Poetry gives me Joy

The Joys of Verse
Lie not in mere versification,
But while happens the fuss,
In that artful thought,
and that crafted expression.

No if no but, No long no short,
Too unruly appear it may,
Still Poetry is a mind sport
With rules to many's dismay.

But worry not, my Poet Dear.
The sport is not unkind.
You're the sole rule maker.
Follow them to train the mind.

Train but strain not too much.
Go forth and do thy bidding.
Experience Written Word's tender touch.
Say aloud your deepest feeling.

Poetry is to life - Play the game -
As a beautiful drop to open sea !
Journey and Exploration ought be the same.
Life's a journey, Explorers are We.

Whatever may I make of Poetry,
The art does not come easy.
Yet the Muse, to each her citizenry,
Gives -- but not too gently.

Unforgiving she may be,
And may need much attending,
But perchance she comes to Be,
O Poet, it is a great great great feeling !

In the end,
Happy or Sad you may still be,
but it is a happy-sad joyous ending.


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early version of 1st stanza

The Joys of Verse
Lie not in mere versification,
But while happens the activity's fuss,
In that artful thought and that crafted expression.

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The Joys of Poetry
Lie not in mere versification,
But while happens the activity,
In the artful thought and crafted expression.

A Belated Welcome to Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

I invite you to my writings.
But first how goes your tidings.
Hope all's well with you,
Your near dears, I wish them too.

Would you be kind enough,

If you weren't totally put off,

To leave a word or so

if it's not much ado.

In case you intend to comment,
at the risk of being impudent,

I'd like to request you

to bear me a stanzas few .

Let not feelings of nicety,

Impediment you from sincerity.

Be true, be merciless,

Even at the expense of anonymity.

Free Criticism one gets seldom.

If you share your store of wisdom,

I will thank greatly

for your time which was free.

I hope it's not much to ask,

But let not this be a task,

for a task is almost never fun,

except for the enlightened one!

With this I take my leave,

And wish you more joy less peeve,

O fellow one of the same seed,

Let us rejoice, write and read !

yours truly,

Narimus

Battle Cry against Obsession

Let not a single thought

Much too obsess you.
Become it'll, I doubt not,

A giant fireball. Consume you.

Feed it not another thought,
lest it became a cranial gout.

Trifles forgotten, ah but all forgot !
It'll rein you thither, around, about.

Play not with fire, they say,
in their wisdom infinite.

Fight this fiery monster, I say

slay it with all your might.

Let it not push you around,

you're no so so boy,

We will fight, teeth and sound

till our sanity holds sway.

Till the world revolves around,

we might have to fight,

but we must, we are bound,

till our enemy sees flight.

And then we'd bid kind adieu,

for our souls will be cleansed,

we'd harbor no residue

of ill-will, hate or incense.

For we are just curious kids

in a ripe universe,

playing about, tied to her bids,

Immaturity our curse.

But we will grow up too

and make our enemy our friend

and each thought, given its due,

will coexist amongst a blend

of insights and ruminations,

syllogisms and paradoxes,

all our mind's concoctions

like colours in colour boxes.

Yes, Yes, there's hope

for sanity and the sane.

O Rational Man ! Vouch to fight and cope,

for thought's dear own sake - Amen.

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An Apology in Post Script

PS : As for me, O dear Reader,

'm an incompetent pursuer,

And there's something I greatly fear.

Lend to me a kind gentle ear.

After all, What is a Poem ?,

but - to me - a device sincere.

Shows where the poet is coming from.

Is Not - I strongly feel - a liar's gear.

And who is the worst liar ?

A simple man in a trap severe ?

Or our well meaning mischief maker ?

No, unforgivable is the unbelieving Preacher !

Hence sermonizing I try avoid,

'cause I'm a lazy man in plain speech.

I'd rather dream in an empty void

Than Practice not what I preach.

So then, the first poem was to be

a reflection on obsession,

Got carried away, me poet wannabe,

Off in a different direction.

Moved I was to relate,

quite involuntarily,

For what reason I forget,

Except I was guilty,

of thinking thoughts perhaps trifling,

over and over and over again.

Till I was pretty much obsessing,

Exaggerate if I may, going insane.

Probably a happy accident

delivered me sane again,

Rid of the predicament,

I set to write then -

Or maybe, in the throes

of useless synaptic firing -

in verse as opposed to prose.

I forget the timing.

Started I to write earnestly,

stumbled onto a writer's block.

Gave up too soon too easily,

Should have shown some pluck.

Chanced again on those scribbled

stanzas, on a random day.

Read them quick, then dribbled

the idea of finishing without delay.

But the muse had other ideas,

Ended up writing what you read.

Seeded though the poem was

with a different dye and different thread,

To me it read differently.

A Cry against thinking Singly,

dogmatically, fanatically.

A Cry for thinking rationally.

Alas ! it is ironical,

that this chance meandering

on a landscape literal,

sedimented something

that pertains only too closely,

to the times we inhabit presently.

Thus, veer I did, but sadly,

this apology seems unnecessary.

A farewell note, my dear Reader -

Tolerate this poem affably.

Apologetic it may appear,

but is not written insincerely.

The Decent Man

Is he a wolf really,
When they look at him like that ?
When they sneer at him
as if he's a salivating canine.
When he is being nice
even when he's so hungry.
'Cause for real, he knows
that being nice is a good thing,
and nicety (not Knowing)
will Save him in the end.

Is he a wolf really,
when amidst other wolves,
he tries to have a fuckin' good time ?
When for that fleeting moment,
he lets go and gives himself
to everyone and everything,
when for that tiniest fraction of life,
all his burdens evaporate,
all cares and woes forgotten,
that's when, with ever more sharpness,
he finds in their eyes, -
crystalising - his demons, staring
with red wolf eyes, at him.

My friend, I wish I could save you.
I so dearly wish so.