They rise early, busy
hands scribing, visiting
then revisiting,
coding cautiously,
each small sound caught
in the filter of the exchange,
straining at verb, glimpsing
at meaning, hinting
at overall patterns, painting
findings in paragraphs,
poems, brush strokes, then
starting the process
all over again for clarity.
Lately, I’ve grown tired
of the way I write…
weary of the bells that jingle
on a hell-bent sleigh ride
of black scribble
across the white snowfall
of the page.
I wince as Mother Goose
slams one door after another
in closure.
But I like it too:
The comfort of order.
No art without the discipline
of a well-watched border.
Transgression has become so common
as to become commonplace.
Use a rhymed couplet
and many editors are unforgiving.
But remember:
Tradition is the living faith of the dead–
traditionalism: the dead faith of the living.
More at https://about.me/dklawitter.
We play with words
Turning sadness into beauty
Paper is our canvas.
Words that inspire change
Impressionist images
Dance vividly.
Calling out injustice.
War, famine, hunger
Societies failures.
Baring our souls
For all to witness
Recording the beauty.
Unseen, unheard, unspoken
Truths alive for eternity
Whispers in the wind.
Empathy, sensitivity, kindness
Being the norm, to empower
Others to think, to realize.
To see their strengths
Will prevail, impact upon
An often cold unjust.
World.
I throw myself
into writing, into a written
world because it is better
than stewing in lament.
I look for healing,
searching for the weaving
of words to mend me
and help with next steps.
I’ve been in a race even my shadow
Couldn’t catch me until late
So many I’ve loved and admired
Turned to dust
The wonder and waste of a still life
When breathing is just not enough
Is anybody listening to the cracking sound
Bone on bone a chronic lament
How do you weigh and measure gratitude
On a tipping scale of pleasure and pain
And yet poetry plays a serenade
Love came and kissed my face
There’s more to say
Something wonderful
Delivered late
So many years
at the altar
of unsure consonants
and quiet vowels,
diving headlong
into that vast landscape
of impermanence
where the remembered
and the invented
become one,
where all things
are one,
where nothing disturbs
the crystal symmetry
of silence and quarks,
where we return
each night with clenched fists
and even the wind
evades our grasps.
—–
Debarshi Mitra is a 21 year old poet from New Delhi, India. His debut book of poems ‘Eternal Migrant’ was published in May 2016 by Writers Workshop. His works have previously appeared or are forthcoming in anthologies like’ Kaafiyana’ and to literary magazines like ‘Typewrite’, ‘Thumbprint’, and ‘Leaves of Ink’. He is currently enrolled in an ‘Integrated PhD’ program in Physics.
The ars poetica
The poetry of it
I walk on measured
Tones of poetry
Of nothing
Out of pavements
Of stark loneliness
A man in grey coat shouts
By the pavement
He is a poet expressing
His ephipany of freedom
No one says anything
No one looks at him
No one smiles
No one calls him mad
Somehow his madness lingers
On me
I reach home half drunk.
Poems in cheese
burgers grease
my poem is in the
making
of a big cake baking
Chinese noodles
and all that is doodles
poems of spinach and farms
and long long yarns
poems that appear in custard
and dry mustard
have you heard of poems
served on platter
as mad as a hatter
I found a poem oily
like raw raw jelly
a poem in a basket of orange
in a golden red melange
this is a poem witty
and I’m not nutty.
a poet with a disorganized brain
Ideas crack corn by the minute
from a tap that will not shut off
loves the idea of treasure hunting
anything that comes to mind
he holds the golden pen
watching his words
burn deep inside the page
nothing compares to
the indescribable birth of invention
no time or space for anything else
a kaleidoscope
bits of lined paper
broken rhythm
half sentences of
dismantled rhyme
ticker tape and confetti
always whirling or
sleeping sideways on the floor
still homeless metaphors
keep pounding on his door
try getting torn pieces
to fit together
overwhelmed
in the pitch black of the night
boxes of sacrificed ink on paper
why bother to write
Why poetry they ask
I will tell you
poetry shrouds
all those lies
hidden in miniscule
moments of truth.