when the stars
twinkle in my heart
gazing
into your
eyes
gave me the
consciousness
of such deep
pools of love
and mystery.
‘Discount’
Even your soul,
You’re not supposed to have one,
No, not at all,
Good feelings, taboo,
Insults for all…
As the song says,
It’s a ‘Material World’,
What great progress!
Just let the dice roll,
Instead of a heart,
Now we’ve got,
A piece of black coal.
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Has lost its protective cover
And no longer the Truth
Can they, smother,
We will finally see!
All the Poisonous Crabs say
They had nothing to do,
With the Conspiracy
They helped staff,
To gain power,
‘Unwillingly.’
For all people that live and breath
To be free, in Democracy.
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Poetry often is Philosophy,
A vent for animosity,
A window to curiosity,
An open Heart’s adversity,
But most of all diversity,
All subjects does it touch,
From the humble daisy,
To the one you Love so much.
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The tall iron branches
in the forest,
The dense
fertility on the ground.
The world
is wet.
A dewdrop or raindrop
shines,
a diminutive star
among the leaves.
The morning time
mother earth
is cool.
The air
is like a river
which shakes
the silence.
It smells of rosemary,
of space
and roots.
Overhead,
a crazy song.
It’s a bird.
How
out of its throat
smaller than a finger
can there fall the waters
of its song?
Luminous ease!
Invisible
power
torrent
of music
in the leaves.
Sacred conversations!
Clean and fresh washed
is this
day resounding
like a green dulcimer.
I bury
my shoes
in the mud,
jump over rivulets.
A thorn
bites me and a gust
of air like a crystal
wave
splits up inside my chest.
Where
are the birds?
Maybe it was
that
rustling in the foliage
or that fleeting pellet
of brown velvet
or that displaced
perfume? That
leaf that let loose cinnamon smell
– was that a bird? That dust
from an irritated magnolia
or that fruit
which fell with a thump –
was that a flight?
Oh, invisible little
critters
birds of the devil
with their ringing
with their useless feathers.
I only want
to caress them,
to see them resplendent.
I don’t want
to see under glass
the embalmed lightning.
I want to see them living.
I want to touch their gloves
of real hide,
which they never forget in
the branches
and to converse with
them
sitting on my shoulders
although they may leave
me like certain statues
undeservedly whitewashed.
Impossible.
You can’t touch them.
You can hear them
like a heavenly
rustle or movement.
They converse
with precision.
They repeat
their observations.
They brag
of how much they do.
They comment
on everything that exists.
They learn
certain sciences
like hydrography.
and by a sure science
they know
where there are harvests
of grain
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Then
There,
We all move there
Just dying through.
About
RARe Stanza:
– – – – – – – – – –
6 Lines Poem ─
Syllables Meter: 1-1-1-1-4-4
Rhyme Scheme: aabbca; ababca; aaaaba.
RARe Stanza refers Right Angle Reza Stanza.
Geometric Theoretical Explanation of ‘RARe Stanza’
The 1st 4 (1-1-1-1) lines stand on the last 2 (4-4) lines,
At the joining point, line No.4 and 5 there the 90º angle is generated;
The 90º angle is known as Right Angle in Geometry.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza │7 May,2018
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In a career.
She believes…
Her motherhood instincts,
Are just as good!
And I thought…
She was lousy,
In bed!
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Here I am.
I am supreme
The real face of time.
Here I am
And here at this time
See the wind is blowing
Towards me.
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Man dry man,
Dry lover mine
The deadrock base and blow the flowered anchor,
Should he, for centre sake, hop in the dust,
Forsake, the fool, the hardiness of anger.
Now
Say nay,
Sir no say,
Death to the yes,
the yes to death, the yesman and the answer,
Should he who split his children with a cure
Have brotherless his sister on the handsaw.
Now
Say nay,
No say sir
Yea the dead stir,
And this, nor this, is shade, the landed crow,
He lying low with ruin in his ear,
The cockrel’s tide upcasting from the fire.
Now
Say nay,
So star fall,
So the ball fail,
So solve the mystic sun, the wife of light,
The sun that leaps on petals through a nought,
the come-a-cropper rider of the flower.
Now
Say nay
A fig for
The seal of fire,
Death hairy-heeled and the tapped ghost in wood,
We make me mystic as the arm of air,
The two-a-vein, the foreskin, and the cloud.
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Why I love you so!
Only Poetry can speak,
Directly to the soul
And awaken images and feelings,
That do not belong
To words alone.