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
"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 758 times
Written on 2005-10-17 at 11:06
Tags Anxiety
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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 758 times
Written on 2005-10-17 at 11:06
Tags Anxiety
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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