Night Poetry

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I dip the quills in the dimpled smiles

of my soul untarnished by the

asphalt roads they create everyday,

and paint the stars.

The moonlight laminates the celestial poetry.

 

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Poetry is the j…

Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
-Carl Sandburg

I feel that the best thing about poetry is its ability to transcend time, space and souls. Its a monologue which is also a dialogue, something meant for a private perusal but also envisages a wider audience.Its a train that takes you to the lands of wild sunflowers, moonlit elves and fairies and parched deserts thinking mirages to be their reflections.Poetry is beautiful,divine.It is the language of the soul tongued by the pen.   

Dear Sylvia

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Photo Courtesy : Google Images

I cannot give enough reasons why I like Sylvia Plath’s poems. Perhaps its her unpretentious depiction of emotions in her poems, the raw flagella which touches the very foundations of one’s thoughts, tingling your bare flesh with finger scratches not easy to heal. Though she is widely known today, yet I think that she is a highly underrated poet. Also, I feel that her poetry transcends time, space, everything. Suspended in nothing, her poems speak a language no one knows, nor will ever know. She speaks to a self people seldom find in themselves. Its not the pretty poised corpse she talks of, but the rotten one, smelling of memories no one ever bothered to find out. 

I love all her poems, but this is the one I especially like, and would like to end this blog with.

 

 

The Jailer

My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.

The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?

I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.

Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.

O little gimlets—
What holes this papery day is already full of!
He his been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.

All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.
And he, for this subversion,
Hurts me, he
With his armor of fakery,

His high cold masks of amnesia.
How did I get here?
Indeterminate criminal,
I die with variety—
Hung, starved, burned, hooked.

I imagine him
Impotent as distant thunder,
In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.
I wish him dead or away.
That, it seems, is the impossibility.

That being free. What would the dark
Do without fevers to eat?
What would the light
Do without eyes to knife, what would he
Do, do, do without me?