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Inner Whirlpool

Do not fall into the whirlpool
lurking deep within my soul.
The waters there could drown you
if you were to brave the fall.
A halo will not be awarded
to the person who might fall
though prayers might be worded
from the ones who for you call.

Withdraw from infatuation
with my smile and with my eyes.
It is – I fear – deception,
do not fall for my disguise.
Beware of finding truths in halves
you may be viewing the wrong side –
the other side will look on, laughing
with excitement like a child.

Do not drown yourself in waters
that you can never tame.
For both of us it would be better
to find a safer game;
for I am lurking in the murky
waters of my inner whirlpool
and if you think that you can find me –
you would have to be a fool.

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The Poetess

To someone whose primary contribution to the world may have been amusement at her naïvety – all admiration for her courage aside

She was a modern Poetess,
the one whose story I’ll relate,
she thought herself an ancient priestess
guarding all secrets of fate
(a view under much debate)

Such whimsical a character
as hers I never met before,
and you must know it means disaster
to seek nothing but rapture
and the stable things ignore.

She thought herself superior
to other people just because
her mind only ever bore
thoughts of unknown shores
and grief over fake losses.

She sought an elevation
of mind and soul and spirit
to fuel her inspiration,
and assigned no merit
to her own discredit.

Lifting herself to distant spheres
unseen, unknown and ancient,
was how she tried to quell her fears
but wherever she went
they with her went.

And as she slowly realized
she didn’t know what she thought she knew
all ideals then became disguise
to hide how destitute
thoughts her mind now fueled.

Originality was lost
if ever she possessed it,
and imitation of a host
of ancients ensued; her wit
was disinherited.

And all ideals became excuse;
her love; possession
whereby she lost her muse,
her fate; rebellion,
and her hope; evasion.

Ignorant of her shortcomings
still she wrote, in agony,
often copying most of the things
she couldn’t otherwise modify,
till truth itself became a lie.

Her love life turned around,
she went from man to man
in search of something so profound
that never did, and never can
be born to mortal Man.

And in her search for this merging
with something intangible
she gradually lost all meaning
and now her every scribble
left her more and more unstable.

For what she wrote about
was so different from her life
that it did amount
to a contrast such that strife
became living, and plight her life.

Even plagiarism could no more
conceal her loss of hope,
inspiration had locked the door
and her mind was doped
with escapism past all hope.

This has become a quite dark story,
I apologize for this,
but if you dream of nought but glory
and for nought but glory wish,
it’s all too easy to be lost; remember this!

For poetry itself is never fame,
true poetry should be anonymous:
Do not mark the words with your name
and expect something miraculous
to come to you; you will be lost.

Besides, today the view of art
is altered past recognition,
today all things can be called art –
it’s no exaggeration –
so art itself has lost much meaning.

And poetry especially so,
but what lies dormant in earth today
might yet someday spring up and grow
with no essence of decay –
so wait for it, it’ll come someday.

Back now to our Poetess
who’d tossed her torch away
and given in to her distress
because she saw no way
of bringing her ideals to light of day.

She could not vanish quite
so much of her remained,
but insipid and with no might
to even feel in vain,
with no sense of loss or gain.

Someday I hope that she
will be brought back again
from dark obscurity –
at least her words remain
for us to ponder and retain.

Until that day I urge you,
all of you who read this piece,
to not wait patiently for
a day when poetry
all by itself restores the peace.

That day would be so far away
that much can still be said,
but on that dreamlike, distant day
so many years and thoughts ahead
all poets who today lie dead
would once again be read,
and what they had to say
would be interpreted –
and you would then see clearly
that they as well as me
worshipped above all, dearly,
art, truthfulness, liberty,
justice, peace and harmony

Wake up right now
for that is all a dream.
We’ll never reach it anyhow;
the world, people, everything
they are no better than they seem.

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Vital Signs

For years on end she had written
of all that in her was hidden
and everything she saw
while observing her surroundings,
about all the things
that filled her with awe.

She wrote about both big and small,
about all things she could recall
until the fateful day it stopped,
and she with nothing left to say
felt inspiration melt away,
and her faithful pen she dropped.

She was a Poet full of life,
her words could slice just like a knife,
but now her voice was silent;
as the Poet now seemed dead,
a death she felt with utmost dread,
sudden although not violent.

She checked her vital signs
of mind and body and other kinds,
and they all seemed to function;
her brain, her lungs, liver and heart
seemed still to play the same, old part
they’d played since creation.

But something inside her had died,
she felt it, she sat down and cried
and with familiar movements then
she reached out, as she was wont to do
to the object which she always knew
could comfort her; the pen.

But setting it to paper proved in vain
although she tried again and again,
no words would form although she was
with her emotions overwhelmed,
and then to her did suddenly dawn
reality, however harsh.

The Poet’s death had stolen away
her inspiration with a sway
of sudden emptiness;
she was a human, still alive,
but no more Poet, that part died
and left her pathless.

When she her vital signs observed,
she left the most important one unheard –
What makes a Poet a Poet
and from others thereby set apart
(it’s not to be found in the mind, but in the heart) –
that part was dead.

Returned to humanity again
she sought inspiration all in vain,
she could not revisit the past,
and so she moved on reluctantly
mourning her lost creativity,
stolen so dreadfully fast.

Her heart now had adjusted speed
to beat as human hearts do beat,
not stirred with emotionality,
not much aware of the mundane,
far less of true art (which seems plain
to eyes void of imaginuity).

The Poet’s vital signs had waned,
just human ones remained,
and as awareness thereby fell
from her before observant eyes
she could no more distinguish lies
from truths; and all was well.