Saturday, January 25, 2014

The Crow

The Crow 

Show me what is white in you
You are clean for sure to say
I shall take the sayings untrue
You feast not the rotting prey!

We look up for glimpse awesome
You perch high in majestic style
Bother not the brother worms
You have all the reasons to smile.

Calm your caws and seize your egos
Your songs are but a choking note
Men aim high with raising brows
To stone you ground with exact shot.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

The last day


The last day


Should we waste the time on past
Shedding tears of failures vast?
Or crave for love in hungry lust
In ceaseless time through movement fast?

Building shattered dreams to burst
Nursing battered wounds to trust
Should never in history last
As we near for change to dust!

Come my love before we rust
Our acts be put on things we must
To quench the dreams of unvoiced thirst
And change the day lest we combust. 

On the Wings of Wind


Wordsworth's "…the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" still stands the test of time and finds the place in modern definition, "Poetry is the chiseled marble of language; it's a paint-spattered canvas - but the poet uses words instead of paint, and the canvas is you", as expressed by Mark Flanagan. 

Poetry teaches us the techniques to understand people as Amy Lowell in his essay 'Why We Should Read Poetry' mentioned, "...we know man in all his moods -- in the most beautiful thoughts of his heart, in his farthest reaches of imagination, in the tenderness of his love, in the nakedness and awe of his soul confronted with the terror and wonder of the Universe." Understanding the meaning of the words in the poem is of less important than feeling the feelings attached in it. 

This site is designed to encourage the readers to experience the displaced feelings of a misplaced being. The Anthology of Soul’s Whisper is a ‘dateless’ diary of picture in words with feelings and emotions wept and laughed at different episodes of life. It is an album in which the incidences (sweet and sour) are captured and displayed. 

A poem to me is the picture of the poet. Only with the eyes of a poet can we but find his picture in his words. I cannot guarantee the presence of ‘logic of the imagination’ as T.S. Eliot (1975, p. 77) sated but with certainty I urge you to read it to discover the follies of a poem without ‘logic’ or ‘imagination’ in it. It is worth the read…