Turn It Up.

Activities (41) Books (13) College (20) Happenings (80) Life (64) Micropoem (8) Musing (62) Netgames (6) Other Blogs (16) Personal (64) Poems (136) Pujo (7) Random Banter (32) School (28) SPICE club (14) The Famous/Infamous (9) The Statesman Voices (3) This Blog (35) Troubles (49) TV (8) Twitter (2) Vibes (4) Views (36) Wallpapers (36) Webcomics (4)

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

For 4 : For Once

For Series, 4th poem. Venturing outside my comfort zone with this one, with respect to style.
====================================================
For Once

The smiles are hidden and distorted
By strange, dripping puddles on the incomplete glass;
The rough wood, caught up in the lacy tablecloth,
Keeps the frame precariously still--
Askew, but safe between flames and the floor.

The faces in the frame want to look again into those eyes
That saw in them their entire lives, and much more;
And made them, in secret gratitude, the heroes of stories
That the world's people called masterpieces, but which
They knew to be fond memories --
Signatures live, in soot stains and dried wax,
Of nights without electricity: labours of love.

The tired face with half-closed eyes,
Resting on a tired, vein-lined elbow,
Wants to feel, again, the heat of a mind racing
To keep up with wildly competing visions:
Of exotic adventures, bloody wars... car chases, crowds!
It wants, again, to feel the sweat dripping
From the forehead of genius down the brow of wisdom,
Down the rough cheeks, flushed, and lips slightly parted
From exhaustion, excitement, and the sheer thrill of creation.

But not anymore, the inspiration from reminiscence;
Not anymore, the colourful dreams by candlelight,
Immortalized in royal blue ink for the public's adulation.
The intellect made feverish by uncensored exploitation
No longer finds its children worthy of their birth pangs--
The mind that knows to madden crowds and critics alike
Grows uneasy behind that weary, half-lit face.

So what if they soil the birthplace of his creations?
For once, he wants the candle flames
To consume smile, vision and memory;
For once, all love and art, to him, is in the faint music
Of the missing shard of glass falling to the floor,
The ink-stained grip that held the world, now loosened
By the dark pools steadily engulfing the soot stains on the lace.
====================================================

Good or clich├ęd? Let me know! Actually, this is my second poem on the general topic, my first being a rather childish one.
At the time I thought that (the linked one) was scary, but I've written many negative poems since then, including the one above. I invite you to check out my earlier poems and tell me if I do better on the dark ones or the happy ones.
Take care.

0 comments:

Post a Comment

Speak and you will be heard.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...