TED Conversations

Pabitra Mukhopadhyay


This conversation is closed.

What is your poetry?

Poetry communicates what nothing other than poetry can. We all have those unspoken stories, the resounding silence and the brilliance of darkness that defy the structures of prose. Some of us can have poetry to speak for us, like Suheir does. Some of us do not have it and read it to know that someone else has spoken for us.

Leonard Cohen said, 'Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.'

How well is your life burning? How much ash did it gather? What is your poetry?

Dedicated to my TED friend Jim Moonan.

  • Jun 17 2013: My poetry is in one of my poems- 'I am still alive" it goes like this:

    I Am Still Alive

    I am at my learning stage
    will be learning and experimenting all the way
    Don’t judge me as a success or a failure
    I am yet not complete
    I am still alive

    Don’t record my journey I have traveled
    or will be traveling
    Record the way I have traveled
    and developed myself as a tourist
    Don’t judge me what I have seen
    or what is still unseen
    I am yet not complete
    I am still alive

    I have seen the rise and a deep fall
    tried to rub the past from my canvass
    but impression was there on the great wall
    Don’t judge me by those sketches
    by the colours and marks on the wall
    I am yet not complete
    I am still alive

    I am evidence of many miracles
    read many springs and many falls
    yet everyday something surprise me
    play with me, make me child
    Don’t judge me with my tears
    with feel of many smiles
    I am yet not complete
    I am still alive

    If still you want to judge me
    judge me by love I spread
    the way I touch the lives
    The moments of my awareness
    The depth and thinking high
    Though I am yet not complete
    Though I am still alive

    The Mindfood Chef
    • thumb
      Jun 18 2013: I really like this poem. I won't judge you as you are alive and on your jounry. Great expression in your poem.
  • Jun 16 2013: She calls us undefined friends
    Because a label would undermine things
    The minute you tie strings you become
    Highly strung
    Trying to say the right things
    And what started off with drums often ends with violins
    • thumb
      Jun 16 2013: But I stick out
      Like a misfit note
      In a quartet

      Drums or violins
      In the end
      She listens to only what she likes
  • Jun 12 2013: My poetry is the songs I write and construction projects. Creating something new from an emotion or need fills me with delight and can keep me high for several hours or days. There is rhyme and fluid motion to building stuff that people that do not build do not understand.

    Poetry is not just written or spoken words and that can be a fence or wall that prevents people from experiencing it. A poet can describe a forest or mountain beautifully but if it does not inspire you to visit a forest or mountain it is wasted.
    • thumb
      Jun 12 2013: I appreciate your poetry. You are right, it doesn't have to be written words. I hope you have noticed I did not go by the formal meaning of poetry.
      As a civil engineer I can also appreciate your poetry in construction projects. Poetry, in a sense is a construction too.
      Thanks. :)
  • Jun 10 2013: I hope when you remember
    And tell new friends of me
    That you tell them that you love me
    And for all eternity

    I always held you tight
    And twice i let you go
    But i held onto the memories
    More than you'll ever know

    I smile every time i think of you
    But i miss you more each day
    Because you'll always be the best
    In every single way

    I miss my lovely grass
    And flowers that never settle
    But ill always miss you
    Because i love you petal
  • thumb
    Jun 8 2013: Big Aeroplanes

    There were dreams
    that all had wings
    I flew them like a kite

    They came to me
    in the evening
    and left before daylight

    the rest is complicated
    so foggy and so dense

    There is no house
    no dog, no swing
    No white picket fence

    Between the sheets
    the darkness
    is everything I own
    a tire lump of flesh
    so naked and alone.

    The dreams have turned
    to memories
    its there that we still dance

    I drink some wine
    and smile....
    fixed, as if in a trance

    Yes, I do still think of you
    every time it rains
    every time I hear that song
    or see big aeroplanes.

    T A Hoppe 2012
    • thumb
      Jun 9 2013: Eloquent and sublime all at once. Thank you.
      • thumb
        Jun 9 2013: Thank you for the kind words. This is a wonderful thought to invite us to share these poems.
        I add one more.

        butter my roll, before you go

        lying on clean sheets
        I am wrestling with fat pillows
        That will not hold me back

        The water's drip & drip,
        wet outside the window
        drips that count a time
        the wind blows in the ruffled curtains
        in and out

        I am lying to a woman
        and she wants to wrestle on clean sheets
        with big pllows. and have curtains like these.
        Curtains that fly
        in and out..to the breeze of the moon.

        and I am lying with the woman
        she is wrestling with choices
        she has clean sheets and the freshest breezes
        that blow in off the ocean

        tonight, I say "Take off your shoe, we'll dance"
        pick out a song we know, let's sing along

        she orders chocolates and green tea
        the birds will sing if we are quiet.
        and the branches will sway
        back and forth

        smoke spins around in my head
        Turn the stars on. the sky is charcole.
        Drink some wine. I will draw you
        • thumb
          Jun 9 2013: If you are not already, you have all the ingredients of a poet, Theodore. We are lucky to discover you ! :)
  • thumb
    May 27 2013: I am so happy to have found this conversation. Thank you Pabitra. My life moves so unpredictably, that it takes poetry to provide the rudder needed to at least give me some sustaining direction.

    Here is a poem I am working on. I wrote much if it in the car, heading to Yale University, thinking about the week that lay ahead of me and the fact that I would soon be immersed in a child's world and asked to lead it. Yale is ensconced in the city of New Haven, a city that lives in a parasitic relationship with the university. I wouldn't want to live there...

    This poem is not about anything in particular, just thoughts I am having....

    Highway Ramble
    “Who is the third who walks always beside you?” – T.S. Eliot

    What should we do?
    Who will arrive and take us through the eye of the storm?
    The quiet storm that drags us on the glacial slide back to the sea?

    Who hurls the rocks that rain down on us
    From some infinitesimal spot in the cosmos?
    Who will harvest what blooms in the unattended garden
    To give us nectar or death by hallucination?

    We wait. We listen. We feel the void
    And it aches for filling.
    Within our limits we imagine a god
    In our image, a god that gives us nothing
    To hold onto as the storm descends - save our freedom of choice.
    In all religions there is a sadness that anchors the faith-filled against the storm.
    We tell ourselves to be brave,
    Stay inside the arms of gospel truths,
    Burn our fires, collect our ashes
    To spread amongst the garbage and the flowers
    To cast back into the sea that bore us
    Or place in a jar by the door.
    Who? Who is it for?

    Truths, like the patterns in a child's kaleidoscope,
    Dance into oblivion.
    The men are useless eunuchs
    Victims of their own violence
    Knowing yet not knowing that
    Peace, at least, can be found
    In the arms of a woman.

    Staring out to sea
    Her soft skin moistens
    As if the very womb that begat her
    Has come to take her back
    And release her again on another shore.
    What should we do when she arrives?

    May 27, 2013
  • thumb
    May 22 2013: Poetry, like fiction and the other arts, is a cooperative creative venture: the poet weaves his/her magic carpet of words, and the reader creatively transforms this pattern into new feelings, thoughts, emotions, ideas ... The great poets are the ones who are able to evoke such creative participation by the reader. And the reader must be prepared and willing to enter into the poem, not to divine the poet's meaning, but to create the poem's meaning to oneself. Without a creative reader the poem is only half created.

    Many of my favorite great poems are at my web site: www.outstandingpoems.com
  • thumb
    May 21 2013: For now, my poetry is motherhood. It is the most discombobulated haiku I've ever written.
  • May 20 2013: I think you are spot on with your description of how poetry communicates what nothing else can.

    As a poet, myself, I am continually drawn to writing poems that help me articulate felt but unsaid ideas and emotions. Reading your question, I was reminded of Seamus Heaney's Personal Helicon: "I rhyme / To see myself, to set the darkness echoing." and Emily Dickinson's wonderful quote: “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way?”

    In times of crisis, I have found more comfort and solace in poetry than anything else. Poetry is a place I return to out of love as much as necessity.
    • thumb
      May 20 2013: I took all the descriptions
      Of the world and life
      To sit at your feet
      And mean nothing
      A poem is born in that moment.

      Is it a place like that?
  • thumb
    Jun 18 2013: all men are little boys

    And as a little boy we were greatly influenced by our mothers.
    We ask our mama’s where did we come from?
    And, what is love?
    Very often we tell mama we want to marry a girl just like her.
    Then, just like that, we are no longer little boys
    But grown up men,
    And yet, we still are little boys in our heart
    Especially when we want to be the hero for the woman we love.
    It seems almost impossible, to us men, that a woman can say,
    “I don’t understand men.”
    Because, we men are very simple
    And our mothers trained us.
    As little boys, we cry just as hard as little girls,
    Perhaps louder and more often,
    And yet, as we grow—
    Big boys don’t cry
    Except in our hearts, but we don’t show it.
    How can it be that women don’t understand us?
    All we want to do is please them and make them happy.
    When we see a woman we desire and want,
    We immediately become afraid that we will be rejected.
    Some of us can’t bear the thought of it.
    Others of us just pretend and hide our fear.
    Oh how often I have fallen apart inside my heart
    And how many times I’ve hidden the fear?
    Oh how often I wondered whether or not I am even lovable?
    And yet, I continue on—
    Looking for the success to overcome my many failures
    And hoping I am not laughed at or made fun of
    Because I don’t know whether or not I can bear it?
    Oh mamma, where are you?
    I feel so alone and afraid so often.
    My tears are everywhere, and nobody even notices.
    • thumb
      Jun 19 2013: Thanks Jeff. I have never seen a big boy without even a bigger mamma :) I remained a mamma's boy myself.
  • Jun 16 2013: -
    In self-conscious fear
    Of a feared self-consciousness to be
    I died before I lived
    And I´m not done killing me

    - Usama Mustafa Kamil.
    • thumb
      Jun 16 2013: Nice. Particularly the last two lines.
    • Jun 17 2013: I love this and feel as if I can relate
      • Jun 17 2013: Thank you :). I think many people can relate. The basic idea is a pondering upon the alternative roads of livelihood that have been extinguished by hesitating excessively. The funny thing is how we justify the decision to stall by being afraid of the consequences as they are seen from our current point of view - as if we really did have full control of our destinies and hadn't been the victims of the recurrent ambushment of serendipity.
  • Jun 11 2013: One of my all time favorite poems...

    One Art
    By Elizabeth Bishop

    The art of losing isn't hard to master;
    so many things seem filled with the intent
    to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

    Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
    of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
    The art of losing isn't hard to master.

    Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
    places, and names, and where it was you meant
    to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

    I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
    next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
    The art of losing isn't hard to master.

    I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
    some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
    I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

    - Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
    I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
    the art of losing's not too hard to master
    though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
  • thumb
    Jun 7 2013: For those who aspire to learn the universe
    Or even join humans at the rank elite
    You must simply have the wisdom
    To know your moment
    And gracefully watch it flee
    Knowing all that you can say is
    I was a part of it
    You were a part of it faithful dog
    We were a part of it all
  • thumb
    Jun 6 2013: - Emily Dickinson

    I'm nobody! Who are you?
    Are you nobody, too?
    Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
    They'd banish us, you know.

    How dreary to be somebody!
    How public, like a frog
    To tell your name the livelong day
    To an admiring bog!
  • Jun 6 2013: The Road Not Taken

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.

    Robert Frost
  • Jun 6 2013: Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree".

    "And after a long time
    the boy came back again.
    "I am sorry, Boy,"
    said the tree," but I have nothing
    left to give you -
    My apples are gone."
    "My teeth are too weak
    for apples," said the boy.
    "My branches are gone,"
    said the tree. " You
    cannot swing on them - "
    "I am too old to swing
    on branches," said the boy.
    "My trunk is gone, " said the tree.
    "You cannot climb - "
    "I am too tired to climb" said the boy.
    "I am sorry," sighed the tree.
    "I wish that I could give you something....
    but I have nothing left.
    I am just an old stump.
    I am sorry...."
    "I don't need very much now," said the boy.
    "just a quiet place to sit and rest.
    I am very tired."
    "Well," said the tree, straightening
    herself up as much as she could,
    "well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
    Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest."
    And the boy did.
    And the tree was happy."

    Here is the original spoken version:
  • thumb
    Jun 3 2013: What is it that fills your mind?
    That stirs the essence of your being
    That tightly holds today together
    That has always your full attention

    Will it calm the raging tide?
    And sit you quietly to one side
    Or will it make of you a moment
    That will make your presence known

    Will it take you someplace else?
    Where the time need not some filling
    And the words are not remembered
    To the anthems that are sung

    Will you envision what should be?
    Upon the stage in which you play
    And misplace that which is
    Within the world that you partake

    Is there peace within your mind?
    In the sounds that echo wide
    From the orchards and the tubes
    For the chorus of your making
  • thumb
    May 31 2013: The city is in ruins
    The ashes fall like snow
    The survivors look for an escape
    But there is nowhere to go

    From the toppled skyscrapers
    To the underground subway
    We wish it was better
    No rain will wash it away

    Our life here is hard
    There isn't much to eat
    The ruined structures hardly provide shelter
    For our people to sleep

    I put on my coat, load my rifle
    And crack open the vault door
    The cool night air greets me
    The wasteland implores

    Out in the darkness
    The scavengers lie in wait
    Their eyes glow from the moonlight
    Bringing with them, ill fate

    I slowly close the heavy vault
    poise my rifle, prepared to fight
    This is Metro, the ruined city
    And this is my last night...
  • thumb
    May 31 2013: so fresh for future times is this historic soul;
    because life drips with glorious unknowns,
    I want to labor over every shadow
    and cover in gilded light of knowing.

    Mysteries are invitations to delight in something new.
    I want to embrace them all,
    savor every atom and love it all til I burn away.

    "Everything that is burnable must burn,"
    Kirsch assured.
    If that is my life-my poetry-
    then let me rise, my curiousity a legacy,
    a phoenix to enlighten the future
    as to what wonderment truly means.
    • thumb
      May 31 2013: Do you know
      You are poised
      On the point

      You can dive inside
      From here
      Implore and implode

      You can dive outside
      As well
      Explore and explode

      All this is eternally true
      Or you just imagined it.
  • thumb
    May 28 2013: My life is burning but too much of the ash is choked in me and only as the ash builds up do some clouds spew out of my pen and my mouth. My poetry is a piece of my voice, and so much of my scream is silence.
  • thumb
    May 28 2013: ah, I've just come away from a best ever Leonard Cohen Concert a few weeks ago. I can feel him speak the words.
    What is my poetry? a near 40 year Haiku'ish stateMend of which we still have most of the last 20 years worth, A painting of thought, a play with words, a puzzle and tEase of purrceptions, and oft a hearty laugh ere figuring out which side is up an then. it what you get for being upside down and backwards well as revolting from every norm and yes, SPArk off By Cohen's words near 40 years ago, Who he to tell me we's not to flutter N fly as we puzzle and play the strings of well being , which has just begun sing in mind to yet another Christmas Carol . I swear the universe wants all those Christmas Carols rewrit, i just never get more than the first couple of lines. . hopefully to ignite the light years down on earth
    Attended a workshop, 45 minute talk on having her pieced rejected, 4 times at it just wasn't quite right. . fed up, handed the first one back in. . .Just right this time. What ? catch the momend and let it go.
    then a bring 15 copies for our go over. ? what? I just took seven years to put me back together the secod time, and that not counting the first 7 Which were spoke of in Annie Murphy Paul's video on the long lasting effects of children mothers of who were pregnant with them as the war broke out and the effects of the famine on the children.
    What she did not go into are the shock waves of the 180 loaded bomber blanketing the land and skimming over the house tops night after night after night after night. twas only in 97 we learned why we frazzle at the sound of lawnmowers well as any which sounded like automatic riffle fire gave us nightmares. as we drove away from where we went tearing through the memoryes we didn't know we had. I do no call my notes poetry. poets is dutch for polish, and I've never polish my notes into poems, though I am said to wax poetically. They are in fact, an impregnable wall or words about my sense of being.
    • thumb
      May 28 2013: “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
      and rightdoing there is a field.
      I'll meet you there.

      When the soul lies down in that grass
      the world is too full to talk about.”
      ― Rumi
      • thumb
        May 28 2013: minutes ago: remembering a series about the MILLENNIUM once. . one tribe of people always in meeting another lie down on the earth , face up, to become acquainted with one another

        my wings are still
        a thought in flight

        a light never sees
        the shadow it leaves

        life is still a poem
        in the process
        of being written
  • thumb
    May 26 2013: Only the private is holy; the soft light
    On the yellowing page of a book, the print
    Legible as stars on the open page of the sky
    Or the languid letter you write at midnight to a faraway
    Friend, stern only to timorous sleep. Do you think
    Jesus was director of a philanthropic foundation?
    Or Buddha the babbling, balding, amiable president of an NGO?
    Beyond the incense and flywhisks of those
    Gaunt keepers of salvation, their Lofty Holinesses, the Most Ancient and Supreme Guardians of the Truth,
    They have escaped their disciples, cool
    as clouds.
    There is more in half an hour’s indolence
    Than in galloping away after the grail.
    • thumb
      May 28 2013: seriously guys are we having a "poetry off" here? :)
  • thumb
    May 25 2013: Poetry is something that has to do with my thoughts. I often find myself rhyming my sadness, resentment or pain. Most of the time I don't want to do it, because not on purpose, but i DO cut myself with a sharp knife of memories or presumptions...I understand that I have a power of putting words in my head into a particular order, a beautiful order, but it frightens me, because I often create poems that make me cry.
    • thumb
      May 26 2013: My personal experience is that poetry does not happen for me when I am content, happy or euphoric. It only happens when I am bothered with life and see it through an unrest of mind. Poetry is no spirituality for me.
      I find it prophetic that your life needs to burn to produce the ash that is poetry - not embalmed and glorified. So, yes, poetry may demand tears. Tears are equally beautiful as smiles.
  • thumb
    May 22 2013: G'day Pabitra

    Time is of the essence of being
    as every moment is precious,
    time is indeed precious for every moment
    for without time precious moments
    just wouldn’t be. No more precious
    moments, what I thought that would be
    to think to be without these precious
    moments of time. Oh what I life we have
    with these precious moments of time that
    give so much joy in life. Time is indeed of the
    essence of joy, what a time to be in the essence
    of time itself for time gives so much for us
    to enjoy, this is the true essence of time.

  • May 21 2013: Pabitra, my dad listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen. That quote brings back good memories.

    It's hard for me to say, whether the achievements in my life have produced ash... I'd certainly like to think so!
    I think, my poetry is my children. They are products of my genes (and my husband's, obviously), but very much unique individuals, with their own thoughts, feelings, opinions.
    If the virtues and traits I hold dear are absorbed and practiced by them, I would consider that evidence that my life was well-burnt...!
    • thumb
      May 21 2013: And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."
      And he said:
      Your children are not your children.
      They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
      They come through you but not from you,
      And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
      You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
      For they have their own thoughts.
      You may house their bodies but not their souls,
      For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
      You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
      For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
      You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
      The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
      Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
      For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

      Children Chapter IV - Kahlil Gibran
      • May 21 2013: Yup, you made me cry.
        Happy tears, Pabitra.
      • thumb
        May 21 2013: My friend Pabitra,

        This (the passage from Kahlil Gibran) is how poetry, at it's best, works. It speaks the truth.

        What an honor to have this conversation about the fire and ashes of our lives dedicated to me - Your life is a poem, Pabitra.

        So good to see some of the familiar aliases :) here on TED (Kate, Scott, you)

        Thank you for bringing me to this conversation. We have found poetry.
        • thumb
          May 22 2013: Now that you are here, it will be further meaningful :) Stay with us and enrich us with your comments, friend!
  • thumb
    May 21 2013: Neil Young, John Lennon - some of the best pop songs are poetry wrapped in a melody which, for me, makes the cerebral physical which in turn becomes powerful emotion.

    I try to write poems and songs as a way to apprehend what I experience and think about. It's addictive once you start to do it.

    Expressing something ephemeral concisely.
  • May 21 2013: Ooooo I am blind of poetry.I don't know how I love those poetries once I read them at first sight.I think they hide in my body deeply,once I pump into them,shinning out loud I couldn't help loving them more than I do:).Here is one of my favorite poetry:
    I am willing that it is a torrent --Petofi Sandor(《我愿意是急流…》-----裴多菲·山陀尔)

    I am willing that it is a torrent , 我愿意是急流,
    the river in the mountain , 山里的小河,
    pass the rock on the rugged mountain path. 在崎岖的路上、岩石上经过……
    Only my spouse It is a small fish, 只要我的爱人是一条小鱼,
    swim happily in my spray. 在我的浪花中快乐地游来游去。

    I willing neglect woods,我愿意是荒林,
    two sides in river,在河流的两岸,
    to a burst of blast,对一阵阵的狂风,
    Fight bravely勇敢地作战……
    Only my spouse只要我的爱人
    It is a bird Dense in mine Make the nest among the branch Pipe.是一只小鸟,在我的稠密的树枝间做窠(kē)鸣叫。

    I am willing that it is the ruins,我愿意是废墟,
    on high and steep mountain and rock,在峻峭的山岩上,
    this ruin mourned in silence does not make me dejected 这静默的毁灭并不使我懊丧……
    Only my spouse It is the blue and green blue and green Chinese ivy,只要我的爱人是青青的常春藤,
    along my bleak and desolate volume,沿着我荒凉的额,
    climb up by holding on to and rise on intimate terms with each otherly.亲密地攀援上升。

    I am willing that it is the thatched cottage,我愿意是草屋,
    in the deep mountain valley bottom, endure the strike of the trials and hardship to the fullest extent on the top of the thatched cottage在深深的山谷底,草屋的顶上饱受风雨的打击……
    Only my spouse It is the lovely flame, in my stove,只要我的爱人是可爱的火焰,在我的炉子里,
    flash slowly happily .愉快地缓缓闪现。

    I am willing that it is a cloud,我愿意是云朵,
    it is the grey breaking the flag,是灰色的破旗,
    swing too lazy to feel like floatingly in the vast sky ,在广漠的空中,懒懒地飘来荡去,
    Only my spouse Coral's the setting sun,只要我的爱人是珊瑚似的夕阳,
    draw near me pale face and show bright-colored brilliance.傍着我苍白的脸,显出鲜艳的辉煌。

    the information comes from:http://baike.baidu.com/view/501055.htm.Thanks
    • thumb
      May 21 2013: "Only my spouse It is a small fish,
      swim happily in my spray. "

      Wonderful :) Who translated this Ed? Loved it.
      • May 22 2013: Hi Dear Pabitra Mukhopadhyay:).I got it from "http://baike.baidu.com/view/501055.htm" website.didn't dedicate by anyone.Guess a super fan of peoms who must be an expert in languages.wowoow..maybe not an expert but a group ?thanks:).I read the peom in chinese loud often:) I feel the love is warm and cool.I like it deeply from my heart.
  • thumb
    Jun 14 2013: If I say that this discussion is an hybrid colony of poets then am just voicing out a part of it...
    but musing over these lines...is self evident that these are expressions of beautiful minds and that is the heart of it...

    am a spoken word artist/poet and i just finished working on a piece which was born out of life little lessons...the piece tells a story of people who have helped - through doing little things - immensely on our path to success or achievements or attainment of great feats.

    Please kindly express your thought about this piece...thanks!


    Framed for fashion
    Formed for functions
    seldom fashionable
    sometimes uncomfortable

    especially when imposed feels like wearing another foot

    undervalued when priced less
    overvalued if described priceless
    some say you are old school
    for them, new is cool

    I guess that makes you classy
    like a colourful girly boat
    nicely keeping me afloat
    under the flood light... Looking sassy

    on that red carpet, this common bloke now roll with stars from Lagos
    hoping not to get Los(t) in Vegas
    “rocking” new Salvatore Feragamo tags
    While the Lifter of My Feat lay in rags
    At every ovation, standing beneath
    but together we toiled the earth

    * * * * * *

    you could go in TOMS, Dick n Harry
    but not a mile in my SHOES.
    • thumb
      Jun 14 2013: You may be interested to know that my native place that is Bengal in India had a tradition of spoken poetry too but added with music. It used to be in the form of a duel between two artists engaged in extempore spoken verse fitted in impromptu music. This art was known as kobigaan (poet's music). Unfortunately it is lost now.
      • thumb
        Jun 14 2013: Hi, kindly share your thoughts on the piece...thanks for that insight too
  • thumb
    Jun 13 2013: 32 Years ago I graduate from as small, Liberal Arts College in the South/Central-Southwest U.S. ---
    I was an English Major (and a few other Majors over the five years it took me to graduate). I was lucky to make it into graduate school.

    Here are three of my favorites of all time. All three are about one man's relationship with God. And all three carry forward some very deep and abiding themes. And here's an extra you might find familiar . . .

    John Donne
    Meditation 17
    Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

    "No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...."

    For whom the bell tolls a poem
    (No man is an island) by John Donne

    No man is an island,
    Entire of itself.
    Each is a piece of the continent,
    A part of the main.
    If a clod be washed away by the sea,
    Europe is the less.
    As well as if a promontory were.
    As well as if a manor of thine own
    Or of thine friend's were.
    Each man's death diminishes me,
    For I am involved in mankind.
    Therefore, send not to know
    For whom the bell tolls,
    It tolls for thee.
  • thumb
    Jun 13 2013: John Donne

    74. "Batter my heart, three person'd God;

    BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you
    As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
    That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend
    Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
    I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due, 5
    Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
    Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
    But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
    Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,
    But am betroth'd unto your enemie: 10
    Divorce mee,'untie, or breake that knot againe;
    Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
    Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
    Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.