An introspective conundrum

I sat before this four square screen, trying to find the words to mention. Something which had found within, my ebony heart its residence. Beating a clear tattoo, throughout the irony of my veins. It rides the breathing living lust, which toils the lull within my liens.

I pondered the name by which, this inane itch is called. Hoping perhaps, for its exuberance to be culled. I poised dancing upon the cusps, the identity of this blight. What magicked intransigent spell, into my soul's grimoire inscribed? What language is this persistence, which to mind remains in-unraveled?

I found the answer near to dreams, sidetracked to a place time forgot. A sideshow I closed down and sought to frame with logic thoughts. Tis love it seems, that one time thing I choose regret. What succour it might bring,laid heavy with suffering's debt.

On this day where this emotion is awed, I look down the path beyond time's borrowed flaws. To find myself longing still, the pathways to it brightly lit and opened grille. It is ye I yearn, thou who sits beyond those gates. Calling me to hurry on, and supplicate before thy feet.

"But wouldst thou take the hand, of this jest of so many defeats. A man who seeks to learn what happiness left there is to give. Who is afraid to yearn lest he falls once more upon his feet. Who is afraid to call and ask of ye to wait."

A chat with Rumi

Today I walked the secret skies
traversing mysterious lady night
caressing her silken velvet skein
against whom light would grow to dark

when I heard the clear silence
the call of still skies beckoning
raising my chin supplicating
I lift the veil to my subconscious

to find starlit Orion offering
baring to me his hunter's belt
which led the way to constellations
the north most star light in the sky

I gaze into the bright of night
to hear Rumi whispering
I listened deep inside my heart
to see Rumi smiling

“Your task is not to seek for love,
but merely to find anon
the barriers within yourself
which rail and toil against”

"Lovers don't meet somewhere
they exist always in each other
love is finding that secret sky
where veils are torn and hearts a-flutter"

"To love one must let go of life
to take that final leap of faith
for only the heart can let you fly
to be the beauty of what you seek.”

Schopenhauer over sushi

Discussing 'peculiar' Ginseng tea
cultural cutlery conventions
presiding over delicacies
local exotic foreign

her head flipped back
silky strands dancing black
eyes bright interesting
laughter crystal tinkling white

Was Alexander great?
homosexuality in ancient Greece
unraveling catharsis
philosophical liturgical dictates

leaves adorned her
delicious ears soft Gazelle neck
precious worked metals
titillating sensual exquisite

Wild tales culinary escapades
driving crowded Indian streets

sugar toothed Gujerati sweets
ivory teethed Punjabi wheat

mountain top toe nail loss
sleepy isolated Chinese village

her subtly perfumed invisible whiffs
dreamy eyes and sultry lips

I floated yon
drunk upon the moment
looks smiles ideas sentences
feeding hungry baited subconscious

she dished out Schopenhauer
over perfectly parceled Sushi treats
accented English colourful wit
with a Creole-French Mauritian twist.

Music's touch

It is not thy fingers that brought thy touch, nor thy murmurs caressing my heart. It is the notes the sounds they craft, the melody of songs with words left out.

Sabah's gift

I am enslaved,
to these tonal caress.
Gentleness' tongue,
tenderness' voice.

Furtive Seraphims,
notes dancing into song.
Sensual to the touch,
elegent perfect.

A breath of colour,
to paint cheeks red.

A dash of moments,
to warm cold hearts.

A whiff of dreams,
link two souls a-part.

I am lost O Lord,
upon the plane of lust.
Misled by the chords,
of these melodic repast.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.


I just thought this apt.


There Is Room for You ~ Rabindranath Tagore

There is room for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice.
My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you
away? Your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling
smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the
rain cloud.

The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You
will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's
end none will keep you back.

Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I
will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat
I shall sit and wonder in the evening, -Where do you go, and to
what home, to garner your sheaves?

This is perhaps Tagore's lesson to educate us to the true nature of longing, of the long and difficult road which brings many hearts together but always keeps them pining. Tis' the way of the world for many, the reason why some matched-up hearts never truly meet, despite the depths by which their souls connect. One always the boatman, the other always the transient beauty.

Nietzsche on company

To Sabah...

We are always in our own company.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

L'Albatros by Charles Baudelaire

A beautiful poem by Charles Baudelaire, pointed out to me by a kindred soul. Tis' the arbiter to beautiful tidings and the key which hath verily unlocked my soul. I am keeping it here as a keepsake, future reference, signpost, talisman and pursuance of fate.


Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

— Charles Baudelaire

The Albatross

Often, to amuse themselves, the men of the crew
Catch those great birds of the seas, the albatrosses,
lazy companions of the voyage, who follow
The ship that slips through bitter gulfs.

Hardly have they put them on the deck,
Than these kings of the skies, awkward and ashamed,
Piteously let their great white wings
Draggle like oars beside them.

This winged traveler, how weak he becomes and slack!
He who of late was so beautiful, how comical and ugly!
Someone teases his beak with a branding iron,
Another mimics, limping, the crippled flyer!

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds,
Haunting the tempest and laughing at the archer;
Exiled on earth amongst the shouting people,
His giant's wings hinder him from walking.

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)
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