The verses of Slybard

*sigh* Inspiration is hard to come by when you are preoccupied with whatever life throws at you…but then again, that’s what makes a poet’s life more interesting; writing even in times of inspiration-drought. lol…

I don’t own a camera but I am amazed by what you can do with it.

Damn, wordpress won’t show my paragraphs! I have even tried using html!Argh!!!

I have seen a ball of light,

her hair in a ponytail;

and I’ve caught a swift in flight.

I have seen, as inches, a mile,

and beheld Nature’s beauty;

captured the warmth of her smile.

Yet there’s just one way to tell:

Answer the calls of duty!

I have seen eyes and faces,

filled with fear, pain or remorse;

and the filth in high places.

I watched hunger consume flesh,

and heard wars’ loud voices speak;

seen blood, wounds forever fresh.

I’ve learnt life’s sometimes like moss:

Firm on sight but it’s root’s weak!

I have gathered Time’s fragments,

Motion’s footprints on Time’s path;

and delayed Fate’s evil hand.

I’ve the power to cause change:

One click and the sun won’t set!

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This is the darnest I could come up with for a description. I really should try to write about other things, other than women and love and Cupid. Or at least one of the other traditional topics like war and drink. But those 3 topics fascinate me!

Two beautiful shining stars,

A silver bridge and a brass gate;

Two humble mountains of diamond and slate,

Four golden pillars beneath the stars;

Two blue roses for the sun to seek:

All wrapped in meticulate curves of divine velvet;

And a million strands of the finest silk,

To make an angel of a being.

I recently listened to a documentary on BBC about the war in Vietnam, the crimes that were committed for the “greater good” and the eventual ‘scape-goating’. Am not sure whether or not I believe in the notion of “greater good” but I love to think that I know what war is and don’t like it!

The music was intense;

Every one’s baby was crying.

Behind the heap of sandbags, pretense

Was hope for those who were dying.

Whenever the music stopped,

Even for a few wishful minutes, they hoped

That the ‘PLAY’ button

Wouldn’t be pressed again;

That the clouds, already broken,

Would hold back the rain.

But behind that rotting design,

The boldest line was the frontline.

I remember watching One Tree Hill, season 4 or 3, (the episode in which this guy called Jimmy took some of his fellow students hostage), and thinking, ‘What does it feel like to be a misfit?’ I am also grateful that I’ve never had to suffer that way, I have never let myself do.

To have close a friend, ear-splitting silence;

Drifting away, far as the moon’s distance:

To be engulfed in blissful loneliness;

To die alive, absent in your presence;

Have sad bliss, ache for happiness;

To consume hate, summon fate:

To be a misfit!

If I could:

I’d sing a sweet serenade

And tame wild and restless Wind

To carry it, day and night,

Over wide-pathed land, to you.

If I could:

I’d steal from the boy who lived,

Destiny’s wand and bewitch

Night’s bulbs to spell out our names

For the world to see AND know.

If I could:

I’d bribe, with Iris’ bow,

Fate, to deal us better hands;

And Time, with Cleopatra’s hand,

To prolong serene moments.

If I could,

I’d be there with you.

I guess am required by unwritten rules and urged on by invisible forces, to wear my heart on my sleeves. Fine, I’ll do it!

But two lines ought to suffice.

My heart was empty yesterday;

My heart is full to the brim today.

There something funny and exciting about being a red-blooded 16 year old. I wonder whether it’s the new found freedom or the insatiable curiosity…

Once I cried,

Twice I shied.

Thrice I cried,

The tears of joy.

I have always been fascinated by Haikus and the sheer excitement of communicating great detail with very few words. Talk of a few short words with a mile of meaning.

Hit song; harsh whispers:

Dancing trees with singing leaves.

Written notes of silence.

I’ve people heard talk about sweet 16 but I had a sour 16. So when I turned 17, I was compelled to make up for the lost fun and experience. Thus my sweet 17!

Before any one starts pointing accusing fingers, they might want to know that scarlet is purely fictional! And it’s not in any way about the actress Scarlet Jo-something!

What can I compare you to?

Nothing! May be a scarlet rose

Its petals obscenely delicate;

A butterfly, whose beauty up-close

Defies every lexis’ word;

Or a rainbow, its colours meticulate.

Is there such purity

As that of early morning dew,

But that of an Angel’s serenity?

Who then am I,

Venus her deserved credit to deny?

For I’d sing rhyme after rhyme

And bribe numbers to my count

(standing atop Olympus the mount)

if ever from Jove I knew

that such was your word!

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And now for the English version; well, the same poem but Anglais.

How often do you hear

Of Roses that thrive in Lille,

Only to find their way

To the mysterious streets of Paris?

How many of those

Would stop Time in it’s tracks

Simply with their beauty and petals’ scent?

On one foot I stand,

A spectacle to all and sundry

To answer in one word: YOU!