#life All Rights Reserved 15 Oct 2021 12. 05 am / Eudaimonia - the condition of human flourishing or of living well / ___________________________________
•| Eudaimonia |•
I was a toddler tulip when Ma bathed me in our backyard, golden komirebi illuminating the bubbles floating around me while Nani was humming a folklore under the banyan tree. Leaflets swayed to the rhythm of her song, zephyr in tryst with tempo. Nani used to often say, " this banyan tree is as old as our village, it shielded generations from scorching sun, breathed life into countless limbs and wafts the aroma of love and care." She made a wish for the tree to last forever, while I mused on the chances of everlasting evergreen. Years past, while I'm scribbling odes to the benevolent bosky, serenading zephyr and redolent flowerets, I can't help but remember Nani, who is now a solivagant star in the vast welkin. While the banyan tree stands tall and proud as if the armour of time enveloping me in an ozone of ornate aura. Nurturing nuances are inherent in Nature and we are mere passing clouds intermittently raining and rusting, flying a d fading, daring and dying. The least we could do is to bask in the bliss of whatever grace is bestowed on our lives, of which essence is called e u d a i m o n i a
/Poiesis means creation/ __________________________
Izles from the chimney stutters along with the baritone balladry of a broken heart fumes fly as far as frore fell from Meandering nefeli wore mallacht cuddling eldritch emotions throughout it's cursus Welkin wielded a selcouth scarf of grief one which weighed as heavy as her being and it gobsmacked gravity mocked on the guilt piling on poet's plate Verdant vamoosed to vadon as venery of a mauvais mind
Night was a nihilistic noirceur and she abhors the terrors it compels on her All hearts around her wore aphotic armours abandoning aurora of her soul Cacophonous cicadas cantrips and some flireflies dance in the alter of eerie embers Moonbeams abvolate roaring musings of ire and lightning sang the chorus of chaos
Wazzock of a wanderer failed to find hiraeth in the faileas of frìth Neferious and noicesome nights that stretched nightmares till nexterdays
Dawn was in a desuetude tripping in toska and it made sure that the aquiver of her quill goes on Nature natant in plague for the poet to pursue p o i e s i s
All Rights Reserved 13 Oct 2021 9.55 am _____________________
Poetry sits on my tongue like a pack of camphor and I light it with my own hands, without trembling or quivering. It burns me, bleeds me, cuts me, wounds me but not as much as my heart burns inside my ribs //
I'm someone who hates routine, and discards rules, yet I make love to syllables every day w- hile the Helianthus heals morning mist with a- n upward curve of petals and every night while night jasmine drips honey for a far away moon. I'm someone who abhors principles, yet I shed my thoughts in free verse to seal envelopes of poetries just like the autumn wind shakes the maple leaves to pirouette all the way to land on pavements. I'm someone who abandons legac y, yet I stitch sonnets in the sombre seconds of existence, levitating between life and death, lo- ve and hate, grief and glory.
I'm someone who ignores traditions, yet throug- hout the lane to my hireath, I've planted haikus in hues of a dream palette. I'm someone who g -ets annoyed with similarities and embellishme -nts, but my garden flourishes in similies and m -etaphors. I'm someone who skips side dishes, but my taste buds are acquaintance of tanka a -nd limerick. Repetition irritates me but villanelle and blitz are my rainbows and sunshine. I avoid confessions of all kinds, but odes are a mystery my mind often whispers. I don't try to pen down letters, but love pushes my heartbeats to weave my feelings as a kerchief for my dreamboat. I don't offer wreaths at the gateway of death, but my heart laments in elegies and eulogies.
I have a spot near the valley at the far edge of the waterfall. There's a river flowing inside me that's gushing to reach there, where I sway with the summer breeze and break myself into specks of wishes. To fly with the wind as multiple wings of a dream, while the world is wailing in winter frore, I'd be sipping the honey of spring.
It's the aftertaste of that honey, that time treasured on branches of birches, which burns with the fire dancing on my tongue. I chew some chords of ballads and barf symphonies at the eleventh hour, I bleed some phonemes and morphemes as an epitaph and a last will, before the curfew curse imprisons me in slumber. By dawn, poetries had sprouted around my grave with my signature as flowerets and my fading voice echoes around those oxymoronic daffodils and ironic daisies.
If my poem doesn't rhyme, the feet of every syllable twirling inside the wineglass of my thesaurus glides through my throat until my emotions overflow at a spontaneous symphony. Behind my broken heart, I carry tapes of teary notations and discs of euphonious rhythm, the treasure chest in my soul never empties, as long as my life's lit on this altar.
Poetry is my last hope to revve up the stars falling astray Painting the welkin with broken crayons in my bag of blueth //
#wild feeling wild/ All Rights Reserved 11 Oct 2021 10.33 am Lazamon's Brut ends similar line/ _____________________
When Whims Wander Wild ~ Stories/
Petals passled on panorama Paintspray of pollen prime / Some seeds of washed away dreams blossomed as wildflowers when hope drizzled over and dawn dusted them with glitter of glee They grew thwarting borderlines and thrashing boundaries, too strong for fear to nip yet too delicate for time to cwtch ~ winsome wildflowers //
Timber tryst with time Tall and taupe, tinted thick / Some walls welcome warmth and grow up throwing branches to the welkin, intent to reach, intel to soar, inspire to stay rooted They hold hands in twigs and leaves, form arrays of labyrinth permitting navigation, entrusting the wind to waltz in whims ~ welcoming wild woods //
Fusion flames of forlorn and fantasy Fernwah on fire, fighting fabht / Some flames don't duel on fondness of luminosity, they burn enraged to take vengeance on natant mirth They set ablaze anything on their path, saffron pyre creeping on caves and crevices, ways and worlds, gulping martyr muses ~ wanton wildfire //
Flesh of prey, blood of plight Fighting fate and playing plate / Some lives are stranded on estuaries, futile footprints on coasts, meandering on marshlands and migrating moribund They flourish in dusks and flail in dawns, waging wars with weather, brave yet branded to bane, their cries are left to an ignorant fate ~ wailing wildfowl //
Territories trailed by trambles Thrones and thorns forbid trespass / Some territories forbidden trespassing, their nature and laws strict on nurture and freedom, lives that deserve no shackles They blend in harmony, respire selcouth symphony, orchestra a language of love unadulterated, all they need is not be meddled with their sustenance ~ warzone wildlife //
Wide and cast stretched wilderness Whims waltzing in and out wondrous / Some minds are inlands of wilderness, not a lane of narrowness mapped, only left with trails of none/less trodden pathways Spontaneous and sporadic, nefarious and notorious, unfiltered and unconditional, they are the ones most capable of love and light, dare and death, sin and sane, win and war - they don't exist, they live with passion - there, most vulnerable the cruelest of all creatures ~ wilderness within //
All Rights Reserved 9 Oct 2021 3.35 pm ____________________
The Zenith of Poetic Euphoria ~
I love the ambience art that articulates the arduous amendments into aesthetic ambrosia I love the brio burble of byzantine balladry that embalms the buxom air enlightening embers I love the clangour of classics declouding the caligo that cantrips the catharsis of caelum I love the deiform daydreams that accentuate the deeds and desires to deesis anabiosis I love the effulgent emission of komirebi encircling the realms in ethereal enchantments
I love the floresta of flowerets framing faraway hiraeth that fixates my fantasies I love the glossy garments and glittery garlands that poetry adorn my ardent soul I love the halo of halcyon days laying and layering on hallways of whilend hallucinations I love the intense inklings of the mind ignifing the incandescent indwells of the soul I love the jocund journals of jovial as well as jarring hearts pirouetting the purpose of life
I love the kaleidoscopic thoughts overcoming the kalopsia of moments and oracling knowledge I love the lonesome mangata lightening the tapestry of deepening doldrums as a solasta I love the metanoia marvels of wandering monks and meandering nefelibata soaring high I love the nubivagant nuances prancing through the welkin of nomadic aislings I love the oratory obeisance of a solitary soul to the dawning era of renaissance
I love the phosphenes pondering within budding twineyes unfurling in my poesy I love the quivering notations revolving around the strings of my rhythmic passion I love the reflection of reminiscence wavering as prismatic beams on the face of agelast I love the susurrus swish and swirl of ink that has harmonized with the rhythm of my respire I love the theurgy of solitude embracing the scintilla of sensibilities evoking eunoia
I love the undivided attention of a moment transpiring as ukiyo, prevailing in tranquil I love the voracious ventures of a wholesome vagabond swirling through the frames of time I love the wakening warmth of aurora lighting up hopeful hues slumbering in shadows I love the xanthic tint of parchment longing for promising engravings to beam upon ages I love the yodelling syllables of a metamorphosing poet yearning for the ears of just
I love the zenith of poetic euphoria, the everlasting zeal of a poet, the eternal elixir of imagination
I love night walks, I've always loved the streets stretching long and wide before me, luring me to measure the distance between my love and my destiny, which stays hidden amidst white lights, pink frames and pied piper's songs. Even tonight I'm walking, with half a mind to stop, just return back home and the other half urging to walk until I surpass this scenery. The one which will be engraved on my mind in bold tints of hues - a buried symphony of rain(tear)drops. • • • Loud zephyr surged through birches lining the asphalt. Lonely footpaths are piling heaps of dried dreams, that once had palmistry of a prospering future. Just like the rosy lines on my pale palm, they are fading and blurring. Leaving mere marks that resemble scars of being alive. Maybe they'd never disappear. Maybe they'd stay forever on me. Reminding me that I once had umpteenth possibilities, all of which got flooded by unrestricted emotions.
The ache in my heart is tracing branches of thunderstorms lighting the darkening night sky in flashes. It all started from a single drop, that leisurely rolled off my forearm, slowly. Falling, falling and then hitting hard on the concrete crossroad. Welkin left no raindrop orphaned. More of those tragic pearls fell like an ornament of the heaving clouds.
Fogged streetlights adorned divinity as if a halo, blessing otherwise pitch black way. With every step I took, I let some tear drops cuddle the enlarging puddles on my way. Some steps deliberately stomped on fallen leaves, unwilling to lock away my distress. 'It must be October', my hazy mind tried to reason, why my pathway is paint-dipped in crimson-maroons and amber-bronzes. Just like my red-rimmed eyes and scar-studded thighs.
A heart that once poured love like marvelling monsoons have now closed off with raging smoke, a clouded mind. It's almost impossible to believe that he's unaware of the ways he's transformed 'from beaut to beast'. His hands tremble so hard if he can't refill poison pools in the glass bottles. Mirrors showed him neither reality nor fantasy. Music is no more his high, notations are mind maps to hell, a trepidating trap.
Echoes have left him aeons ago, whispers can't reach him even within hairline distance. Trumpets and drumroll veiled silence, piano poignantly ponders, violins wail intermittently. Euphony unreachable, cacophony undeterred. All that left was a mirage of eutony, not even approachable. And caresses have withered as soon as winter bound him in frore, lending me blossoming whiplashes.
I stayed by him like a shadow that has taken an oath of solemnity. But there's only so much I can do when none of my attempts could disclose his despair. He was hell-bent on pushing me away. Would promises wither if their voices travel back to their origin ? Would love disappear if the hearts unwind their own beats ? Would forever fall down to never-again if brokenness gravitied the fall ? Who is to apologize to whom, if both are hurt and keep hurting each other ?
This wretched rain has drenched me depressed yet my heart is shielding a drought rooted in loss. This scenery is fated to fade in forlorn. And every foggy breath I exhale is chanting a farewell to my once-wished-eternal-spring - " It's time to erase this scenery. It's time to leave, my love..."
/ I couldn't be a Beatrice to his Beethoven For I'm Betrothed to Brokenness /
- Aurelia - Her eyes look like unheard stories shaping clay moulds into archaic symbols of greek sculpture. Ferns adore her art, like poems adore her hand. Hooded ancient scribbler notes down this wholesome tragedy of her beauty, fading into stardust, on every full moon; as she kneads the raw heart full of thaws, to give a coarse tone to her soft armature made of delicate metaphors aligned. Lifeless sculpture breathes through her charms and breaks into tears in her arms as she quietly hugs it while sobbing.
- Love - The rain is falling into the lap of mother, her eyes holding onto the dead child, as she surrenders the universe and offers it as homage to the holy trinity. Her fingertips still caressing the child's hair, pouring life into the scalp and skull. Soon awakens the child in heaven to find, an old man awaiting by the olive tree in their very own backyard, holding a box full of truffles and honey. While he leaves for the truffles, her arms fall down, she lays on the ground, by drawing life from every cell of her body into her eyes, to capture her child jumping with joy. She offers herself.
- Xenon - Two lovers found two roads, one road allows only one person to travel. Ephemeral, burdensome, decision making time arrives as they borrow another hour from heaven to stay together. Like wallflowers with wanderlust, following a pitiful fate to rhyme a melody before departing, the xenon undresses his pathetic form and devotes himself to the pure bliss called love.
- Old lavender - Your smile is a lie as the corners of your lips twitch with the tears rolling down from the canthus of your eye. You smile is real when you leave the old pages and old books in the cellar to find a new book from the unusual store called life to renew your writing skills and better adding more paintings if words could not describe the little descriptions of your routine.
- Noah - When flowers bloom, the selene in mufti inspects the ruins after war, encounters the river. Crestfallen moon dips into brook, as it's shine brings the dead river back to life. Butterflies flutter their wings pouring some pollen over the soil where water meets. Elegant embodiment of forgiveness takes birth after destruction.
i. The rain is falling On silent meadows A cascade of silver tears Spilling from the fringes Of the blue horizon
But the sky only visits me in my dreams Telling me
ii. Your smile is a lie, A portal of bleeding gums, Hiding crumbs of sadness Between bites of soft memories And sips of cozy mornings
iii. Two lovers found a sweet escape In the eyelashes of a Forget Me Not But alas! it was all a dream, A fading song's haunting refrain
Through the looking glass
iv. Her eyes look like unheard stories Telling and retelling Once-Upon-a-Times Counting gasps In the mood of Oh-My-Gods
v. When flowers bloom at The first kiss of spring She sits on the shoulders of farewells Awaiting the sky to Unfurl the petals of a new dawn Subduing the blues of a withering sunset Alongside the steady rhythm Of April refrain.