो बड़े मासूम बादल, देवताओं से लगाते दांव,
मेरी गोद में !
रसमसाती धूप का ढलता पहर,
ये हवाएं शाम की, झुक-झूमकर बरसा गईं
रोशनी के फूल हरसिंगार-से,
प्यार घायल सांप-सा लेता लहर,
अर्चना की धूप-सी तुम गोद में लहरा गईं
ज्यों झरे केसर तितलियों के परों की मार से,
सोनजूही की पंखुरियों से गुंथे, ये दो मदन के बान,
मेरी गोद में !
हो गये बेहोश दो नाजुक, मृदुल तूफ़ान,
मेरी गोद में !
ज्यों प्रणय की लोरियों की बांह में,
झिलमिलाकर औ’ जलाकर तन, शमाएं दो,
अब शलभ की गोद में आराम से सोयी हुई
या फ़रिश्तों के परों की छांह में
दुबकी हुई, सहमी हुई, हों पूर्णिमाएं दो,
देवताओं के नयन के अंश्रु से धोई हुईं ।
चुम्बनों की पांखुरी के दो जवान गुलाब,
मेरी गोद में !
सात रंगों की महावर से रचे महताब,
मेरी गोद में !
ये बड़े सुकुमार, इनसे प्यार क्या ?
ये महज आराधना के वास्ते,
जिस तरह भटकी सुबह को रास्ते
हरदम बताये हैं रुपहरे शुक्र के नभ-फूल ने,
ये चरण मुझको न दें अपनी दिशाएं भूलने !
ये खंडहरों में सिसकते, स्वर्ग के दो गान, मेरी गोद में !
रश्मि-पंखों पर अभी उतरे हुए वरदान, मेरी गोद में !
- धर्मवीर भारती


Written by Alvin Feinman
Pilgrim Heights
Something, something, the heart here
Misses, something it knows it needs
Unable to bless—the wind passes;
A swifter shadow sweeps the reeds,
The heart a colder contrast brushes.

So this fool, face-forward, belly
Pressed among the rushes, plays out
His pulse to the dune’s long slant
Down from blue to bluer element,
The bold encompassing drink of air

And namelessness, a length compound
Of want and oneness the shore’s mumbling
Distantly tells—something a wing’s
Dry pivot stresses, carved
Through barrens of stillness and glare:

The naked close of light in light,
Light’s spare embrace of blade and tremor
Stealing the generous eye’s plunder
Like a breathing banished from the lung’s
Fever, lost in parenthetic air.

Raiding these nude recesses, the hawk
Resumes his yielding balance, his shadow
Swims the field, the sands beyond,
The narrow edges fed out to light,
To the sea’s eternal licking monochrome.

The foolish hip, the elbow bruise
Upright from the dampening mat,
The twisted grasses turn, unthatch,
Light-headed blood renews its stammer—
Apart, below, the dazed eye catches

A darkened figure abruptly measured
Where folding breakers lay their whites;
The heart from its height starts downward,
Swum in that perfect pleasure
It knows it needs, unable to bless.


I wrote this poem when I was 16 years old, for my crooked, car salesman father.
.
.
I always loved him, but I was frustrated that he was so volatile and always unstable.
It's ironic, how perfectly these words fit the covert, narcissist I ended up being married to for almost a decade…
I didn't know anything about narcissism then.
I had to go through it full-circle.
It took Time, a lot of self-reflection and years of therapy to understand the complex dynamic it played in my life.
They were both different versions of Jekyll and Hyde.
How did I let history repeat itself? Never again…
The Man in the Mirror
He's not the man he seems to be, as he flashes that plastic smile.
As he shakes your hand to greet you, in that smooth and practiced style.

Like a highly, trained technician, he knows about his work.
You'll think the guy's a saint, but underneath, he's just a jerk.

He pretends to care, to want to be there, to always meet your needs.
But turn your back and hell stab youand lay you in the weeds.

So stay away from this one, he's full of rotten things.
That plastic smile you're looking at, is really hiding FANGS!
By: Jennifer Rose


this right here is my most recent poem, wrote it only today! :)
what is the colour of desire?
i asked myself one day
is it green, like the aura that surrounds me
when i see you
your arms at her slender waist.

or is it green like the damp, dark forest floor
the scum covered ponds and the mud covered crocodiles?
is it red
like the stained teeth of the bloodthirsty lion?
or is it red like the apple
the snake finessed eve into eating?
such ambitious questions have forever tantalized me
making me spend sleepless nights on my desk,
tearing off pages from my notebook and digging my fingernails into my skull
but the desire to find an answer is stronger than the pain of the wounds i have inflicted on myself
the desire to fill up the parchments is bigger than the pile of crumpled pages at my feet
everyday i try to find the flower i had tucked
somewhere between the yellowing pages of memory
the flower that would remind me of what i am seeking
and what is seeking me
what do i desire? what does my desire look like?
have i completely lost touch with myself?
do i yearn for company or do i yearn to create
masterpieces as such that move the multitude?
even while writing this i realize
my thoughts are all over the place.

i have to physically restrain myself from tearing off this sheet of
paper that speaks of nothing but the turmoil that is going on in my mind and the reasoning skills i lost god knows when
my mind, stained with doubt like rorschach blots on paper
unable to catch a single thought withing the waves of despair
i long to write beautifully again
more of my poems are on my insta
Sania Ansari (@latenight.
calls) • Instagram photos and videos

Sania Ansari.
(@_saniaslays_) • Instagram photos and videos

and google+
De Profundis.

thanks!


I wrote a song once, I suppose you can categorize the lyrics as a poem.
The song was SA Lingo, which stood for South American Lingo – the song’s nickname, which I just decided to keep.
I feel like it was some of my best work because it really honed in on a lot of the angst and turmoil I felt growing up as a 1st generation Latino but also because I feel that rhyming was really something I haven’t done in the past.

Some lines that I’m relatively proud of include (and in no order),
And one of my favorites,
If you want to read the whole thing, and other songs I’ve written, you can find it here.


Absolutely.
Here are a few:
You can follow me on Instagram if you enjoyed these.


I’m Poet Laureate for our school, so I regularly get asked to write stuff for events, important days and such.
Here’s a recent one for World Poetry day which also doubled as part of my application portfolio to be considered for the job:
The Knife of Poetry
I held it in my hand, balancing the hilt on my palm.

Wrapped my fingertips around it experimentally.

It was small, dense, not like swords or axes or spears,
It was precise, delicate, cold.

I ran my finger down the blade, along
The ghost of a glisten on the edge of lined up syllables,
Over each sound of alliteration, assonance, consonance
Pressed into the sharp sheet of metal.

I inspected the carvings that covered the hilt—
The spiralling vines and leaves of similes and metaphors.

It whispered to me and told me of its history,
And I told it mine.

I could taste its words rolling off my tongue,
Taste the sharp pang of iron and the sweet scent of petals.

I could feel the weight it holds as I turn it in my hands,
Feel the heat in which it was forged, the air in which it had been wielded.

Now it was mine to wield.
Mine, and everyone’s.

With a single flick it could cut away the thick, heavy
Curtain of the night, so the sun’s rays could
Shine on the darkest corners of the world.

With a single flick it could cut away the flesh of
Our existence, down to our bones,
Down to our hearts, down to our souls.

Laying us bare to the light, and bursting with words of our own.


More poems ?
Seriously ?? I’m running low guys…
Ugh fine, I’ll share another one for you lot :)
I wrote this recently and it’s one of my favourites, enjoy !
John Saad’s ~ To the brim
The thoughts are like colours, red for rage
It fills me to the brim, overflowing out of my cage
The cage I put there because I’m simply afraid
The feelings, all of them, scared to be arrayed.

What have I done? What self harm did I inflict?
Every red stain was personally picked
It’s your temple, yet I tore down its walls, take me now before I’m engulfed in my flaws
I love you, because you’re my king
But how can I show you when my heart won’t sing?
How can I show you when my persona is dull?
We both know the demons called for a cull
They cut me open and cruelly spat on my wounds, they showed me the sadness and inflicted those moods
Every bit of affection stripped from me, I miss the raw emotions others would see
But I committed sin, I’m not worthy.

All those drops of eternal water,but I chose to be thirsty
Dependant on your mercy, I’ve fallen into the pits
Every curse was amplified by my fits
I’m sorry, take me back, Put in me the feelings I lack
Place in me true gladness, I miss it, I was overcome with sadness
Show my inflicting the pain they caused, show them the childhood they put on pause
Show them the man I am now, tell them how they only missed what you allowed
Reflect his coward nature towards him
Take that colour red, and fill him to the brim.

-John Saad


Chee-Eng, Lim's answer to What simple special affordable thing can I do to appreciate my wife who I love dearly?


Not a good writer, but still worth sharing.

Why Rush?
I have always been a fast learner and wanted to grow,
But I had the habit of being in a rush.

We all start the same way, birth and then go with the flow,
But in the end, we only have the memories, then we go down the flush.

All we get is the time we have in the middle.

Meet me halfway and let's make it worth it,
Let the soul be free and try to solve Life-the riddle.

Enjoy as much as you can, build the life you dream of, before you take the last hit.

In the end, being happy is the aim,
For that you need to think clearly and do all you want.

You want to live for yourself, who wants the fame?
Consider the advice but do what you want, even when people kill you with taunts.

Do the impossible, take risks to get to the top,
Even when you're scared, know that it's not bad to blush.

Aim for the best and don't let your life be a flop,
Live properly with all your heart, be happy but why rush?
-Ishani Singh


'Readers Wanted: The Plan to Re-allocate Roles in Gather’*
 (a fable )
Storm clouds are gathering
Have you heard the rumors?
We are surfeited with poets,
and starving for consumers!
.

While the unwashed multitudes,
–immune to our delights–
pursue their vile distractions,
‘We poets' write and write,

But, though faithfully we follow
our literary leaders,
(whose work is deep, and dark, and dense)
still, we haven't any readers!
.

The problem simply stated friends
(I can't be too emphatic)
is just a little numbers game,
It's coldly arithmatic,
.

'Eureka!' we have it!
shout our Gather poet-leaders:
'We simply need to RE-ASSIGN
BAD POETS INTO READERS!'
.

So, bad poets of Gather,
Please show us your courage,
Your know your poems are blather,
You know they're boring porridge!
.

Please accept your new status,
acknowledge your betters,
and render due homage
To the true men* of letters!
.

So now you've heard the plan,
[Which I heartily endorse.

I know they'll let me stay a poet.

They like my stuff.
.
.
of course!]
.

What's that? What's that?!!
Credentialing you say?
err.
.
.
mmm.
.
.
I know I have it here somewhere
.
.
.
my mail-order MFA.

 -GL
.

* Gather is a now defunct website
** ‘and women’


Catch the turn
For the move…
Leave the bitter filth
With the cure of love……

keep looking for treasure of success
To reach the coast Of greatest….

Break the pack
Search the best ….

Look on the highest
Catch the brightness,

You may be in hands tied,
But still, like dust, you rise….
.

Just like moons and like suns,
until do not give-up…….
.

—————————————————————— Prashantromy ———- -


Ok so it’s kinda trash because I wrote it when I was literally 12, but here’s one of mine:
I’m sick of this
I’m sick of being told to be skinny,
I’m sick of being told to be taller.

I’m sick of being told to be a certain shape,
I’m sick of being told that my waist should be smaller.

I’m sick of the pressure to wear makeup,
I’m sick of the pressure to have long hair.

I’m sick of the pressure to act a certain way,
I’m sick of the pressure to change the clothes I wear.

I’m sick of the idea that I can’t play sport,
I’m sick of the idea that I can’t put up a fight.

I’m sick of the idea that I have to please those around me,
I’m sick of the idea that I have to be alright.

I’m sick of telling people that ‘it doesn’t matter’,
I’m sick of telling people I’ll do things their way.

I’m sick of telling people that ‘it’s not that bad’,
I’m sick of telling people that ‘I’m okay’.

I’m sick of the values of modern society,
I’m sick of the fact that I’m stuck in this world.

I’m sick of the immense amount of peer pressure,
That has just become part of being a girl.

I’m sick of people getting upset for nothing,
I’m sick of being judged for the trends that I miss.

So I’m going to shout it out as loud as I can,
I’m going to let everyone know that I’m sick of this.


I never inflict my poems on people, but I can rarely resist granting a request for one:

White Days
white days
of almond flower
and flesh sheathed in sunlight
white sea
dissolves laughing on flat rocks
below white chapels
where consecrated bones
crumble into purity of incense
white kisses
beating against the sun with white wings
white boats set sail for white dreams
where the white days have gone

Copyright by Jon Corelis; feel free to share as long as my name is attached to it.


The big majority of my writings are in my native language, but I'll try.

I wish I could see you a thousand times in that black shirt
in which
you vaguely remind me
of the ball of thread I used to roll beside the fireplace.

I wish I could see you a thousand times at that light stop, confused,
with your hands in your pockets, with your thoughts all messed up.

I wish I could find myself a thousand times watching you,
fascinated by the buttons of your coat
which dare to answer
every question
I’ve ever asked.

I wish we could grow old together and feel eternally sick
and sad,
I wish
we had lived in a silent film
where
there’s always quiet
and white
and black
in a loop
that lasts a thousand years.



Can’t figure out how to remove the paragraph breaks from the new lines, so here’s a reading of one of mine:

Updated: 16.06.2019 — 6:38 pm

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