Life Through My Eyes: An attempt at verse and writings from my scattered mind

The days are cold, so cold
The sky, laid out like cement walls—
All the while old cement edifices lay Strewn out like torn rags.
In this grayness no silver looms.

No lining, that which stays on the precipice of precious, 
Lives in these paper days—
We work till knuckles are also grey
Bare chest, can't fight cold.

The days are cold, so cold
The artist's hand lies like rubble's child
Inert, not even waiting to thaw.
The pen isn't picked up nor the brush stroked
In these late days.

There's some pictures behind the bar
Of old men—legends and stars
Black and white—
Though more white, bleached than black.

There's a man at the bar.
Pitcher full of ale—
The mug is cracked
And his conversation's stale.

The Bartender is old
But, none the wiser—
He hits on the hookers and whores.
His black eye ain't a reminder.

The sign outside's flickering
Blue, neon green, spent—
It's seen better days.
Though the worst is yet to come.

The bartender, the whores and the man—
They know something ain't right.
But they choose to drink;
Party, forget—long into the night.

I have been to the edges of night,
Where starry skies meet waters stilled.
Have tried to be with the great birds in flight,
But even their ballads are no match for thine song and lilt. 

I have beaten shining knights at noon;
Eaten at roundtables with lords and drank at stables with farm hands.
But at night thou comest into my dreams— spectral pale and I swoon.
Thou art to me more than jewels of the ocean and lands.

Those are lines from my poems of you,
Though reality is less refined, dressed in banality,
I can't even muster the courage to say how do you do—
So I choose to live in fantasies of such ideality.

Whether a knight or merely a young man, one thing is true—
I do swoon when I see you in my dreams or when you enter a room.

O Life!
I thought I had lived,
In darkness, led astray.
I have spent my days
With vagabonds and lepers—
The best of the lot.

O Life!
I have not seen you,
In splendor during my stay 
The setting sun bid farewell—
Not even its final colors
Met my imagination.

O Life!
I come to it at last
I have—
Seen many sights,
Have drank and reveled.
But I have not realised.

O life!
At the end of all roads,
I have not seen your cruelty—
The hunger or thirst.
The sweetest nectar was dull to me
For it was all I had known.

A flower is like a matinee show
Awaiting its hour, its chance.
Transcendent— few may say but
Plain and dull to the driven masses.

Stop a second, come, see the show.
The first act is a seed—
A pit, though not of despair
Yet planted deep like a heart's sorrow.

The second act— in green shade.
Grows long and stands quite proud;
Though its pride is dressed in leaves—
It bends but does not yield.

The third act is most revered, the petals spring forth.
Beautiful, red, almost like the stars.
But beauty is short lived in this world.
Even it must end— make way.
End.

We saw birds in the sky,
I looked into your eyes
I saw love,
For the sky itself—
So blue,
Home of the free birds—
Sometimes purple, 
Rarely red.

We went to the circus,
The ringmaster's red robe—
You said you loved it.
You were clapping: 
As they tamed wild animals.
I heard joy—
In your laughter
So free, so Beautiful.

I saw you looking 
Out the window,
Staring at the bees—
Lost in thought.
You always did like bees,
They remind me 
Of you—
Wild and unique.

I think,
You love the birds,
The circus,
And the bees
Because—
they are like you.
Free,
Unbothered.

I know,
You love me.
Though it's not the same—
As, I love you.
In dreamland—
You are mine.
We love each other
One and the same.

I wish I could tell you
How I feel,
How I love you as you love
The birds or the bees.
But for now,
The different kind of love
You have for me
 Will be enough, my friend.

A talking blues song is a type of folk song where the performer half-speaks, half-sings in a rambling, conversational style, often blending humor, social commentary, and personal storytelling.

Well, I woke up early
got my shirt
Label said,
"Made in Bangladesh"
In some sweatshop.
I went downstairs
And kissed my girl.

I looked out the window,
Ain't no bird in sight—
Where's the snow?
I guess I ain't seen a deer—
Been a few years.
But I was feeling cold
'Cause the AC's always on.

I put the hot coffee on—
"Nescafe" is the brand we drink.
I just took my cup 
And drank my blood coffee.
And I opened my phone,
Read about children
Dying in Gaza and Sudan.

Then I checked my mail,
"93 unread" — my inbox said.
Zero when I went to bed.
They work me like a rat,
Wish I could take a bat to
Their head.
But, I need the peanuts they pay me in.

Then I ran.
Got in my car.
Electric Vehicle — Real quiet
Made in the U.S.A.
By an immigrant—
Who'll lynch you,
If you ain't white.

I laughed,
 'Cause even the car's got a voice—
It asked me about my day.
I had nothing to say,
Never felt so lonely.
So I put on a podcast,
Anything to take my mind.

Podcast guys said,
"The raptures coming"
I know he got his second rolex—
Since the last time he talked
'Bout some judgement day.
Ain't no hell or heaven,
this was all we got.

On the way to work
I saw marches,
With their big signs and torches
I never could keep up.
They think we stand a chance
But we are all slaves
To corporate greed.

Yeah, I just wear my tie
And do what I'm told—
Don't know if my heart exists,
My body's gone cold.
But I do matter
'Cause the state's always watching me.

I think people don’t truly ever die in a sense — they exist in memory and their "essence" exists in the air and the plants that grow.

When we die, 
We shall be elevated.
We leave behind,
This vessel—
to be swallowed,
Blood, bone and sinew.

Life is but a tingle,
A twitch of the sciatic nerve.
But in death,
We become so much more—
To die is to be born again,
A god of many patrons.

Death is the wind,
At your back in summer.
The soil that births 
The red Dhak.
The brief memory,
That brings back the dead.
        

This poem draws inspiration from the Irish folk song The Wind That Shakes the Barley by Robert Dwyer Joyce. Though not set in Ireland, it borrows the spirit and certain lines of that song, attempting to "inherit" its emotional cadence and folk-lyrics while reimagining it within a different landscape.

I sat me in a valley dry
And watched the sunrise,
Yellow fields shook in the wind,
The last of the barley.

I was torn between two loves-
The old love and the new love.
The old for the farm,
Now dry and set to rot.

But I had seen her at noon,
Mistress of the valley-
And I loved her,
For her memory.

The new for that land,
Which gave me my pride.
It was a man's love-
Love for my country,

Now thrall in foreign chains.
The farm, forebearer's stead,
had given me shelter,
But she gave me spirit.

Love for love, I wept,
The farm kept us warm.
But to me t'was coward's warmth
In the distance, I could hear cannon's cry.

I woke up in the night,
Barley burning, embers flying-
The hounds had set fire to the old farm.
But blood for grain, sabre for smoke.

Ash and dust, spread out;
I found myself without a home-
Yet heart remained,
And I vowed on memory of golden fields,

For love of my land,
We fought from glen to hollows dark-
Sabres agleam, cannon's black smoke
But at last, the invaders were in a rout,

I sat me in a valley green
And watched the sunset,
Yellow fields shook in the wind,
The first of the barley.
        

Another one of my own poems which I like. The dragon I like to imagine was not surpassed by many.

I bid farewell to the old dragon's den.

Where the waters shone and fell like the stars of heaven's unseen fields.

Her hollow from rock face to gorge was my cosmos, exhausted and spent.

The dragon, her great spine like stalactite had long ago keeled.

Yet under her heavy wing of celestial might was my abode.

Where I slept hand on heart, & heart lost in dreams of Gaia and Uranus.

There, I imagined the tapestry of the stars and how the stellar-spine in the sky, milky-white flowed.

I never saw the dragon, alive with wings stretched from land to heaven's end but I imagine, Nec Pluribus Impar
                            

A poem about the futile nature of war and an elegy to the dead

The horsemen at zenith-
Shining under the unbending sun,
Know not what grave deeds await.

The horsemen charge in the pale afternoon,
The clarion cries out clear;
Let Battle's fury take them.

The horsemen at nadir,
See through the red mist and dust-
Their kin fallen on barren soil, horses gone.

The horsemen lie in the silent night,
Bloodied hand on bare chest-
Restless yet asleep 'neath cold starlight.

The horseman at dawn,
Rests at last-
His fey spirit awaiting the silence of eternity.
                            

A letter to a child's drawing.

When
We are children,
They tell us
To pursue the arts.
"Draw Child"
Says the mother—
Child at knee height
Holding on to her pleat.

Perhaps,
He would draw—
A reindeer
Or a motorcar,
Or scribbles
And leave it there
Or,
Would he write?

Those,
Are not the questions
Asked of him.
He is asked
about math—
A noble pursuit.
But not,
The heart of man.

When,
We are older
They tell us
To work till knuckles—white.
"An aged man has duties"
You say to yourself
Holding on,
To old, bleached images.

But, do they matter?
No, my dear— "They do not."
Pennies will not clink when you are gone,
Nor will a motorcar start.
Your love will go on,
So will your art—
For they are
Child's work.

An ode to surviving despite hardship and the futile nature of the world.

What news do you bring from the land of sands, O Bedouin, O bedouin?

The Oases bear no date palms, and my child died in my arm last eve.

Why do you cry dear musafir , what sorrow haunts your tale?

My camel- his knees bear no strenght, yet I shall carry on alone. 

Why do you close your eyes my beloved wayfarer, what is it you wish not to see?

I wish to see the world in creation deep but I lost my keffiyeh and the shamal's sand shall get in my eyes

Who do you pray for ummi, clenching your rosary harder than your children?

I pray for safe passage of my child across the desert harsh.
                            

Perhaps the only one of my poems I like.

Out of the green sea, she rose-
A nymph from a man's story,
She was like the purple twilight at day's close.
She longed to fly, to the edge of the sea.

Yet, her dream disappears like seafoam left to dry,
Never touching the nest of the albatross.
She remains an old sailor's shanty-
But can she ever cross?
                            

My miserably failed attempt at surrealist poetry. This one is also political in stance, but I shall leave it up to the reader to decide.

I found myself in front of a hospital bed.
In the dim light, I asked him him his name-
He said, "Woody"
And tried to point to his string set.

I found myself in a ring.
The man said "Cassius" was his name.
But his rhymes felt rude
I think he lost his wings.

I found myself in front of an oracle,
He said his name was "George" .
And he went off about some big brother of his-
I called him mad.

I found myself in front of a sign-
Sign was red and bronzer stained.
Then, it all started to make sense,
I think I chose the sinner's saint.
                            

I tried to write within the folk tradition, but it is a bit hypocritical considering my privileged background. I think this is my most political poem/song.

Well you better not tarry.
You better meet their gaze.
You better look into the valley.
And see them looking back at your face. 

You see their pain, you call it anger.
You hear their shouts, you call it envy.
You don't see their hunger.
Your waters run muddy. 

You sit behind your private glass house and sip on your whiskey.
While they stand out in the rain,
And their voices get raspy.
But you ain't gonna let them put a stain on your name. 

So you look into that valley again.
You see them gather but you dont care.
You think they're insane-
They can't touch a single hair on you. 

You know, they ain't gonna fight for long.
They gotta survive....
They're gonna go back to the mines and sing their worker's songs.
But you, you can't sleep at night in your cashmere sheets, long as you're alive.
                            

A thought I had which I wrote down in verse

You ever wonder where their bodies go?
When they die on the pavement in the scalding night.
I know they bury their children-
But who remains to bury them?


The vagabonds, the lepers and the fakirs,
The night was theirs.
But who mourns them?
When the night swallows them- bone and sinew...
                            

Every piece hit the ground, and a murmur followed. 

Like- a jigsaw puzzle in reverse. 

With each fall, he felt more hollow- 

but resigned to his fate, there was no one he could curse.
                            

I guess I tried to write like early 60s Dylan here. The main character isn't anyone in particular, I think of it as an amalgam of the dread of modern life.

He's writing a rock opera.
But it just ain't good.
He's trying to use his camera.
But the people- they just ain't in the mood.

He goes home and he goes to bed.
But his socks they just ain't clean.
He thinks of the lady in red.
And he- he falls asleep thinking he's in a scene.

A scene? The only scene he's in is obscene.
He wakes up and he thinks he's advanced.
But he can't find his denim jeans.
The girls-they just don't give him a chance.

He goes to the rally.
But he gets blocked by the crowd.
He doesn't have a white picket fence so he stands in the alley.
The game- he just can't play it so loud.

He goes to the bank and he takes out a loan.
He looks in the mirror, thinks his life's a bust. 
And back home he loads the chamber.
The world- it just wont bother him no more.
                            

I hear the sound of trains pass me by,
As I wander through these halls-
Hallowed ground for few, and for many a cause of sigh.
The doctors, they make me feel small.

Madmen, wildmen- are they my company?
I see them and think of myself as different,
But even they think me funny;
The mirror on the wall paints me as a demented haggard in a downward descent.

The mirrors i call my eyes reflect otherwise.
I was not always like this- 
A revolutionary I think I used to be, I fought for those, who are smaller in size.
I never failed to rise to the occasion and I never let a just cause die.

Perhaps that is why they caught me and severed my brain-
Did I try to resist it-that memory escapes my mind.
They tried to make me another cart in the train,
But they left my heart behind. 

Today I broke free of my chains-
No longer am I their thrall.
I see them searching for me-even in the storm drains;
But they do not know I wander through their halls.

But I feel my fight is all for naught
How long shall I wander?
Is everything fraught?
Is the chair my only respite- I ponder