The Answer Of Nature.

I declared war on myself when I woke up as two alarms and screaming
radio did not woke me up. I slept dreaming walking with a lovely girl.
Pssst missed the morning meeting big time as I rolled into the
office at 10:30AM … mmm none asked me why I reached late. Kinda
confuses me.

 Well…. Tuesdays are like that. They will make me hate myself to the deepest core of my soul. Heck with this day.

This is a poem I just finished. I was not know what to name it. Then I
just called it the name it have now. May be the morning dream might
have something to do with it. Haha

BlossomTree

The Answer Of
Nature.

“Sunlight brightens the day,
Moonlight brighten the night,
Oh’ the stars twinkle to brighten,
The blossoming flowers in the early morn,
The love of your love brighten the mind,
You wished it all well, hey poetic mind,
Well wished you were”, the wind sung,
The sky like a blue trampoline spread,
The screaming, screeching, and singing birds,
Taking mind up in the air in a flight.

The dried green grass so soft,
Every step scaring the cricket to jump,
The steady stream spraying vapors around,
Though alone I am, in the middle of this beauty,
Of Nature that surround me in embrace,
“Is there beauty than you more prettier?”
Asked me to Nature who in the rhythm,
Of the dancing clouds danced along,
The cloud that wandered in melted,
Into drizzles and moved away,
And every bit of greenery held on,
To the cooling, dripping drops Natures blessing,
Sunlight into vibgyor split and brightened,
Everything with an Angelic Halo.

“Oh, you leave me with more beauty of yours” said I,
A breeze moved the leaves above showering,
The cool soothing droplets all over scintillating mind.

Oh’ when in the enjoyment I thrive,
Far away I saw her towards me walking,
She may not be the prettiest around,
But her love overwhelm everything around,
Then I felt the answer of Nature to me,
That her love is the prettiest in the eyes of everything around,
And now in the eyes of the one who loves her to the fullest.

A Clown Who Played A Tragedy.

A day I wish existed never felt anything through my five senses other
than the cold of the day. I love cold. Well other than that I didn’t do
anything…. Just a wasted day. That’s all.

 Yesterday’s long dose of poetry frowned many. Well get used to it
haha… you want me, come and get me. You don’t want me, then I don’t want
you either. It is as simple as that. That’s the kind of poems I am
having in my mind. I know me and my works will become overwhelming of
many and it will be too hard to keep up with me. Well spring and summer
are usually slow time for this poet. So don’t expect the kind of
explosion you have seen from me early October last year. Cold weather
may have something to do with it. So keep me warm you won’t see any
poetry hehehehe.

  I am very annoying because of the consistent persistence of
mine. My warning to you all is it will be very hard to tolerate me. I
have warned many, they all said naa we have seen worst kinds than you.
Now even the favorites are gone. To the new set of people here… beware
of this poet. I will be here or somewhere out on the web as long as
websites exists. Hahahaha.

Andre told me “You are insane….. in a good way” don’t polish it Andre, I
am insane in every way. You are new here. I myself told in this site
many times that my only problem is “insanity” but you know what, I
enjoy it. Hehehe.

This poem is written out of recent past experience. True to every alphabet. Read to learn more.
 

A Clown Who Played A
Tragedy.

In all the recent days gone by,
Pried upon me was the game of fate,
And by unreasonable passions fueled,
For the love of a soul, oh’ all inappropriate.

Every moment like a scene in a drama played,
The actors in their parts, well performed,
The all-natural stage well set by nature,
A theme well written by fate, I thought.

But in the drama of life, unknown,
Are the themes, predefined,
The choices out-played truths,
The hesitant thrown out of stage.

Oh’ the curtains have fallen,
Upon my love filled heart,
Who out of this act misdirected,
Me into mere virtual oblivion?

Oh’ the background may change,
The actors move to their own stages,
But the theme of my life I now know,
Passion filled dreams that sprout,
Out of never ending hopes, so realistic,
Then all goes wrong in every way unrealistic,
The dreams will turn into nightmares.

Out of fear of losing oneself,
Once more, stepped out of the act,
May be the theme given to me to direct this drama,
Is the imperfect part of life,
To show the others in their life,
What it means by the boons they have.

In the last act I played,
My face I painted well,
To play the perfect clown on stage,
For the little hearts to clap in joy.
I wonder will any ever cared to see,
The real face of this clown?
After the curtains fallen, ending,
This portion of a never-ending tragedy.
Now life gone back to, an old one act play.

Tess Of The D’Urbervilles-Phase The Fifth-Part 2-The Plight, In Tears And Hope.

I write for my satisfaction. If someone enjoys my writing then I ammore satisfied. There are people not some many who believes it is all awaste of time. I really don’t care about what anyone thinks about me oranyone else whatsoever. At the same time I truly believe everyone havethe right to do what they enjoy most.

 Haha most of you folks will be thinking hard to find out what thehell I am talking about. Well… mmm… most of you are young and the passionsof youth will take precedence over every rational in front of you all.So I am not going tell anything further. All will learn. Like I said inone of my poems. I could only pray that you all learn from the wisdomof your predecessors that was left out from their mistakes thanrepeating the mistakes they all did. I am with you or part of you. As Iknow doing certain things have its own consequences and I don’t do it.Not because I was a coward, but because it is just not right. Seek thewisdom, seen, heard, known and the unknown.

Well… here is another dose of  “Tess Of The D’Urbervilles”. Ifound it hard to filter this portion out of the original text. Becausethis part is where Tess goes into the plight the most elaboratedescription I’ve ever read in the book. There are portions wherepulling a turnip from the ground with a hack was described in twopages. I know that is just plain stupidity by Thomas Hardy. Well… hewas trying to earn a living with this. You and I don’t read this forearning a living. We want to read the story. I wrote this for thesatisfaction to show what a human can be. What a woman can achieve andhow much endurance one can have when dealing with life. Whatever thatis thrown at you, you can catch it and throw right back at life. That’sthis story is all about. There are two movies made out of this novel.The one thing I expected in both movies is showing the real plight andthrough the penance in living through every hardship Tess achievespurity of womanhood even when she was raped when she was barely 16 thechild born of that savagery dies shortly and deserted by the one whomshe loves more than anything. That’s why Thomas Hardy himself calledthe book “Tess Of The D’Urbervilles-A Pure Woman”. It is not there inboth movies. As Roman Polanski was busy trying to show is mastery ofdirecting a movie and probably got lost in the beauty of NastassjaKinski (Roman Polanski Married Nastassja Kinski shortly after thismovie was released), Ian Sharp on the other hand could only imitatewhat Roman Polanski did as a director. Both were not able to get thecore idea of the novel. Well… as I said in a post long time back theactors did an excellent job in both movies. Especially Nastassja Kinskione of the best of performances by her I have seen.

Now I will take another short break from these as I know the next phasethough about half of the first draft is completed will take almostevery bit of my knowledge in writing to finish. As there is a verytouching letter Tess writes in this phase. I just don’t know whatapproach I should take to get that to poetry. It is fun to get into it.I will burst out emotionally. Well… as a man who don’t drink or dodrugs, the intoxication I get in playing with my emotions throughwriting poetry is awesome and very satisfying.

I will be back with more shorter poems in between and of course my prose experiment in the SajuAshan site.

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 TheD’Urbervilles-Phase The Third–The Rally.

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

Tess Of The D’Urbervilles Phase The Fifth–The Woman Pays.

Tess Of The D’Urbervilles-Phase TheFifth-Part 2-The Plight, In Tears And Hope.

The winter cold from the midlands cleared,
The soft air with the bloom of life filled,
Nature later with the might of sun warmed,
Then the decline came with fall.
All the months that went by,
When her mind with full of hopes,
Never grew tired when alone faced,
The state of utter stagnation,
Of work and becoming a vagabond.
Hopes of getting back to Angel Clare,
In walks and sleep, work and food reminded,
At least one moment with Angel Clare,
He whom she grabbed as her own,
Like a shape in a vision disappeared,
Who like an invisible knight,
Fought away every fear in her.

Time is a great healer of minds,
But to Tess time became an eraser,
No letter or whereabouts of Angel Clare,
And the hardship that blended,
With pressure from every where,
Every moment of the day with hopes,
Of joining with Angel Clare,
With the shortening of days started to fade.
But deep in her soul,
There remained a full image of Angel Clare,
The only image of the humanization of her love,
Which he failed to see when lost,
In the material faults thrusts upon her.

Every moment of her plight made,
Her heart and soul and in turn flesh and blood,
To the purest form in womankind.
From a bride with box and trunks,
Tess, a lonely soul bear,
The harsh realities of her punishment,
Wandered from diary to diary,
From the fullness of a dairymaid,
Took the role of supernumerary.
Once milk began to lessen,
She moved to the harvest until done.
The allowance Angel Clare gave,
Which as souvenirs around she carried,
In the memories of Angel Clare,
The autumn rain squeezed her hard,
And every penny left her fast.
Tess became peasant indeed,
From a lonely peasant in love.

      For money Tess can apply to
Angel’s father at Vicarage
Delicacy, pride or false shame,
On account of her dear husband,
And to hide her estrangement,
Tess remained in every mind,
A mystery moving through the English lands.
A D’Urberville sure was she,
As the battle of life she fought,
Better than her best ancestor knight.

Marian another dairymaid at Talbothays,
Who now works in an upland farm,
Tess was now on her way up there,
In her pursuit for a winter job and home.

Being a lonely wife was indeed tough,
The worst of the difficulties Tess faced,
Was the attention she excited,
By her beautiful appearance,
Once as a field woman dressed,
Merciless men like vultures pecked,
At her with the rudest of words.

On her way to Flintcomb-Ash,
A rude moron figured her out,
As an old companion of Alec,
She to a nearby farm ran,
And hid under the bush,
Where some dead leaves she heaped,
And crept into it to spend the night.

Night time noises never scared her,
As no fear out of humanity lived in her,
But that moment on the heap of leaves,
About Angel Clare she thought,
Far away from the senses of her,
Warm and happy he might be,
The love of her and she the love of him,
Upon on a heap of leaves laid,
Like wild animal in fear.
Was there another wretched being as she?
Tess asked herself in thought,
Of her life wasted,
By the crookedness of manly ways,
Then she repeated to herself,
“All is vanity” and kept on thinking,
Oh’ all was worse than vanity-
Injustice, punishment, exaction death.
The beautiful wife of Angel Clare,
Touched the curves of her eyebrow,
And thought a time would come,
When that bone would be bare,
And before she fell asleep said,
“I wish it were now”.

The lazy sun broke through the night,
And Tess woke up to find,
What in the night disturbed her sleep,
Another fancy of aristocratic men,
Pheasants shot down, some dead many dying.
Tess felt ashamed for her nightly gloom,
Standing in the middle of such pain and death,
When she had no pain or bleeding,
And two hands to take care of herself.
In tears she broke the necks of the birds dying,
And put them out of their torture.

The events and rowdy comments made,
Tess realize, her worst enemy was her beauty,
After wearing an old field-gown she took,
A scissors and clipped off her eyebrows,
And tied a handkerchief round her face.

When men started to look at her in disgust,
Tears again came to her eyes,
As she wanted to remain ugly,
In the eyes of weird men,
And consoled herself once more,
With her vow of love for Angel Clare,
As inside her the lessons she learnt,
Pulsed her life through those lessons,
In the years of the dust and ashes,
The cruelty of lust and passions,
And the fragility of the love she felt.

Tess in the bad weather continued,
Farm after farm seeking directions,
And seeking part time employment,
At last the edge of Flintcomp-Ash she reached,
When merciless winter cold eventually pierced,
The old gown she wore as evening closed.
Under the shelter of a cottage she stood,
Watching the rain in light that remained,
And in the heat of the wall warmed her hands,
And the red moist cheek on the wall,
The warm wall the only friendly thing Tess could find.
Standing there in the freezing rain,
She unknowingly said these touching words,
“Who would think I was Mrs. Angel Clare”.

Later she met her old friend Marian,
Who got her the job in the nearby farm,
Where the soil always stubborn,
Even the best man will fail on it,
Tess agreed for a winter job,
Upon the starve-acre place of corn and swedes.

Tess and Marian worked hour after hour,
In rain getting wet and cold pierced in mercilessly,
The wetness and cold did not bother,
As both these souls talked and talked,
About their time in the lush green Talbothays.
And for Marian a bit of rum once in a while,
Kept her warm in flesh and blood.
Tess found her warmth in the talks,
About old days that reminded her,
Of her time of love with Angel Clare.

Then came the white monster they feared,
Freezing every bit of everything,
Other than the soul of these lovely maids,
So they moved to the barn for reed-drawing.
On their way Marian talked about Angel Clare,
Which brought only tears in the eyes of Tess,
And to the direction of Brazil Tess turned,
And put up her lips and blew,
A passionate kiss upon the snowy wind.

Old friend Izz Huett joined later at the barn,
As unemployed she was in the winter time.
Three out of four of the Talbothays gang
Now united, freezing in the barn drawing reeds.
As usual their talk ended up with Angel Clare,
But Tess wanted to talk no more,
As the pain of parting she can’t take anymore.
The unpracticed work of reed-drawing,
And the near freezing cold inside the barn,
Broke her down after hours of work.
Marian and Izz helped Tess with her part,
After couple of hours of work and talk
Izz broke down as tired she was,
After her twelve mile walk the night before.
Later Marian told Tess, what Izz told her,
About what happened between Angel and Izz,
Tess first tried to ward off what was told,
But poor girl can’t stand the fall of her love,
She burst into tears after months of hope,
As every step of her plight was laid,
To wash off the impurity from herself,
In the penance of her as she plunged in misery
All for her love for him and his love for her.

Though Marian lent her consoling words,
Tess soon got a grip on her grief,
Her own fault of not writing she accepted
And waiting for him to get back to her.

Though Tess managed her grief well,
Doubts failed her in writing a letter,
She took the ring from the ribbon,
That closer to her heart she kept,
And wore it all night to fortify,
Her claim as the wife of Angel Clare,
Who proposed to another to go with him,
After he left her without a touch.
With what words will Tess write her entreaties,
Or should she even care for him anymore?

All doubts faded to dark,
As darkness filled her consciousness,
Though asleep still the drop of tear held on,
In the corner of her eye,
Like sorrow held on to her love, always.

The story of Izz pierced deep,
Into the heart of Tess even in sleep,
There are no more ways to feel,
A love she can’t even speak about.
What at hand was flowing out,
And there are no ways she knew,
To alter the flow of events holding on,
To her silence far away from the world of Clare.

Emminster Vicarage the house of Angel Clare,
The only world of Angel Clare at hand,
A fortnight later after the shock of Izz,
Tess started on a wintry morn,
Still cold but as the freeze melted,
Fifteen miles each way was no simple adventure,
But for love and the love of her,
Tess seen no other way,
But to enlist that mother-in-law on her side,
And in turn earn her way back to Angel Clare.

Fifteen miles with the thought of love,
Went as if it was just a fifty yard walk,
Tess walked through the now hated Blackmoor Vale,
Were all that she love lay green even in winter,
That which clung on to her as parasites,
Now smiling at her mockingly.
Alienated she walked into Emminster,
Where at the corner of the lane she changed,
Her walking boots for a fashion shoes,
Though dressed to her best as country girl,
Tess’s confidence lessened as she closed in,
On a house where she truly belong,
Where none was there to greet her,
Where none was there to answer the door bell.
The lane she walked still remained deserted,
All accidents she hoped to favor her,
Did not happened at all as she stood,
In front of a door that never opened.

There was always an explanation,
For everything Tess gone through,
Now she figured that they were all at church,
On that Sunday noon time she chose to come.
Tess walked to the lane she came,
Towards the church nearby,
By then poured out were the congregation,
Amidst she found herself in.
Though she tried to walk away,
Two pedestrians caught up right behind,
Their loose talk she overheard,
When they started to speak about,
A young lady going ahead of them,
Mercy Chant the lady betrothed to Angel Clare,
Was the subject of the young men sounded,
Like Angel Clare in tone and tune,
Tess was not wrong as they truly were,
The brothers of Angel Clare.

Tess brisk walked in haste,
But even in the hurry overheard,
Angel’s brothers feeling pity for him,
In not marrying Mercy Chant but a dairymaid,
They called the marriage a queer business,
And defined the marriage ill-considered,
For his estrangement from his own family,
And Angles own extraordinary opinions.

Tess uttered no word but still walked,
But the young men outpaced her to reach,
Mercy Chant to exchange greetings,
And found the walking boots Tess left,
Which Mercy Chant picked up for the poor,
With mocking words about the owner,
As an imposter who came to town to excite,
Sympathy of the town folks in barefoot.

Tess the D’Urberville she now is,
Could not stop but walk away,
In tears the blinding tears running,
Down her face which she knew,
Just as sentiment she felt.

Fate once again rolled the dice here,
As unfortunate she was in not meeting,
The father but the more starched and ironed,
Sons of a father filled with charity.

Tess on her way back sighed,
Feeling pity for herself in losing her boots,
But consoled herself by speaking to herself,
Their lack knowledge about the boots,
Saving the pretty ones she changed for,
And their lack of knowledge about who chose,
The color of the pretty frock she wore,
But tears again filled her eyes,
As these speeches also ended,
With subject of her love, Angel Clare.

Tess half way back to Flintcomb-Ash stopped,
At a cottage for break from her walk,
But found that village almost empty,
On a bright Sunday afternoon.
For her query she found out,
Most have gone to hear preaching,
Of a young Christian man in a nearby barn.

Tess when resumed her walk have to pass,
Before the barn where the preacher preached,
Behind the small crowed Tess stood perplexed,
As the voice of the preacher pierced deep,
As horrific not as angelic,
She moved ahead a bit to see that face,
Which was blinded by the afternoon sun,
But the moment her vision cleared,
The voice with the face she recognized,
Precisely that of Alexander D’Urberville.

(End Of Phase The Fifth)

Here is the text I followed. Tess Of The D’Urbervilles Phase The Fifth-The Woman Pays.

My Experiment With Prose.

No poem today. I was called yesterday evening for work. From morning Iwas there at work till about 2:00PM today. So I did not have enoughtime to work of some of the poems I am working on.
 
Well… It was an idea that came to my mind a long time back. In Decemberlast year I started working on it. This is just an experiment withwriting prose. I would say, judge yourself. I don’t know what more tosay about it.
 
Saju MonThis is a name my mother and most of my family call me. Ashan is myfamily name. It was part of my real name and was removed even when Iwas very young. As Ashan means master or guru. My father decided not toadd that to our names as other kids may make fun of us.  So now Iam kinda adding it to my nick name.

Tell me there what do you think.

Alrighty.

This weekend. Effed up big time. I feel sad, bad, angry and above allempty. I hope I will be able to find peace with myself soon.
grass-dog

Vimala.

Some people asked me in their comments for the pervious post who is
Valentina. Mmm if you have read the poem “Beauty By The Bay” carefully,
you would not have asked. You can also read the poem “A Day Of Love” It
is about Valentina I am talking about in that poem.

Now here is another poem. I don’t know how many of you ever heard about
the game Cricket. If someone wants to know more about this game, which
is played in Asia, Australia, The Caribbean Islands and England you can
check out the links at the bottom.

Cricket was my passion before girls and poetry… hehehe… true that. In
the blazing sun during the spring and fall in India we fried our skin
and flesh and sweated days in practice to master this game. Summertime
(June-through August) it is tropical manzoon season and there is no
chance of playing any cricket in my state. Rain will not shower it
pours straight for weeks.  Well… read the poem as it is not a good
idea to talk too much about a work before.

Vimala.

Twenty two and half yards part,
A batsman and bowler in Cricket,
The wide bat and gear to preserve,
Three stumps and a wicket of himself.

The bowler must bowl overarm,
Spin or fast he can run or just walk
Over the lush greenery to pitch,
To the batsman on hard graveled crease.

My childhood and adolescent days were spent,
As a bowler who can bowl fast,
Imran and Thompson, Lillie and Marshal,
Hadlee and Holding oh’ their skills a lot I admired.

The blazing sun of the spring and fall,
Fried skin and flesh and in sweat,
Played the passion of my younger days,
Day after day without any fail.

The smell of the grass fresh moved,
The dust from the pitch hard rolled,
Ball swinging and cutting through,
Oh’ the thrill of the bowler I felt in every vein.

Though a good player I was,
My thrill for the game as a player faded,
As life’s priorities changed,
And those I admired retired and gone.

Years have gone by, I left my little town,
And I roamed in the wild, wild west,
Not much about Cricket these days I talk,
But country men are around who love the game.

Many talk about the game, and many others play,
Some through satellite dishes still watch the game,
Games across oceans and continents played,
They all still hold a thrill a long time back I left.

Whenever they all talk about the game,
The lush grass and pitch, bats and ball,
The gear and thrill of bowling a batsman out,
Oh’ I remember none of those.

I always remember that little girl,
Who came out from hiding,
After a good game I played,
A face I always noticed, watching us play.

She ran to me and gave a garland of Jasmine and said,
“I love every move you make on the ground”
Kissed my hands and away she ran,
The first word of care from any strange girl I heard.

Vimala, a name always echoes in my ear,
A face upon my soul ingrained forever.
******************************************************************************************


Cricket An Explanation.
This link tells you how Cricket is played, The rules, the pitch and everything else about Cricket.


Imran Khan.
The irresistable Pathan from Pakistan. Called as “The Lion
Of Pakistan” is one of the fastest bowlers ever. Here is a link showing
him in action. Click Here.

Dennis Lillie.
Though not as fast as all the fast bowlers Dennis Lillie was one of the best bowlers in the history of Cricket. Click Here to see him in action.

Michael Holding.
Indeed the fastest bowler I have seen and the most
effortless bowler. He is such a master of the craft of fast bowling it
looks simple and easy. Click Here to see him in action.

Richard Hadlee.
The most accurate bowler I have seen. Not as fast as
the other fast bowlers but it is his brain that does the job. Click Here to see him action.

Malcom Marshal.
The most fearsom fast bowler. The most gentleman
outside. He is no more. He died of cancer. This clip is towards the end
of his career. Click Here.

Jeff Thompson.
The unusual sling on action of a javelin thrower. The
one who still holds the record of delivering the fastest ball ever.
99.6MPH. Here he is not so fast but still deadly. Click Here.

Beauty By The Bay

{Start Update 02/23/06}
   It was a crazy day I am fine healthwise other than thatlot of things to do at work and I was at work. I did started a poem.. adifferent one. I thought I am done with it but once I took the pad fromwhich I thought of typing it in here then I thought I may have to rewrite somepart of that poem. It is a about an event and a person I met more than24 years back. Sorry no poem today. Just this update.
 
  Thanks for understanding.

{End Update 02/23/06}

Sickness comes overnight. I woke up sneezing all around. My nose allclogged up with a light fever. I took the day off and rested. Sleptmost of the evening. In the morning I finished a poem even whenmy head weighed a ton. Don’t ask me too many questions after goingthrough the whole post.. haha

Enjoy.

Beauty By The Bay.

The fog from the pacific blown,
Deep into the downtown canyons,
Steel and concrete, glass and plastic,
San Francisco most of the days woke up,
With the blanket nature spreads.

Down sleeps homeless souls who don’t feel,
The cold, in the intoxication of alcohol and drugs.
Prostitutes walking past used condoms in aversion,
Youth wandering wild with loaded guns,
And cops driving by heading home after a good nigh sleep,
Oh’ Tenderloin makes me wonder,
What fills in and what pours out,
Worthiness and unworthiness,
As all into the beauty of a great city merges.

Every step through Market street and Powell street took,
Spoke a piece of history long past gone by.
The old and new buildings all grand standing,
Poets and artists, musicians and actors all passing through,
This piece of time and felt I as if I am facing them all.

The Golden gate bridge facing Alcatraz,
The Bay bridge filled all the time,
The rich, poor and the always surprised middle class,
All walk through the beauty in the American west.

In the depths of this natural and man made beauty,
In my view the beauty perfected only with the beauty of a girl,
In through the city to find her I wandered,
The elusive girl that leaves an imperfection,
Upon this beauty of the pacific shore.

Oh’ my wild poetry like wild horses ran,
And came a colleague to learn my wilder rides,
“May be an American is not the one who can perfect,
The imperfection you see all around,
Look around the Russian hill you may find,
Russians never made anything perfect,
Except pretty girls who can perfect,
Any poets imperfect and wilder verse”.
My Russian colleague had his wilder ride on my thoughts,
And together we went around the so called Russian hill,
More beauty man made and natural filled my mind,
But still my mind and soul unsatisfied remained.
And we rested for a late meal around the bay.

Though far away from where we want to be,
The fog faded away showing the bare beauty of the bay,
And I said “Perfect it is oh’ my mind sip in the poetry nature sings”
My friend held my shoulder and turned me around,
Where I found resting the perfection all around the city I found not,
The Russian beauty, the bay in the fog free evening enjoys to the fullest,
Joined by two more eyes of a humble lonelypoet.

Valentina
                                                          Valentina.

Half Naked Beggar.

.Back to work… back to myself… wow isn’t it all sounds wonderful. An olddemon popped up. A bad one.  I won’t wait for fate to get to mynerves. I will get to it. Don’t worry. I will tell the details onceeverything settles down.

  Work is wonderful another of my application getting into production tomorrow. I hope everything goes smoothly.

  Not a lot going on other than that. All day I thought I am kindastuck with my writing and there won’t be a poem for today. But you knowI am a poet by birth. I may ask my mom what she remembers about thefirst words I said….. I am good. Yeah a good man indeed. Haha Selfpraise is equal to suicide. So be it. I love myself more after spending11 minutes on my writing pad. Got this one below.

  Now thanks a lot all for the comments you guys left for theprevious poems. Many new faces. That is good to see people coming hereand commenting before I comment at their sites. I will get back to youall later tonight. Gotta go and get something to eat.

Enjoy the poem and picture.

halfnakedbeggar

Half Naked Beggar.

The radio as an alarm cried,
And to the Angel song of Sarah Mclachlan woke,
Into a day that smelt like spring,
Still deep in the grip of that freezing old man.

Drown me now in the splendor of life,
Drag me away into the seclusion of love,
Sang in my mind while taking my morning brisk walk.
Oh’ weekends must be born like this day.

The Cardinal breezed passed my ear,
The cold wind beaten by the shining sun,
Oh’ warmth wondered me on this February morn,
As mind with fragile thoughts, filled.

My world, my world can I say?
That was emptied in a loser’s cry,
Oh’ no more I will weave dreams about love,
As all wishes buried in every step I took,
To melt away with whatever freeze left.

Though the silky sunlight adored me,
Loneliness is an empty frozen shell,
More to life than you exists, Oh’ love,
Oh’ alone I came to this world, unknowing,
For what, for whom this life to be lived,
Alone I will be buried knowing,
Love no longer is a queen of heart,
But a half-naked beggar with a hungry mouth.

The Real Saint.

 Wonderful rest I had on this holiday. I spent most of the timereading and writing a bit. I really don’t wanted to write anything. AsI thought I will take a break. Then I was thinking about how things canchange with one decision of person and how that will impact so manyothers. That is one thing I was always careful about when I do things.Most of you who read this may not understand what I am saying. As inthe age you all are in you can’t think about anything else but you. Iwas like that. But I am not like that anymore. Even though I say I onlycare about me very loud. I try my best not hurt anyone even withgesture or a look. Well… I have had profound success in doing so and ofcourse like every other man I’ve had my mistakes and failures. There isa price I paid with my success of not harming anyone by walking awayfrom many faces, gulping down the words that came to the tip of mytongue and turned away from the faces that in contempt looked at me.

I am alone.
ireland_217_bg_061902
I wrote a poem… some people may not like this at all. Well… I ampleased with this poem. If you don’t like it let me know what it is youdidn’t liked in this poem. I may re-write it a bit but I am not sure.If you don’t understand a part or the whole of it let me know at leastwhat you feel. So that when I re-write it I will be able to clarifymost of it.

The Real Saint.

The beautiful wonders he promised his own heart,
The lessons he learned in those promises unfulfilled,
Why did he shut his eyes to all that he left?
A negative force he became was all he earned.

The magical music he listened,
The wonderful words of love he never heard,
Oh why did he shut his ears to all the love he left?
All the positives of life he never heard.

Though all the negative he hated,
Life birthed and endured in every way,
Through the negative forces he always despised,
Oh’ why didn’t he shut himself up?
From all that consumed him.

Life away from the world five senses comprehend exists,
The world may offer no more love,
The negative forces through every vein tap dances,
That rebel inside counters every thing on the other way.

That which in negativity lived energized the way to positive,
The unloving world into the mind dissolved,
And all forces of nature became forceless tools,
In the hands of him for the betterment of the world.

Oh’ he looked back at the East when westwards walked,
Seeing the sun firing a billion arrows of light through the clouds so dark,
The whole universe before the micro microscopic human paused,
With a smile he welcomed a new morning when he offered,
All the love the world never known,
And everything in peace along with him moved.

A Day Of Love.

A wonderful Sunday passing me by. I was restless all evening yesterday and half of the day today. Well now I am okay…

  I thought of doing many things in the weekend. Nothing happenedand there was apparent reasons for it. When someone I consider withhigh regard leaves I know it is something hard to endure. I thought itmay be because of my fault. But relieved I am as I now know I gotnothing to do with it.

  Well… I did not wrote much today. I thought of releasing thispoem in a book I am finishing. There are more poem than I expected. Myaim was to have 100 poems. But between November 2005 and today I wrote98 poems excluding the “Tess Of The D’Urbervilles” poems. All of thepoems may not be there in the book as is I’ve decided to re-write somepoems that are too personal. In all there will be 200 poems. The bookwas named long time back “Age Of Survival”.

Now this poem which I thought all will only see in the book I amposting it here. I first thought of posting it on Valentine’s Day wellI did not do that as none here told me those words towards end of thispoem on that day. Read it you will know.

Have a great week ahead of you all.

A Day Of Love

February 14th 2002, San Francisco. California.

7:30AM.

With the warmth of heating vent slept in comfort,
In the downtown hotel unknowing,
The day of hearts took birth far in the mounts up East,
Woke up from the bosom of my love,
Who without a word left.

11:00AM

The day matured with the busy life at work,
Phones sitting upon desk like dead frogs,
Mind in the logic of never ending lines of code,
And emails pouring in with the messages of more work,
Oh’ I wondered, if this day fell on a weekend day.

3:00PM.

My belly with Philli-Cheese-Steak lunch filled,
Coca cola kept me awake from falling asleep,
In the boring meetings of the monotonous work,
Oh’ flower for my sweet heart I ordered,
Long before the meeting room I left.
Never forgot to write a line of verse,
That goes along with the bunch of roses red.

6:00PM

Downtown moved faster than all day,
Out of office, to cross the streets I waited,
Streets filled with lovers of all kinds,
Straight and gay most of them walked,
With a smile and love all around blessing,
Everyone with a feeling of love and being loved.

7:30PM
With the beautiful flowers into the hotel in I walked,
To show the brightness of my love,
And fill her heart with my lines of verse,
And to feel the love of her.
Oh’ I wished for nothing else,
My heart swayed a bit about the wordless parting in the morn.

The door as usual took its time to open,
And walked I into the room with scented candle lights filled,
The great memory of mine all day forgot,
Like many, in the day of love busy thinking,
About their love like me,
Upon on the table a cake sat with candles in arrangement said,
“Happy Birthday, My Poet”

In all her glory she was sitting on the bed to share her love.

Mo Cuishle,
     You know why I don’t understand your decision to
stay away. I make a living using computers and internet. My whole job is done
through this. So being on Xanga or anywhere else on the web is just a past time
during my work. It may not be like that for you who spend most of the time
otherwise.

 Alrighty, I respect
your decision. I hope and pray whatever you do will be productive and will be a
blessing in everyway. Don’t worry like I said in my previous post. I will be
here and you are also free to comment on any post of mine.

I will comment on your Xanga, but it depends on when you
post and what you post.
I sure will miss your comments. I loved them. 

Life Is Complicated When One Acts Bad And Think About It.
Life Is Simple And Easy When One Think Right And Act Upon It.
LonelyPoet.