Rainy summer morning Road trips Maple leaf land Evenings Midnight talks Diaries Pressed flowers Books Poetries of dead poets Dead languages Dark academia aesthetic Blue kites Fictional/Non fictional stories Fictional movies Autumn 1D songs Bts playlist Midnight stargazing Night sky Museum Big bookstores Old libraries Sunset Cold breeze Psithurism Chirping birds My old poems Family photos Albums Old clips Video calls Tight hugs Polaroids Stamps / stickers Scientific experiments Paper planes Large windows Scented candles Long neck T-shirts Denim jackets Doodles Wooden floors Hand written letters Childhood photographs Fluttering butterflies Baking Embroidery Dancing Calligraphy Dark paintings Drawing Writing proses / diary entries Sonnets of shakesPeare Room that smells of wood Smell of old books Petrichor Sound of rain Pretty lies Mango trees Butterscotch ice cream Chocolates Parks Salah Classroom Streaming BTS MVs Bangtan photo cards Running among sunflower fields Clear blue sky Rainbows Beams of sunlight Thick forests Blooming flowers Roller coaster rides
I remember when seven years ago I first managed to say "Baba".
Yesterday, Baba and I were watching our old photos together and I asked him, "How did you feel when I called you 'Baba' for the first time?" "That was the most beautiful day of my life", he said. It was as if the night's moon fell on us, the sun rose at 3 am and the night wasn't dark.
"How does it feel to write poetry? How do we write it?", I asked.
"We write poetries about touching the sky, about running among sunflower fields and sometimes about meeting death. Do you wish to write?"
I remember that day Baba gave me a small notebook of his poems and now that notebook sits in an old bookshelf. After three years when I opened the notebook and read his poems, I think I found the skies, the stars and the sunflower fields that he used to talk about so fondly for the first time. Some verse screamed, some whispered and some were at peace while some were exactly like him.
Two years ago, one evening when Baba and I were watching the sun set together I asked him, "Have you ever survived your poems?"
Baba looked at me, smiled and said nothing.
Tonight again, the moon falls on us. The sun rose at 3 am and Baba breathed his last.
He gulped darkness but left sunrays on us.
Yes, he survived his poems.
First time I wrote something like this, Inspired by the writings of Khalid Hosseine.
→If your nightmares wrote a letter for you, what would they write about?
"Put a flower on the page where my favourite character died in the novel and let its smell tell me how I can beautify death and smell it like honey. Or on a blank Canvas,. Paint my nightmare and Beautify it By the hues of daydreams.
"please beautify me"
→Is this universe worth believing in or is it just another delusion to feel better and escape?
If I'm the collection of stories and skies I admired, Stars I chased and The smiles I've given to others , The plants I've watered And the kites I flew. If I'm my Fav character, And a child of this universe. Then this bittersweet world is, Worth believing in.
"worth believing world"
→What is the most romantic dream you have ever seen that can be shared ? →What is the toughest job you've ever done?
In corners of webs holding hands together, Walking underneath the horizons, Drawing flowers on the skies, Her swaying hairs and his steps, Are rhyming twinkling with weather. Loving endlessly as if it was the last walk they had together .
A night like this, And thoughts of him wiggle it's way to me. He was Adam, And I, his Eve And leaves are to branches, Just as hearts are to ribcages, Together we ruled Eden, On a summer that flowered like petunias on a young lass' cheeks, On vows of tomorrows sealed tight in lockets we wore on our hearts.
But summer joys are ephemeral dreams, Like lit candles conceding defeat before angry winds, And forever flails blind, a foundling trapped in web of regrets. Love today mourns, and sings a requiem inside a grave he dug with bare hands. We now misspell each other's names.
So now I raise a toast to Naivety and smile, Because I once thought love was forever but I was wrong.
Nary a doubt must your heart murmur Whereby the creatures of the sky and land gather to feed on heaven's abundance in the open.Come forth my love, Rest easy your frets. In light steps must your form find me, Resting in sweet surrender inside Earth's sweet bower.
'Tis here Gaia summons the wind, On a conch dazzling with rhinestones, And the sky in pearly reverence weeps, to witness her nameless divine. She walks in lithe grace and the hills and mountains tremble in adoration while grasses part in delight to make way for her gazelle feet.
What gaiety must the sunflower feel when the bees cluster to woo her affection 'neath the amber sun! What delight it is to have the wind kiss my flaming cheeks the colour of a cherry!
Anxious beats my heart, waiting for your footfalls. When your form finds my outstretched arms, I shall bedeck your tresses with stars and kiss away the city's smog from thine eyelashes and poetry shall find us running among golden fields, serpentine cities could never truly understand.
/(Bard)iche virtuoso/ I was a poet: trahison des clercs
I never counted stars as they burn the house of dusk manipulating the daydreams to fell in love with ephialtes I'm a drunkard cursing the flashbacks and photographs of augur. I'm depicting the future with threads of past time I'm a bardic barque whose debris are being stepped by mariners as flotsam unable to fathom; a prolix to rejig the spaces and bardiches into poems which are hard to gulp and not-that-easy to cognize the roads I build with black and white images They left They left one by one two to four and in thirty days where I tasted the three sixty fifth rotten flesh of forevers
Nobody stayed the home to my soul the love of my life the salted-buttery elflocks of my grandma the last wish I made while celebrating my 11th birthday the guy who keeked through the orifice of fornication the bullets of prophecies the matinee to masquerade happiness
howbeit, I was a poet
who is a poet ?
one day my heart asked I was discombobulated I read books, watched movies I kept being inquisitive But steadily instead of getting an answer
I started a war betwixt my heart and mind,
A virtuoso bard , bardiche and bandit named life snuff the cigars of chivalry and puff out the intumescent verses of ruination
I'm partaking in sighs, cries, thwacks, flames, relics and coal-camphor of the pits of villainy
_ I'm not guilty of the trahison des clercs I caged, by trading my poetic pale-flower. I'm a cobblestone of perfidy.