Her After Death Pleasures.

Gloomy day, nothing much to do at work as the migration is going on. I was sitting there thinking of something to write.  Well nothing came. Vera called me for additional documents. Then there were couple of calls. My colleague asked me to change the style of a document one of my program is printing out and I did it in like ten minutes. By afternoon I was really tired of browsing internet. Then I took my writing pad and thought I will write whatever that comes into mind. After a while I know I am drawing junk flowers. That gave me an idea. I
wrote half of the following poem sitting at work. Then Vera called again and told to scan the documents and send it to her as soon as possible. I came back to room and scanned everything and emailed her. After that I finished the poem.

After a long time I wrote something without knowing what I should write ahead. So excuse me if some things don’t match up in the poem I did read it again but right now I am too much involved in it haha.

I love you all.

Her After Death Pleasures.

The sharpened pencil in fingers rolled,
A face and a figure in black and white outlined,
The hair and forehead, nose and eyes,
Glowing lips and the ornamented ears,
Her bosom with silk coat covered,
By this time her beauty consumed him.

Took another blank sheet and drawn,
That beauty in another pose, another costume,
He made her a queen; he made her an angel,
The wonderful looks never altered,
She, the outstretch of his beautiful imagination,
Carved away every other face from his mind.

To add the beauty, her portrait he colored,
But no beauty added as perfect was the outline,
Day and night he spent drawing more and more,
Every way that beauty found her life through him.

Then from the thin line between sanity and insanity,
He dragged himself away from a beauty non existent,
But with her filled was every cell in his body,
Those eyes, the forehead, lips, arms,
O’ his sleep was filled with her dreams,
His life with her beauty filled.

Throw her out of his mind he decided,
To find every reason through his art,
He drawn her ugly, and as a peasant,
Drawn her with men and with costumes unpleasant,
Drawn her in dirt and as Medusa,
Drawn her naked and as a prostitute,
In every possible way he tried his art,
To kill his passion for her in his heart,
But every painting spoke more than words,
As her eyes always filled with love,
And those glowing lips in thirst for a kiss.

Ran away from his home in fear and agony,
The world at his pathetic condition looked,
But he ran as fast as he can to go as far he can,
But on the way he thought “Who is she?”
He ran out of town and got into a train,
In his tiredness he fell asleep,
After the night he woke up in some place unknown,
Where he got out and walked to the nearby river,
Still he asked “Who is she, who is she?”
A walker nearby asked his welfare,
And to him, what happened he told,
He asked the painter again to draw,
The face of the enchantress he spoke,
On a piece of cloth he drawn her face,
And in horror the man dragged him away,
And took him to a nearby home,
Where to his surprise he saw the portrait of her,
The man told the painter, that the girl was his daughter,
A poet, painter and a wonderful singer she was,
But heart broken she jumped in the river,
And always dragged poets, painters and singers to the river,
To drown them for her naughty after death pleasure.

True Lovers, An Extinct Race.

I first woke up at 6:32AM I looked at the clock and said. “Shut the eff
up” Then I woke up at 7:45AM again I said the same. Then I woke up at
around 8:15AM at that time I realized that the clock is not making any
noise. Like a just launched missile I got up and ran into a race
against time. Implementation GRRR. Yeah today they start the
implementation of our work. I reached office at 10:00AM. Everything
cool, no one was looking for me. Haha. I sat on my chair got my water
bottle filled logged into the system and started browsing my .gov
emails. There were not a lot but one email is from an Indian woman. I
thought who is this. Well my bad memory, it was my attorney, with the
good news. I got the receipt of the re-application. I least expected it
today. That changed the whole attitude of mine to the day. I
immediately called the new company and told them to start the paper
work. Now it is all in the hands of Vera Kimmie, my friend and the
fiancé of my friend/boss. She is good and even at this moment I know
she is filling in the forms for me. I wonder what I will give her as
 Before all that, what will I give to my Mo Cuishle for the
offering of every ounce of her luck to get this through. I owe you big
This is not over, I am 90% through. I hope nothing will go wrong from
here on. I am now back at home. I did not eat much all day so I kinda
finished whatever I got, starting with brownies going through about a
pound of lamb, whew I ate a lot hehehe.

Here is a poem I wrote a little while ago. It is an expression of
frustration at people who thinks that they have an explanation for
everything. It is just my opinion. You can say your opinion about this
in the way you want. Kill my thought if that’s what you like to do
after reading this.

True Lovers, An
Extinct Race.

Turn around, turn around, O confused mind,
Confused in the call of love from within,
And the ugly truth that lives around as life.

No more the mind can tell oneself that love exists,
As somewhere lost are the dreams well weaved,
When the sanctity of thoughts in choices tarnished.

Which science guru can explain morality?
Who can explain character degeneration?
Why minds live sterile without love?

A hundred equations they may write,
Some may even fly rockets to space,
A hundred billion more stars they may discover,
But tell me what killed the love in minds?

And in the blink of an eye, life passed,
For all who loved and became loved.

Tess Of The D’Urbervilles Phase The Fourth–The Consequence.

There are people out there who believes I am here for the comment ofpeople. Hell with that. I don’t want anyone’s comment in here. Go away,if you don’t like my poems. One don’t have to comment here just becauseI comment on your site.
Ariel, spend exactly 4 seconds in my site and said, “I like your poem”through IM. When I asked about details, she was like “ I like portionsof what I read”. That was a lie. I wonder for what. I don’t like peoplelying to me unnecessarily. You all owe me nothing for my comments. Isthat clear for everyone? If you have questions contact me through IM. Iwill be online every evening no matter what.
 Mo Cuishle, I understand your apologies. You are the privilegedone. You can comment in this site whenever you want. She the one whooffered every ounce of her luck and I owe everything she wants. Even ifshe don’t comment I know she will never lie to me.

My apologies if I am sounding too  much pissed off. I am pissedoff. Ariel is a wonderful poet. I will always admire her as a wonderfulpoet.

Well here is the fourth installment of “Tess Of The D’Urbervilles”.With this phase I am taking the turn of the story. I still did not gotthe flow to write these poems. Here is my confession. I intended tomake two major changes in my poems from the story. But with the firstchange in the beginning, I got messed up personally and decided tochange that back to what it was in the book. That took me out of flowand even after months I just can’t get back to flow with this. Well Iam going to get it to you in the way I can for the time being. But Iwill re-write this.
 Now you all may be wondering what is the second change. Hahah,keep reading, the second change is inevitable, but for that I would nothave attempted this project at all.

The Consequence. The fourth phase, of the book where Tess goes throughthe big decision making process of marrying Angel Clare. I tried mybest to take only the character out of this phase as Thomas Hardy’sdescription is vast in explaining Tess’s mind. I relied a little toomuch on Hardy’s text and there are many phrases that I took directlyfrom Hardy’s text as those beautiful phrases in my opinion have nosubstitutes.

Here are the previous phases.

Tess Of TheD’Urbervilles. Phase The First–The  Maiden.

Tess Of TheD’Urbervilles-Phase The Second–Maiden NoMore

Tess Of The D’Urbervilles-Phase The Third–The Rally.

TessOf The D’Urbervilles Phase The Fourth–The Consequence.

Angel Clare in his conscience knew,
Tess is none to toy and dismiss with,
The whole world of Tess as Clare knew,
Upon this little milkmaid, depended,
A beauty at skin depth don’t stop,
A beauty built from within,
A character born from the soil,
A character lived in the fullness of life.
These in perfections and imperfections,
Angle Clare in the dairymaid Tess, loved.
Though the damage still so small,
Deep in his heart felt a guilt for his act,
Nobility for the noble in trouble times shows,
And to his kinsfolk for permission he went.

Angel presented his desire to be married,
And his parents resisted not as they knew,
His desire to marry Mercy Chant,
The neighbor’s daughter whom Angel liked a lot,
But to the surprise of all Angel told his plans,
To marry a girl who fits his farming life,
Though to none about his love he talked,
The perfect parenthoods of his parents he felt.
Who both silently gave the permission,
For Angel Clare to follow his judgment.

Heart filled with happiness,
Angel rode his way back to Talbothays,
Where everything was inside in the afternoon heat,
The humid air with odour of summer fruits,
Hays and flowers in the heat filled,
That seemed to make every animal, bird,
And even bees drowsy to rest in shade.

Angel walked in time of afternoon skimming,
Where he found Tess coming down up from her nap,
Her hair coiled up and her arm she stretched up,
Her face flushed with sleep,
Her eyelids over the pupils hung heavy,
The fullness of any woman, her spiritual self,
Seen in full upon Tess, Just out of her sleep.

Angel held her close to his heart,
And he felt her exited heart beat upon his,
When he told her he came back soon just for her.
Angel joined Tess in the afternoon skimming,
Where again he held her close to his own heart,
And with every courage and braveness of men,
The moment in every way dreaded and dreamt,
By every man in his entire life,
Angel Clare chose his moment to be that one,
Where he asked Tess for her hand in marriage,
Though her heart throbbed to say yes,
Love cannot blind the realities of her life,
The ancient family she belongs to,
The hated species of Angel Clare,
And her own past as a dark cloud loomed,
Over every word she said to Angel Clare,
Tess in the bitterness of pain told,
She cannot be the wife of him,
And bowed her head in grief,
She told though her love is only for him,
And rather be his than anybody’s in the world,
And told she cannot be his wife again and again,
The answer of no, any lover can’t take.

Though she said she was unworthy,
As a girl of the commons
In the eyes of the parents of Angel Clare,
Nothing of her past came from her mouth,
As Angel cared only a word of yes from her,
Every time Angel spoke to her in the weeks passed,
“No” is the word in her answers filled,
Left Angel in confusion.
For the reasons for him to understand,
Her bitter answer of no still echoed in his ears.

Love can bring in happiness,
And love can leave one in pain and tears,
Tess had gone through her happy days,
And now in bitterness of that love she felt,
Too pure was her love for Angel Clare,
For Tess to be the wife of him.
Thoughts of past and the family tree,
Haunted her to stubbornness,
Every time she told him she was unworthy,
And will cause him unhappiness.

Tearful days passed in utter confusion,
As her heart joined Angle Clare’s,
But her poor little conscience always knew,
A ‘Yes’ can’t be said to his request,
Though none she known at all,
May be predicting the calamities,
That may follow when truth reveals.
And she mourned the pain she gave her love,
And in her mind in penance wished,
Someone to tell him all about her,
All about her family, and her past,
All that happened forty miles away from there.

The feeling of love acts in a magical ways,
When it fills hearts and all reasons fades.
During a ride with Angel Clare,
A rainy evening under the tarp they both sat,
Riding to train station to deliver the milk,
Where first she told who she really was,
The one whom Angel did not danced,
At the Marlott meadows during the May Day dance.
Then on the way back she fulfilled her promise,
To tell the reasons for her answer of “no”,
Tess told him the truth of her ancestry,
To her surprise he was happy above all.
As he knew what that meant to his family,
The surprise and her childish thoughts,
Happiness and seeing the happiness of her love,
Tess could say nothing about her past.
But said yes to the marriage proposal.

Those Trantridge time gloomed her thoughts,
As she wanted to tell him every fault of her,
Wrote to her mother asking what to do,
Thought about the phrases with which to tell,
Angel about her mistress role at Trantridge farm,
But her mother told her to hold her peace,
And no language she knew had words good enough,
To tell him about her brutal experience,
Death of her virginity at the hands of her fake cousin,
Birth and death of Sorrow in the latter days.
Fear of losing him, fear about the fear she felt,
All added to the torment of her, day and night.

At last she gained courage and wrote to him,
The night before the wedding day,
Under the door her note she left,
And waited for his response in the early morn,
Angel like an Angel came and carried her,
In the happy day of his entire life,
The letter and the contents seemed not,
To bother this man filled with happy thoughts.
The wedding day was in full bloom at Talbothays,
But the wrong of the moment Tess did sensed,
And went to the room of Angel Clare,
Found the role fate again played to her,
As under the door mat she found,
The letter she wrote to him which he never seen.
All her strength like vapor faded,
As she can do no more but to fail her conscience,
Still she tried to confess her faults to him,
But stopped he with a promise to her,
That he will confess to her and hear her own,
After the wedding when they are at peace.

The wedding day went away,
The blessed day for every man and woman,
Tess had another day of enjoyment,
And she filled in every soul that saw,
Her moment of joy with her beauty and charm,
Too much of everything there was,
In the event so simple at the local church,
Every other emotion out showed by happiness,
And the whole nature in stillness waited,
As if waiting for a storm to pass.

Angel and Tess went to the nearby town,
To an old mansion of the D’Urbervilles,
Where at last at peace were their souls.
Angel first gave Tess, the family Jewels,
Then admiring the beauty of her,
Angel confessed the fault of him,
Of spending sometime with a London whore,
A fault with a hug and kiss by Tess forgiven,
Then she between the crackle of the burning woods,
A little louder than a whisper,
Tess narrated her life till that date,
Told her time with Alec D’Urberville,
Every detail of her days after,
The birth and death of her son in Marlott,
And the way she dealt with the pain of her.
The heaviness of her heart lightned,
But the eagerness of her conscience grew,
A fault not her own in her younger age,
A nightmare in her mind she carried,
All these years was for her, over.
Then in her heart filled in hopes,
In her eyes colors of her love glowed,
As she sat beside the legs of Angel Clare,
Admitting a flaw of her thrust upon her,
Forgiveness was a silent word that filled the air.

Love of men are like winter days,
A bit of cloud will gloom the light in it,
And the world will freeze in the cold of it.

Here is the text I followed. Tess Of The D’Urbervilles-Phase The Fourth The Consequence.

Song Of The Weaver Bird.

There were no panics in this Friday. It went well. I was busy at work
in the morning as the users came back and said they don’t want to see
any zeroes on the screen for dates and anything else. Just blanks. So I
needed to modify the programs to accommodate the changes. It was about
1:30PM when I was done. Then after lunch I thought I will write
something. I wrote wild, many things mmm nothing seems to be hitting me
at all. Then I thought what was it that I took as style to write poems.
I need a bird, a tree, countryside and a girl of my own. Haha, nice
recipe, the good old recipe, I think it worked. I wrote a poem spending
about 45 to 50 minutes.
 I am officially back in a calm. This week that went by was good.
Even though nothing special happened. Now what I hates most is waiting.
All my life I was waiting. For everything I want, I needed to wait.
That which I needed to today I will either get next month or I won’t
get it at all. The girl friends I had, stood me up most than any guy I
know. I am waiting to hear from USCIS about the visa issue. I am
waiting to hear from the new company about what they wanted me to do.
To end this post… I can just say, I waited and waited and waited to
hear. But I saw only blanks and heard silence which I fear most.

Enjoy the poem and you all have a wonderful weekend.

Song Of The Weaver

The howling winter winds left without a trace,
The brightness of the day rejuvenated life back,
Men, women and machines back on the field,
The seeds sowed, the rains showered,
The once frozen land flourished in greenery.

Upon the tree the weaver sat restless,
Flying down like a missile once in a while,
Stealing one long dying leaf at a time,
She went up to weave the nest,
She grabbed left cotton balls,
Saps from the tree and saliva of her own
To weave the nest to withstand,
The spring and summer storms to come.

Deep in her heart she composed,
Tunes unheard until that day,
And she whistled her tunes embedded,
With meanings no poets could weave.
But there live a little poet in me who understood,
The meaning of the tune of the beautiful bird,
“Ah my beauty by the fruits could compare,
Sweet and soft upon your heart so rare,
Fields of vastness in richness no comparison,
To the love you bring to my day,
And I weaved for you this modest swing,
Upon which come, sit, sing in sway,
A song that speaks your love in mine,
A song that shows nature, love’s purity,
And forever I will hold your heart in sanctity.”

Oh’ I heard the song of the weaver day after day,
But never heard another voice other than her own.
The brutal material world took me away,
And in busy towns I whistled,
The heartfelt tune the weaverbird bird sung.

There were birds of many colors everywhere,
None whistled any tune back at me,
Then one day by the lake drive, I sat,
And my own tune I felt, I whistled,
To my wonder, I heard an echo of my tune,
Turning back those beautiful eyes I saw,
First at each other in silence we looked,
Then we let our hearts speak to each other,
In the days followed she took my heart,
With a promise to keep it forever.

The summer warmth into the heavy air faded,
The colors of the nature changed,
To my country home, with my darling I drove,
With a promise to show the weaver’s nest.

The harvest was done and the land looked bare,
There was silence everywhere and nothing moved,
I looked at the nest that looked empty,
Then to have a look the tree I climbed,
The nest looked dry and the weaver seemed left,
For warmer air with her beautiful tunes,
The nest held tight to the dying branch,
I pulled out the nest even in the protest of my girl,
As I wanted to show her, what I found,
Three empty eggshells inside the well weaved nest,
Holding the nest my love looked at me and smiled,
And took my hands and dragged me away,
Whistling a tune a long time back I heard,
That woke up every dying leaf around,
As we walked away back at the tree I looked,
And saw the weaver’s swing swaying up and down.

Reverie Of Love Untold.

Half of the day I was busy working. The second half I spend roaming
around the office talking to people and browsing net. I wrote two
poems. One, a personal one. It has got Godly references in it. As that
poem reflects my belief I don’t want it to be here. The majority of the
readers here have a different belief and some don’t have any belief. I
will start a forum in my RiazAhammed.Com website for that kinda poems.

 Nothing special today, something special can happen and the day died away but night is way too young.

  Here is the second poem, well it is like today, nothing special
in it, other than my wishes and dreams. Am I boring you guys with my
ramblings through my poems? If so let me know. There are other poems I
am writing but they are all long. So it may knock you out to sleep. Let
me know.

Alrighty, my virtual family, my darling I thank all of you for the wonderful comments.

Reverie Of Love

In the middle of the night,
In the youth of the dawn,
In the middle of the day,
In the depth of the evening,
Life passes through the phases of day,
Like a butterfly in the winter cold,
Unknowing where to find a flower,
The thick cold air hard to breathe.

The warmer air of your breathe I wish,
The fresh scent of your skin I wish to cherish,
You are no beauty beyond imagination,
But every moment with you only in imagination,
Every word of my love a soliloquy.

The nights, days, dawns and dusks,
Filled with reverie of my love untold.



A junior manager, a senior manager and their boss are on their way to a
meeting. On their way through a park, they come across a wonder lamp.
They rub the lamp and a ghost appears. ! The ghost said, “Normally, one
is granted three wishes but as you are three, I will allow one wish

So the eager senior manager shouted, I want the first wish. I want to
be in the Bahamas, on a fast boat and have no worries. Pfufffff, and he
was gone.
Now the junior manager could not keep quiet and shouted “I want to be
in Florida with beautiful girls, plenty of food and cocktails.
“Pfufffff, and he was also gone.

The boss calmly said,” I want these two idiots back in the office after lunch at 12.35pm”
Lesson: “Always allow the bosses to speak first”

I posted this poem first in MySpace. I thought of posting it here yesterday. But I was traveling yesterday. Here it is.

“I” is very important for me. If one look at a passage or poem of mine
one can see a lot of  “I” in it.  Yes, from a very younger age I used
to stay away from many because I felt important. And no matter how much
one tried to trash me. I still felt important as I always believed that
being me is what the purpose of my life. After reading many of my works
a lot of people have told me that I don’t have any self esteem. Well
that is probably true, self esteem defined by those people. I don’t
care who define what. I define my life and at least three feet around
me, I believe I have the right to do that. When two people define life
in the same way and are comfortable of each others zones they will
probably end up loving each other or at least keep in touch forever.
Well.. this is my definition. Haha one don’t have to care about it.
These thoughts made me write this following poem. Understand this, I
define life as continuous chain of affection that connects people,
places and even objects. Each person an individual link. So every poem
of mine have some reference of love or affection in it. That’s the way
I understand it. Never felt wrong.

Worthiness Of Being Me.

A great many times I wondered,
What life is like without all that I know,
And with all that I dreamt for.
And with all that I don’t have.

A great many times I questioned,
All that I have and pained my own heart,
As never in my forgiveness myself I included,
But all remained same, obsessive and stubborn.

A great many times I complained,
Why all that I wished for did not happen,
Why all that I wished not to happen, happened,
And forever detached I am from every reality.

A great many times I walked away,
Thinking about my own unworthiness,
Not thinking about how worthy one see me,
Not knowing how worthy this very moment is.

Pass me by Time, erase all these fog for me to understand,
At least one little heart in all the importance of its own,
And learn more about the importance of mine,
And love being who we are, when loving who I am.

No Show Here?

Hello Sam, My Mo Cushle,
  How are you doing? Haven’t seen you here in my site for couple
of days now. Well…. I don’t know if you liked me commenting on your
MySpace. You know why I think so, these days I am not fully confident
of my actions, as many backfired. If so let me know. Don’t worry. If I
don’t see your comments I feel a little bad and sad that’s all.
Unfortunately, in MySpace I saw “Online now” under your picture in my
friends area, so I thought you may come here. Its okay if you don’t
want to comment. But let me know. Alrighty.

The Signature Of A True Human Is The Smile He/She Brings On The Face Of Others.
Riaz Ahammed.

PS: My Brother sent this to me along with a lot of e-books. I thought this may be beneficial to you more than me. The Craft Of Writing Science Fiction

Wonderful Gems.

Wonderful day that went away in a pace I wanted. WOW I never had a day
like this in a long time. I am all relaxed now. These are times when I
really layback and remember good and bad times and say, “It’s all good
  When I write in these times, I write with arrogance in mind. I
am a very arrogant person. If someone have a feeling that I am a very
polite soft talking man they wrong you are.

I am.
   Short Tempered,
   Walk on the thin line between sanity and insanity.

I will be,

I want to be.
   Remembered by at least one person.

I write because.
    I want to make at least one person feel good on every day.

But what kinda writing comes out. That depend of what I deal with. Here
is another poem written out of a feeling of Anger. Artificially created
anger. Because I know what will come out of it will be this.

Wonderful Gems.

Glittering like wonderful gems,
Even when darkness in depth penetrates.
In every look giving a feeling of compassion,
The determination of a beautiful soul shown,
In the eyes of yours my enchantress.

Time may wrinkle your skin,
Some of your sense may fail,
Even your eyes may fail to see,
As time with age wraps you to oldness.

O no time will take your love from your eyes,
No age will wrinkle the beauty of you heart,
As its your love that shows in all glory,
From your eyes on every moment of yours,
And I and everyone who see know that well.

O this lover of yours who see that well,
Can only say shut your eyes not now,
To the love of mine and take away,
That glory and glittering from my eyes.

Light Of My Life.

Life is a silly joke, at least for me. I am enjoying that joke the best
I can.  That’s all I can say.  I might’ve hurt a lot many
people in my past with lies and deceptions. But past is lost and is in the dark and I will never
let it hurt me or haunt me again. Well… Said that… I am cool here in
Overland Park, my sister-in-law’s cooking is amazing. I am like an
overeaten python. I can’t move after eating some great food. I think
all the weight I lost in the last one year will come back in four days
of stay here.

Now here is a little poem I wrote. This indeed is a true question from
me. I don’t know if ever anyone will come in front of me and at least
try to answer this question. I wish there is someone. If not then I am

Light Of My Life.

What, in your eyes you see?
What, with you ears you hear?
What, with every other sense you feel?
O I wonder with every sense of mine!

What, in the mind you wish?
What, in the dreams you dream?
O let the lights that show your dreams,
Be everlasting in fulfillment of your life.

If the paths of your dreams,
Go dark in the tricks of fate,
There is a candle I wish to kindle,
That shows the light of my life.

But will you keep your heart open and see,
And walk the path of your life in that little light?

Day Of No Writing.

Hello Everyone,
   I am in Overland Park,
KS. I got in here earlier than
expected. Nothing much happened during the trip. I just didn’t feel like
writing that’s all. I am here with my brother and family. They are back from India after a
vacation. My sister-in-law was surprised to see a trim down me. I weighed about
228lbs when I left Kansas
more than a year ago. After reaching Texas
I added more weight increased to around 245lbs. Then I know I am
getting sick
and tired of carry all these weight around. Started a diet and light
now I am down to 196lbs. I should be about 175lbs. My nephew and niece
excited to see me around. My niece asked me “How did you become so
hehehe. My nephew mmm saw him in the evening. He was out watching a
Basket Ball
game in which his classmate was playing. He also told “He you became
Happy I am haha. I started a myspace account. I visited another persons
site today. That inspired to start an account…. but what will I post
there mmmm I don’t know. It is a bit confusing place. Here is the link PoetryShell

Just a remark here with a confession. My date of birth is
wrong in the profile area. That is the official one, yes. It happened because
there were no record keeping in our little town in India in 1969. I was born on Feb 14th
1969 not 1970. I said this because there are people who lie about their age.
That leaves a mystery about everything else they said. True or False.


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