Poetry

[Source: Wikipedia] The Dog Star flickers, Its garb a rainbow plume The view ethereal. --- For the prompt Constellations

[ Image Source] Call me Ishmael.Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sailabout a little and see the watery part ofthe world.It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth. Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. ...

Day 10 of the Better Man in 30 days challenge - Memorize ‘if’ --- Two upsides to exercising the memory stood out from the prompt - improved writing and a more interesting personality. Unfortunately, I am blaming my mental fatigue from the last month of swotting exams for my less than stellar performance on this challenge. The plan - if I can call it that - is to keep plodding away at it till the end of the month. If I succeed, and I work up the courage, I just might place a recording of the poem from memory on here.. ...

For LK, and the Mag I wish there were no ifs Or buts, or lingering maybes - But only the delirium Of the re-memory of your face, Etched in my heart like The ravines a swollen river Carves in broken shale. I wish there was no ochre coloured space; this drizzled, empty place, stained with this ache from the itch of a thousand broken pieces Oh that there were between you and I - a half uttered invitation. I would cross seven mountains, seven valleys and seven swollen river beds too, to pour a libation at your feet, and revel in this delirium… ...

I want to cover you With words. Ink dots Jumbled together Until they blur Into a scrawl, confused Like the light From a thousand scattered beads I want to hide myself Within the haze Of my re-memory - To somehow, between life And the afterglow From my tired brain, Re-create the time and space That reality stole. But your blank, pure Whiteness mocks me, I find the things I want to say don’t come ...

There is treading water. And then there is lostness and the bland, depressing sameness, of everything. There are bad night’s dreams. And then there are visions of the night - in which one writhes and like a knotted string snarled back upon itself one- finds himself at the self same starting point. In the beat of the drums of the delirious priest and the frenzied dance that is our Faustian pact, Hope like a stubborn root - peeks out from between a rock and a hard place. And the unwilling lethargy of a quiescent dawn is forgotten, as it fades like the memory of a quick frolic in the shade of water side palms dies in the heat of a baking desert sun. ...

Source To the woman in the green dress: Oklahoma City, December 24th… She had me between ‘duh’ - and the nonchalant, sultry blur of her unruly hair; and the pouty, smouldering incandescence of her blood red lips; shimmering life-like in the dull, barely there blues and reds and flickering purples of the BeeJay’s mirror ball. We were like two large - lumps of rock; boulders locked in the unwilling, eternal waltz of gravity; stuck in distant orbits around the crowded dance floor like as around a stranded, listless star. In the interludes between the mindless drone of the DJ’s songs, and the rude, insistent scratch of his beatbox our eyes weave and bob, like corks floating in a sea of ice cold beer. ...

Before dying catches us and the banal, quotidian joys of a simpe life expire at the hoot of Charon’s ferry from across the styx, and the memory of the faces, and the names of the ones we once held dear fade away, lost in the eternal blackness of demise; before the grim reaper suprises us with the rude, ineclutable finality of death; we must not forget

My interest in Def Poetry in the past has been limited to Bassey Ikpi. Thanks to a friend, I got forwarded a link to this video by Shihan.. My def poetry love just went up a notch… Found the full text here. Enjoy.

For the beautiful ones who almost were… We may never ever again be the way we once were. We may no longer dance the cha-cha and sip palm wine in the shade of the coconut palms as Coltrane serenades and the sea breezes ripple through the flimsy thatch that breaks the fall of the gently falling rain. We may now never know the blessing of the Old Man’s Libation, or see his scrawny fingers split the kola nut or the unerring aim of the red spittle from his toothless gums ...