Poetry thread

Dimmesdale

Immersed in the Wall of Sleep
And for that reason, Immured in that Wall
Of Sleep
I cannot move out an inch
My will is weak
My thought is confined
To Nowhere
Mindless, Brainless
In Bondage to Fatigue
Someone Wrest Me
From this Silent Bondage
Of Suffocated Fret
Give me one Ray
Of Shining Will
To Enliven and Electrify
The Feeling of Life in Me
That I may Freely Accept
The Way of Tapas and
Make such a Deep
Habit of Life
So as to
"Finally"
Turn my Back on Sleep
And Be a Conqueror
For Life.

Jeroen

I think this was our most recent attempt at a poetry thread, it has a few links in it to older poetry threads, for those who are interested… Not meaning to be negative

https://newbuddhist.com/discussion/26609/the-poetry-thread

I will add a fragment of a poem by a poet I like, Hakim Sanai

On Being Silent

The path of religion is neither in works nor words;
there are no buildings thereon, but only desolation.
Whoso becomes silent to pursue the path,
his speech is life and sweetness;
if he speaks, it will not be out of ignorance, and
if he is silent, it will not be from sloth;
when silent, he is not devising frivolity;
when speaking, he scatters abroad no trifling talk.

Kotishka

Flower no flower
mist no mist

arrives at midnight
and leaves at dawn

arrives like a spring dream – how many times
leaves like a morning cloud – nowhere to find

Bai Juyi

federica

FEBRUARY

Though Winter still asserts his right to reign,
He sways his sceptre now with gentler hand;
Nay, sometimes softens to a zephyr bland
The hurrying blast, which erst along the plain
Drove the skin-piercing sleet and pelting rain
In headlong rage; while, ever and anon,
He draws aside his veil of vapours dun,
That the bright sun may smile on us again.
To-day 't would seem (so soft the west wind's sigh)
That the mild spirit of the infant Spring
Was brooding o'er the spots where hidden lie
Such early flowers as are the first to fling
On earth's green lap their wreaths of various dye—
Flowers, round whose forms sweet hopes and sweeter memories cling.

Rebecca Hey

Lionduck

STORM AND SUN

Morning Sun
The storm has passed
Dark clouds
Seeming endless
Darkness and storm
Yields to the ever present
Sun and light
For even the storm
With all it's fury
Passes beneath the
Ever shining Sun
You are the Sun
The storm your challenge
Behold
The Sun prevails

RC 03/02/2023
Peace to all

FleaMarket

A post I came across reminded me of this poem by Charles Bukowski.
I think beauty can be found in the sorrow of self-squeezing to produce juice, knowingly or not.

Bluebird

There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

-Charles Bukowski