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Poems and Muse

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I have and will always believe poetry is one of the finest forms of art. One can never master poetry, because poetry comes not with the weight of heavy words but with experience and skill.

My poems have always been philosophical: questioning and discovering, always seeking for muse in simplest and most complex of things.

Here are some of my pieces which have been crafted out of pure muse:


I put a flower behind your ear
Its loveliness grew too much-

The setting fog this winter
Is more beautiful than last year's fall
The coldness of some flowers is much endearing than warmth
The Asters I once slid behind those curls have withered
I see now, the Snowdrops
But I have no ears-
But the sun shone like flower's jade wet in fresh dew
And the rhythmic hump of my heart kissed that of you
Then floated on thin gale like wasps in the bare sky
And read to me some poor verses I barely recognized;

Verses said you now belong to not me
Thus ripping my soul with satisfactory

Yet now that everyone aches for warmth and burns for the sun
I imply the heart pains for the cold and yearns for none

I still wish to put a cold flower behind your ear
And see its loveliness grow way too much
But you love warmth ineffably dear
To see my love bloom as such


No word was foreign, silence spoke for me
And everything that happened; happened speechlessly

Our hands inches close but our minds miles apart
Whilst your body so near to me
I could feel the radiating warmth

I wanted to wail; I wanted to sob
And in my heart, pulses shaped no throb
Yet whose love could understand silence so perfectly
For you to pull me close onto your shoulder so tenderly

Our love was greater than people who were older than we
To have understood the unspoken so wordlessly
And the misty silence between us never broke
Until my mind for Liberty invoked

I cried and cried; on your shoulder
Knowing you were there; there to pat my head with tender
Then you broke our ‘silence rule,’ I knew you wouldn’t comply
Saying “It is okay for boys to cry”


The beauteous felony of the 7 shades of the rainbow
Has succeeded better than the limelight of dewdrops
To persuade us and make us believe somehow
In the false euphoric beauty plots

I heed a universally accepted meaning
For vague definitions lack proficiency
And the immune opinions ignite wrong
To bestow such a divine meaning of ‘beauty’

Opinions, thoughts and mentalities
Make the meanings vary

If I were to call beauty an agitated thought
Which needs more light thrown on it
To clarify the perplexed
Should I be false?
If my interpretation of pretty among humans is black
Would I be considered racist?
For my definitions lack impact
And are proven as vulgar and rheumy

The revile for my thoughts is endless
Because I possess the extraordinary one
Natural, artificial and divine beauteous
Are perceptual

Search beauty in naive and innocent thoughts
Not in the natural calamities which lead to deaths, forming beauty
Nostalgia, Generosity and Oblivions
Are the true rhapsody

So beauty varies
From person to person
But we demand a definition
To correct the ethereal.


The silence embowers arthwart the 9th street
Nethering flow towards the coast
Eerily a raven, victim of deceit
Accompanied by a wild lynx at most

By the dawn; perishes the sheath
Draining the thaw, the heat
Dislodging the brilliance – across the shadowed woodland’s wreath
Ghastly whispers taunted towards the lynx’s lethargy

Fronting the aurora; the trace recedes
Timid of the glimmer – the black energies
The dark souls – ensuing the other as it leads
To no haven; terminal destiny of the synergies
The Lamppost.

The lynx clocks the veils of discord
The ivory colours and the pale skin
The brunette eyes and the ebony limbs
The pointy fangs and the pointy pins

It’s eyes speak; the dialect dark

Apprehend me! I am your rooted tragedy
“You wailed when he marooned you!”
“Your mother never loved you!”
“You are the rationale of his death!”
It is ascribed to lend tender nightmares
Your contemplation must evacuate

The raven meant to trigger the rave speculations
The intense and howling lush
The profligate inclination, the cupid mania
It will curb it all into its fate
Your fancies must all evacuate

The ‘leading’ light changes into ‘blinding’
Such defile aura; such polluted instincts
Yet – yet it preaches something

Not an abundance passed by during the night fall
Petrified of their own foul ambiance
They know the Lamppost probates
Personality and not trivials
It tests virtues and not wealth.

© 2021 Asahi

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