lifeinpomes

[lifeinpomes]

A lifetime is not enough To realize what it means to be human We waste what we are given To crave for what we cannot have.

[lifeinpomes]

To arrange words

To arrange words In some order Is not the same thing As the inner poise That’s poetry. The truth of poetry Is the truth Of being. It’s an experience Of truth. No ornaments Survive A crucible. Fire reveals Only molten Gold. Says Tuka We are here To reveal. We do not waste Words.

[lifeinpomes]

Here we are all, by day; by night we’re hurl’d By dreams, each one into a several world.

[lifeinpomes]

Man, you should explode

Man, you should explode Yourself to bits to start with Jive to a savage drum beat Smoke hash, smoke ganja Chew opium, bite lalpari Guzzle country booze—if too broke, Down a pint of the cheapest dalda Stay tipsy day and night, stay tight round the clock Cuss at one and all; swear by his mom’s twat, his sister’s cunt Abuse him, slap him in the cheek, and pummel him… Man, you should keep handy a Rampuri knife A dagger, an axe, a sword, an iron rod, a hockey stick, a bamboo You should carry acid bulbs and such things on you You should be ready to carve out anybody’s innards without batting an eyelid Commit murders and kill the sleeping ones Turn humans into slaves; whip their arses with a lash Cook your beans on their bleeding backsides Rob your next-door neighbours, bust banks Fuck the mothers of moneylenders and the stinking rich Cut the throat of your own kith and kin by conning them; poison them, jinx them You should hump anyone’s mother or sister anywhere you can Engage your dick with every missy you can find, call nobody too old to be screwed Call nobody too young, nobody too green to shag, lay them one and all Perform gang rapes on stage in the public Make whorehouses grow: live on a pimp’s cut: cut the women’s noses, tits Make them ride naked on a donkey through the streets to shame them Man, one should dig up roads, yank off bridges One should topple down streetlights Smash up police stations and railway stations One should hurl grenades; one should drop hydrogen bombs to raze Literary societies, schools, colleges, hospitals, airports One should open the manholes of sewers and throw into them Plato, Einstein, Archimedes, Socrates, Marx, Ashoka, Hitler, Camus, Sartre, Kafka, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Ezra Pound, Hopkins, Goethe, Dostoevsky, Mayakovsky, Maxim Gorky, Edison, Madison, Kalidasa, Tukaram, Vyasa, Shakespeare, Jnaneshvar, And keep them rotting there with all their words One should hang to death the descendents of Jesus, the Paighamber, the Buddha, and Vishnu One should crumble up temples, churches, mosques, sculptures, museums One should blow with cannonballs all priests And inscribe epigraphs with cloth soaked in their blood Man, one should tear off all the pages of all the sacred books in the world And give them to people for wiping shit off their arses when done Remove sticks from anybody’s fence and go in there to shit and piss, and muck it up Menstruate there, cough out phlegm, sneeze out goo Choose what offends one’s sense of odour to wind up the show Raise hell all over the place from up to down and in between Man, you should drink human blood, eat spit roast human flesh, melt human fat and drink it Smash the bones of your critics’ shanks on hard stone blocks to get their marrow Wage class wars, caste wars, communal wars, party wars, crusades, world wars One should become totally savage, ferocious, and primitive One should become devil-may-care and create anarchy Launch a campaign for not growing food, kill people all and sundry by starving them to death Kill oneself too, let disease thrive, make all trees leafless Take care that no bird ever sings, man, one should plan to die groaning and screaming in pain Let all this grow into a tumour to fill the universe, balloon up And burst at a nameless time to shrink After this all those who survive should stop robbing anyone or making others their slaves After this they should stop calling one another names white or black, Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, or Shudra; Stop creating political parties, stop building property, stop committing The crime of not recognising one’s kin, not recognising one’s mother or sister One should regard the sky as one’s grandpa, the earth as one’s grandma And coddled by them everybody should bask in mutual love Man, one should act so bright as to make the Sun and the Moon seem pale One should share each morsel of food with everyone else, one should compose a hymn To humanity itself, man, man should sing only the song of man.

[lifeinpomes]

Song

 The weight of the world            is love.     Under the burden            of solitude,     under the burden            of dissatisfaction            the weight,     the weight we carry            is love.     Who can deny?            In dreams     it touches            the body,     in thought            constructs     a miracle,            in imagination     anguishes            till born     in human—     looks out of the heart            burning with purity—     for the burden of life            is love,     but we carry the weight            wearily,     and so must rest     in the arms of love            at last,     must rest in the arms            of love.     No rest            without love,     no sleep            without dreams     of love—            be mad or chill     obsessed with angels            or machines,     the final wish            is love     —cannot be bitter,            cannot deny,     cannot withhold            if denied:     the weight is too heavy            —must give     for no return            as thought     is given            in solitude     in all the excellence            of its excess.     The warm bodies            shine together     in the darkness,            the hand moves     to the center            of the flesh,     the skin trembles            in happiness     and the soul comes            joyful to the eye—     yes, yes,            that’s what     I wanted,            I always wanted,     I always wanted,            to return     to the body            where I was born.    

[lifeinpomes]

Love Is Not Concerned

love is not concerned     with whom you pray     or where you slept     the night you ran away     from home     love is concerned     that the beating of your heart     should kill no one

[lifeinpomes]

People Like Us

There are more like us. All over the world There are confused people, who can’t remember The name of their dog when they wake up, and      people Who love God but can’t remember where

He was when they went to sleep. It’s All right. The world cleanses itself this way. A wrong number occurs to you in the middle Of the night, you dial it, it rings just in time

To save the house. And the second-story man Gets the wrong address, where the insomniac lives, And he’s lonely , and they talk, and the thief Goes back to college. Even in graduate school,

You can wander into the wrong classroom, And hear great poems lovingly spoken By the wrong professor. And you find your soul And greatness has a defender, and even in death      you’re safe

[lifeinpomes]

Continuing to Grow

A childlike adult is not one whose development is arrested; on the contrary, he is an adult who has given himself a chance of continuing to develop long after most people have muffled themselves into a cocoon of middle age habit and convention.

[lifeinpomes]

William Saroyan said, “I ruined my life by marrying the same woman twice.” there will always be something to ruin our lives, William, it all depends upon what or which finds us first, we are always ripe and ready to be taken. ruined lives are normal both for the wise and others. it is only when that life ruined becomes ours we realize then that the suicides, the drunkards, the mad, the jailed, the dopers and etc. etc. are just as common a part of existence as the gladiola, the rainbow the hurricane and nothing left on the kitchen shelf.

[lifeinpomes]

50 posts!

[lifeinpomes]

Blue or Green We don’t belong to each other.                   We belong together.                                                                       Some poems belong together to prove the intentionality of subatomic particles.                                      Some poems eat with scissors.                                                      Some poems are like kissing a porcupine.                    God, by the way, is disappointed in some of your recent choices.                Some poems swoop.                                                    When she said my eyes were definitely blue, I said, How can you see that in the dark?                       How can you not? she said, and that was like some poems.                                                                                   Some poems are blinded three times.                                    Some poems go like death before dishonor.                                                                          Some poems go like the time she brought cherries to the movies; later a heedless picnic in her bed.                          Never revered I crumbs so highly.             Some poems have perfect posture, as if hanging by filaments from the sky.                                         Those poems walk like dancers, noiselessly.                       All poems are love poems.                                                                    Some poems are better off dead.            Right now I want something I don’t believe in.

[lifeinpomes]

Follow your bliss. If you do follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while waiting for you, and the life you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in the field of your bliss, and they open the doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be. If you follow your bliss, doors will open for you that wouldn't have opened for anyone else.

[lifeinpomes]

"Like the ants that have nothing to do but dig all day, I have nothing to do but do what I want and be kind and remain nevertheless uninfluenced by imaginary judgments and pray for the light, sitting in my buddha-arbor, therefore, in that wall of flowers pink and red and ivory white, among aviaries of magic transcendent birds recognizing my awakening mind with sweet weird cries , in the ethereal perfume, mysteriously ancient, the bliss of the Buddha-fields, I saw that my life was a vast glowing empty page and I could do anything I wanted." And wham bam thank you Ma'am, don't you feel free?

[lifeinpomes]

I think it's a lovely hallucination but I love it sorta.

[lifeinpomes]

Human courage is an opiate but opiates are human too.

[lifeinpomes]

... because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

[lifeinpomes]

In his eternal search for truth, the poet is alone. He tries to be timeless in a society built on time.