Poetry Hound says: "Is it some kind of technique where you repeat certain things in different poems? Also, there are certain words you tend to over-use, like 'nightmare' and 'whispers.' You obviously have a great deal of talent." Source: Poemhunter


The Thursday Whispers


"Like a nightmare from which I cannot wake."
Nissim Ezekiel

Now, at the time of birds' flying home, I guess
many things have changed since I came out of a shell,
tearing the membrane of innocence to walk over
the ruins of the earth. Sabotage: our century brings
wreckage as gifts. One Thursday last summer I heard
blood-curdling whispers, grim under the patched-up
canopy of the starry sky. Back home from there,

I tried to form an Esperanto of the whispers
the height of my curiosity; the devil's progeny
can never know whether my heart's ironed out or not.
Nightmares cropped out of the ruins of this earth
and got on my nerves again as before; their comity
the high price for me. It's a regret I can't laugh
away those whispers sharp as poisonous needles

flying towards a target, with a gawk's volition,
rather ruminate over a solitude I have notched up.
Coated with nightmares as if walls with moss
that bring shivers down my spine, I stay
in my devil's den where none can liven up
for the machine symphony coming from across
that old warehouse that gouges out the foetus

of my glimmers tout est le pale visage de l'memoir.
My heart goes pit-a-pat with harsh tunes
and I turn pale: the whispers pile on the agony.
Oh! my whoring after the whispers is to blame.
Yet I keep a risible penchant for nightmares
and wound my dreams by the kitchen knife.
It's no auspice these acts wangle accolade. Yeah,

I find myself behooved for rancour and cozened
into being foppish or flung into the abyss of
darkness as molasses into an elephant's mouth-
hole. I turn up all the empty pages of my dreams,
and not being pushed into a huff, let a boorish
savant fob me with satchels of nightmares
that mavericks carry even under the turbid sky.

I see the frenzy of nightmares everywhere
they never let me stand aloof as a sparrow at the spa
nor have a spanking time. Time's scrubbing-brush
can't clean down my heart dreadfully coated
with nightmares never contorted with inaction.
All these stubborn analogies act like crescendo
and allude to nonsense. I see ruffians sip orgy-

wine at the bar when they are inflated with victory
and climb up the kame like a mantis and hum
funky tunes as they besmirch my fussing about
the whispers meddled up with the old tune of my heart.
I gabble but never infringe upon piffling talks
nor kick out lethal gambados into another galaxy
where no lenity shelters horrendous ruffians.

A cloak of gloom sticks tight against my skin.
I remember that old-wrinkled man who said:
all the colours of rapture, young boy, will turn
into those of despair. They fade, only black remains.
What more have I gained than this burden of grief?
The whispers heard at the stone-piles by the river
grab my privacy by the collar, maul my recess,

then stroll the meanderings with me. Everybody
seems to be in a fit of persiflage that I am
certified insane to feint against nightmares
never to be on the verge of sagacity in a jiffy
as to strive to set the crooked thoughts straight
or to provision my ears for striking upon
a meaning out of the Thursday whispers. Then

the nightmares come home to my meek heart's
castle laid bare for the sudden aerial attacks.
Bitten by regrets I can't deny that I fall prone
to the whispers turning hoary as hills. Yeah,
I am the man who, cropping out of the ruins,
doesn't ever see ripples worthy as dunes seen
from a jet-plane flying over a desert at twilight,

rather listens to the Thursday whispers of dread.




Poetry by Sofiul Azam
Read 614 times
Written on 2005-10-17 at 11:06

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chasingtheday The PoetBay support member heart!
damn that rate button lol i tried to click it quick but the page went through without it.
2005-10-17


chasingtheday The PoetBay support member heart!
i am not sure what to say about that poetry hound passage - laughable comes to mind though! different poems, why not use the same words, over-use is a matter of opinion or say similar or the same things in another poem.

i was reminded of oscar wilde in places, and edgar a poe in other places with this poem, just certain words popping up that are rarely used today like 'foppish'.

that cloak of gloom - i think as people, we all have to shrug that off, and it is so difficult to do, especially when we find ourselves roaming the same tracks in thought of darkness and sorrow.
2005-10-17