There is a pressure in the air.
A tension that makes the body bend and twitch.
It’s not a new thing.
It might ne’er been a new thing.
But it comes and it goes.
And it mocks us.
When the eyes are around you feel them.
When the eyes are not around you feel them.
The nerve is tugged.
The veins stream with fluids.
The combs and perfect rows reveal.
And the nerve is yanked.
The air becomes heavier.
So heavy it can be heard.
We can only hear it.
There or not, we feel them.
Now the nerve is torn from its foundations.
The pressure in the air,
Makes homes from the cavities of our lungs.
The body bends and twitches.
It comes again.
And boils the fluids.
This Ifrit of a thing.
Gargles on its own spew as it mocks,
From the spaces we deny it entry.
If you were told it poison,
Ne’er would it glaze your palette?
Ne’er would it glaze your palette,
The eye and the mind suffice.
Our palette is dry.
When the fluids began to flow,
It did not water like a Spring garden,
We be told it poison,
And our palettes be cursed by holy words.
We keep our mouths closeted.
It hopes to keep our garden in spring,
As all the other gardens.
Not all but some.
They want not their palettes glazed.
They withhold for too long,
Yearning and praying,
Begging. They break.
They whither and wilt,
And dry out.
And you be told this the cause,
Of it being poisoned.
There once was a girl from the sea,
Who wore not just two shells, but three.
One for each boosum,
And one for her koosum.
Though she did all but hide them from me.
Going through some old files on my hard drive yielded some personal treasures. I went through a short phase of limerick obsession and every word spilt from my lips were either limerick or nonexistent. Although short-lived, my phase was volatile and created some works that I have to admit are jovial if anything. The poem presented below is about a girl who wore seashells, but presented herself exclusively to the speaker.
The intention of this poem was to promote a sense of liberation. I am an advocate of the human physique, especially in art. And writing this helped me further how I already felt to shame for appreciating the human form without the sexual connotations that are always applied to it.
A few months back, during my stay in the Netherlands, I cam across a book in a quaint bookstore. In the English Literature section of the store stood a hard cover book, clad in off-white and title in azure blue. Titled “POEMS that make GROWN MEN CRY”, this book is a compilation of poems chosen as favourites by famous authors and literates.
The compilation is edited by father and son duo Anthony & Ben Holden. The poems chosen all hold a special place within the authors and editors. This genuine sense of appreciation authenticates what these men feel and is a perfect bridge among those men (and women) who can appreciate words in all their intricacies. Whether these poems make you cry, whether you’re a man, a women, or anything in between. I can whole-heartedly recommend this book to you. Poems have a profound effect on moving people, and in my experience, the effect is multiplied tenfold when it is presented as a form of explicit expression of oneself to another.
Now for the true purpose of this post. Although I could potentially (and extensively) sing praises to this book, I’ve decided to reserve this post as a general overview or first impressions post. Over the course of my thorough read through of this book, I should hope to make posts about the actual content of the book. What I enjoyed, what I didn’t, what I understood, or what I couldn’t; all of this ought to arise.
I’ll tag posts specific to this book as PGMC which would be a simple tag to follow in case you wish to do so.
Check back soon for more on one of my favourite finds of 2014.
You could also follow publications on this book here for more information.