If the world would stand against us,
If the mighty men of this world contend against us,
If the goddess of beauty seduce me,
If the mighty ocean king oppress me,
If the hostile Sun should set her fire against me
Not even when the Moon shines brighter than the Sun,
Will I be offended at all these did!
Words can offend and pollute me,
A yes is positive,
A no will kill suicide,
Please beauty, end the misery and call the shots,
My love for you is for all eternity and a day,
When I say I love you, the stars were jealous,
The Angels that guard you were offended at my words,
They plan evil to possess my body just to have a taste of mortal love,
I’m not moved,
Your shine silenced the shine of the sun,
Will you then not take me forever with you?
Put me to sleep before it comes
I pray that everything in me completely numbs
I cannot face it, seeing it coming back
Put me to sleep and don’t wake me up
Sleep is death’s kindred, a kindness
That approaches by night and lets
A weary soul get rest — solace
A way out of pain and sadness
Put me to sleep before it comes
An assault of memories — keeps on
Distracting me from my escape
It insists — keeping me awake
There is no running away in
The night when everyone is kept
Tight by a blanket of arms — so
Put me to sleep before it comes
His love for his city and his awareness of its effects on his psycho-social development led him to starting his own blog: rajnishmishravns.wordpress.com in 2011. The blog features both his academic writing and his writing on his city: the City of Light, Varanasi. Then, as he is a poet, and loves reading and talking about other people’s poems too, he started another blog: https://poetrypoeticspleasure.wordpress.com/. He runs an ezine: PPP Ezine to promote poetry and poets.
Beneath the broad columns of Herculean Pillar,
Weeps the springtime feather dance
Of freezing frothing blanket.
He lies on Irving’s rocks across the Henry,
Painting words of Freedom’s March across a furrowed brow,
Till tiredness creeps it’s feet on lonely eyes,
Counting mountains
As they frown down from above.
On the first crack of the distant Bell
A teary head raises from a bloody pillow,
And sings out the count, to defiant beats.
Flakes drift softly round a faraway moon,
As drizzle melts the lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs their companions, embossed upon the heather.
His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news where
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
“Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice“.
Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings and prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.
Cries of the deserted ring out
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans, and the Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees’
The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated the print of the newest chapters.
He’ll fall upon the lords great will,
The ‘Singers’ and ‘Wobblies’ will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.
It’s a world only make believe could make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows,
In concrete jungles of law and lands.
Their people Long since, Ner’ forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.
This Farmers land, had workers lead their kin to the gates of Slaughter,
Then scavenged, begged and stowed to the cloudy Hill
Of Overlooking
To remorse or return, is a question beyond the door of the living.
He must Shed not for the defiant butcher,
But more for the life now gone,
Since sold to an aging critic.
He was Born in to the Poor mans world,
But now freed from it’s chains,
Must help make what‘s fallow ripen.
On the streets where rubble were once great walls,
Where mounted high, the heavenly stag did Breed,
In fields where blight had starved their plates,
He would toil and drive and Dig and Build.
That day, That day in May,
Upon a hazy heather pillow,
A life of history filled a lonely man.
As He lay and held the hand of glories past,
He raised a fist to salute the one which had just begun.
He shakes hands in his dreams with the men of the mist,
Along hills,
And at the edge of great towns.
James Fitzpatrick
Seamus Mac Giolla Phadraig
James Fitzpatrick is an Irish Poet based in Dublin.
Forever is a long time. Yet still I’m here, simply yours.
I belong to you, I am forever linked to you, all yours.
You created something special between us, forever yours.
Through trial and error, the learning curve, u raised me forever yours.
In sickness and in health, yes like matrimony, I am forever yours.
When I got on your nerves as I grew from infancy to adulthood, still I remained forever yours.
Shameful that only one day has been chosen for you, it’s still forever yours.
Even on the days that perhaps you didn’t feel your best, I came first, forever yours.
Feeding me, healing me, teaching me, how can I be anything else, forever yours.
When I began writing my own life chapters, lest we forget, I am still forever yours.
As short as this message may be, the meaning is clear, this day and eternity are forever yours.
Happy Mother’s Day to you these women I can’t say enough about, the world is yours.
I said it before that forever is a long time, but so too are you.
Be all that you know yourself to be, fore as long as you do these things forever will live within you.
From a distant space
It lingers in grace,
Amidst the air
In a croon so fair.
A strange rhythm,
Sneaking in,through my solitary chest ceiling;
Sweetly thrumming my heart walls
And luring my soul with bewitching calls.
I’m now the flower dancing the wind:
A prey captivated amid your mind,
And by your kind spell and charms
Am slaughtered in your arms.
Now,why near though far?
And Why faraway,yet near?
Why the soothing thrum,in silence I hear?
Honey stings,roses spears,
This our still minds should bear-
Not just swimming the ocean of pearl.
Come,lets dance in harmony;
To this long lingering melody.
No fairer poise gesture,
Nor the poison of treasure,
Can fetch such pleasure:
This mingling meets Devine measure.
You don’t even know
the power
you don’t realise
the flower
that grows inside
illusioned with pride
guarded by mind
is your might
is your right
to fight
versus premise of life
to know the truth
to be full, not half.
Whilst keeping it a prisoner
in a dark corner of your heart
you can not fathom
you can not know
you can not see
you can not be
who you are.
I live in the darkest apartment of the city under the bridge.
This is not a love poem. It does not have hidden meanings.
It has a story of the happiest man I know.
I am certain that I love the color black.
But I do not wear any. I wear brown instead.
I like darkness not on me but outside
To assure that it isn’t curbed anywhere inside.
I cheat myself when I add milk to coffee and
When I shave my head and
When I do not ascertain my groceries at night.
You can touch me from anywhere
I guarantee you my existence
But not my location.
I do not carry maps. Only train passes.
I choose girls wearing black on themselves
To help me with addresses
And get ignored due to juxtapose dressing.
The story is colorless. Less interesting than rainbows.
I have many ‘Once upon a time’ in my head
The tales no one would love in dark.
I sleep till 2 in the morning.
My bag has black and white paints
Black to build and white for corrections.
This hiding place of mine has a bulb
Whose occasional presence is reminded
Only for reading dates on the cans.
I paint signboards for a living.
People provide me colors only then.
How selfish.
My friendships start on an endgame.
I have friends whom I have met only once.
And shall never meet again.
Storms are good until and unless the roof leaks
I find weeds beautiful too.
My family does not know I live almost homeless
All they know is that I am happy.
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