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Thu Mar 24, 2016 1:10 pm
Arcticus says...



I'll try.

2015 (or poetry and other painkillers)
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

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Fri Apr 01, 2016 7:42 am
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Arcticus says...



Day #1

we wrote bits of history
far from the citadel
there were no emperors and armies in it
no chronicles of kings, no clangor
of swords against swords

it was an ungathered compendium
of tales of nobodies, little stories of little people
from the mud-and-stone dwellings far from the reach
of the shadows of palaces

a tale of you and me

a story of farmers, of lyrics from harvest songs,
of outlaws and poets, of madmen dancing in the squares
of runaway nautch-girls
and proud tribes the king couldn't tame
it was perfumed with the sweat of artisans-
their fingers melting into their craft
it was a tale of weavers, musicians
with their disciples, pouring their cup
and passing it on, it was a story of housewives,
of messiahs embracing their crosses
with arms open wide
it was a narrative of gravediggers, a tired biography
of bonded labor that built monuments

a tale of unknown trade-routes
where you and I met, we had no gold coins, but
there was musk, there were forbidden spice-kisses
a touch of silk, the texture of papier-mâché
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

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Fri Apr 01, 2016 6:33 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #2

winter—
at first, I refused its onset
and took to gathering leaves and
making fire

but it drew close so slowly
with footsteps light as frost, held me
so lovingly that I had to turn to ice, I had to
put out the fires so that I could
return its embrace

I had to turn to ice, hold it
let its arctic whispers guide me
through december

that is why, now,
I carry my frostbitten heart
everywhere, I carry it into spring
and I carry it into summer, relentless,
there's no cure for my affliction

a soul from a different season, I come and leave
and wherever I arrive, I'm a stranger
among strangers, there's nobody I know but
winter
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  





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Sat Apr 02, 2016 6:41 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #3

around me: my courtroom, the cascade
of a million curtains of darkness
beside me: Silence - my attorney
a pair of pursed lips

I, its wary client, reaching
into myself
to gather any leftover emotions, but all I feel
are the cold iron bars of a prison cell

is this where
you leave me in the hangman's arms and kiss me
a death-sentence? if yes, think again,
we can still drop all charges, and save
what remains

bitterness though we are, there is evidence
that our case has no precedent: both of us are guilty
and innocent
Last edited by Arcticus on Sat Apr 02, 2016 8:28 pm, edited 1 time in total.
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  





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Sat Apr 02, 2016 6:51 pm
Pompadour says...



Hot holy damn, you're on fire with the last one.
How to format poetry on YWS

this sky where we live is no place to lose your wings
  





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Sat Apr 02, 2016 6:56 pm
Arcticus says...



I sense a hint of tanz ;-;
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  





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Sat Apr 02, 2016 6:59 pm
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Pompadour says...



XD

koi tanz nahi hai, bohat sanjeeda ho ke kaha tha.

Keep goiiing!
How to format poetry on YWS

this sky where we live is no place to lose your wings
  





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Sat Apr 02, 2016 7:02 pm
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Arcticus says...



Also, you pooped on my NaPo thread. I wanted this to be 30-post thread!
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

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Sun Apr 03, 2016 3:27 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #4 (whose chessboard is this?)

its a clash of opposites, a game
of face-off, the knights break the silence
and jump over
and over the pawns

THE KINGDOM MUST BE DEFENDED!

that's why
the rooks must die for a slow, slow king
and the ideals of royal paralysis, and meanwhile
a fistfight of bishops will wake
the queen, she will rush
from square to square, and cut
through the air with legions behind her

and then,
the pawns: glorious, dispensable
will march into martyrdom
to protect us all

this, the romance
of a black and white world, a flat grid
of squares laid out, void of grey, stripped
of a dimension. where
in the heat of battle, no one wonders or thinks
WHOSE CHESSBOARD IS THIS?

Last edited by Arcticus on Sun Apr 03, 2016 4:27 pm, edited 1 time in total.
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  





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Sun Apr 03, 2016 4:15 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #5

we are worthless pieces of poetry,
stanzas tangled up in stanzas, we
barely make any sense and choke
on our efforts, and end up
with our souls hanging from clothes-lines
in slum dwellings
on a rainy day
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

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Mon Apr 04, 2016 9:43 am
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Arcticus says...



Day #6 (a treatise on self-loathing)


i.

I'm a coward at heart, I cover, I duck
I run from change into shadows and go into hiding
wearing a raincoat of shivers; I scrape ocean floors
like a shipwreck with a sea-chest full of love letters, unopened
I don't drown, but when I do, I drown deeply, perfectly
and find it hard to break away from what I anchor to

ii.

I walk like a clown, half of me is face-paint
and the rest is badly memorized lines
I go from act to act, leaving the audience with stitches in their sides
and cash myself a cheque of heartache

iii.

I'm a fool, I laugh like one, and believe
in everything everyone says
I give away the keys to my heart
and open myself to the tearing apart. I'm useless-
a rebel smile on a dying face
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  





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Thu Apr 07, 2016 2:40 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #7

windows that I close, open into me
throwing light
on an erratic existence that won't settle down
or take root

an existence that floats everywhere
and hangs
on to rays of light, drifting
like dust on a sunbeam
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

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Fri Apr 08, 2016 2:37 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #8

truncheon scars on his back
pellet-gun injuries in his forearm
a pepper gas allergy
and two creases on his forehead

(hush!
the girls
love him)

there goes the downtown boy:

walking stereotype,
lover, graffiti artist, stone-pelter
and maybe just a little
biased

seasoned street protester,
bigot, but not that far gone
takes fifteen minutes
to style his hair,
wants democracy

mom says "don't pelt stones
at bunkers and soldiers, don't laugh
loudly near the cantonment gates
you'll get shot"

but he laughs, defiant,
with eyes so intense
they make
teargas shells cry

(listens to Kishore oldies
when no one's around,
quit smoking last month)
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

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Sun Apr 10, 2016 1:37 pm
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Arcticus says...



Day #9

an old victim of morning's thievery
of dreams, she won't give in this time

when first light comes knocking
at her eyelids, she lifts her hands
and reaches for nowhere and everywhere
to hush all the alarm-clocks dumb, snatches
the dismal ring-rings out of their throats
and throws them away as she grapples
with reality, tears up the dawn
and packs her bags, leaves
for her subconsciousness, where she
is relentless by now, laying bricks on water
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  





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Mon Apr 11, 2016 11:38 am
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Arcticus says...



Day #10

I'm a valley, mythic lake
wearing my shawl of glaciers, woven out of snowflakes
Pashmina of ice crystals, my winter Himalayan, my ache landlocked

Habba's own meadow of songs
Lalleshwari verses: "Shiv chuy thali thali rozaan"
Shiva abides in all that is, everywhere

I'm Khusrau's Firdaus, Iran-e-Sagheer, Little Persia, Venice of the East
on my skin, shy hanguls and cashmere goats, Chinar leaves

I'm overexposed postcards and medieval streets

to my west: Persepolis in ruins, the ghosts of Alexander's tired soldiers
lonely Porus fighting the Greeks
the thrum of hooves of the fast horses of Mongols, approaching me

to my east: Tibet - freedom's own monastery,
The Silk Route my corner-street
beside me, the terracotta ruins of Indus
dwellings of the ancients that the ages buried

to my south, the land of sacred rivers
Ganges her sparkling necklace
her earth-brown sari made of Dacca muslin
time frozen in her rock-cut temples

I'm the breeze from Central Asian steppes
that travels all the way to Khyber, and crosses the borders
while the mountains sleep

I'm the wounds left by raiders and invaders, and have no name
no flag or anthem, I just watch the seasons change

I'm a valley, mythic lake of landlocked ache
there's no way out to sea
You either worship something higher than yourself or end up worshiping yourself

Naturally Tipsy ©
  








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