Categories
Poems

Fresh fruit

Bite into this fresh fruit
Closed eyes
Sustenance and pleasure
Fragrance and flesh
In this intant
Is that a connection you feel
With the earth, or is it the tree
Perhaps it is our planet’s love
Or just the taste of life

This poem was inspired by Judeitakali’s poem, “Market day”:

https://wordeologist.wordpress.com/2020/07/07/market-day/

Categories
Poems

Untitled

Eyes first meeting
Enchanted voice
Beauty and chaos
Delightful layers
Just a hint of tired
Well-hidden under a smile
Reaching out to soothe
What doesn’t appear to need it.

Not aware of depths
Counting breaths
How deep could they go?
Vanishing colours

The clouds passed
Resuscitation
And the sunshine
Sun-shone those depths
Unbalanced chaotic
Hurt with every stroke

They remember without connecting
At a standstill
A story ends
Without an ending

Categories
thoughts

Writing poetry

Creating art, for me, is almost always an act of catharsis. Poetry is an interesting form of expression: when I am writing it, I am usually in a heightened state of lucidity.

A first step feels like all of my mental faculties are working simultaneously on extracting a lived experience.

A second step is more challenging: translation. Taking the language of memories, emotions, thoughts, sensations, et cetera, and finding words and phrases that validate them.

In that way, art (in this case, poetry), is like a vessel that contains more than just its author’s creativity, time, and literacy. It is like a vessel that contains a microcosmic view of the author’s particular experience of their world.

Unfortunately, poetry is not as readily accessible to an audience as, for example, a song, especially in the way that the author intended it to be received.

Insomuch as that may be the case, is it not a beauty of poetry that it elicits different interpretations from different people? All of whom are reading the same work, but each of whom connects with the poem as per their own lived experiences?

Categories
Poems

The failed poet

Look at me,
My dear friend,
Before you ask,
Make careful your observation,
Of what presents itself so obviously;

And obliviously,
My unriddling has its limits.
What do you call,
Someone who is doomed from the start?

A poet whose pen beats?
With ink bright red?
Who can only share his lived esotericities,
In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?
Language already half-cloaked,
Experiences always slightly out of reach?

But most outrageously laughable,
He still wants to share his broken prose,
A worldly venture.

My dear friend,
I am the failed poet.