24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
(Title and first line from Tagore’s Red Oleanders)
O the joy! The joy!
Of being, existing
Taking in a breath
Full of petrichor laden air
And to look!
O to look at the stars
Far off yet warm
From among the trees of past.
Hear!
O to hear the stories
Of ages afar
People to people, heart to heart.
O to speak!
To be able to tell
Stories and poems and
Songs that travelled far.
O the joy! The joy
Of living
Life among the beautiful
The Earth, the Sky and the stars.
“If we meet—“ and then he faded again, and kept on fading, until there was nothing left of him to hold back the Great Dark descending on the world, except his words.1
And the Great Dark did descend,
has descended,
again and again.
Each time the world finds a savior
Death eventually steals the presence,
stills the voice,
plunges us into the Great Dark of mourning.
We emerge eventually,
sensing that a new savior has come,
for now.
With the death of each savior
we are left with the words,
words that comfort and inspire.
Perhaps language is the only god we need—
the only one that doesn’t die.
1Mark Twain: A Life by Ron Powers
He’s done fighting himself on what he wants
And he wants her
He will have her
This he knew to be true
He had waited and waited
Waited for her to see
To see him
To want him
No more would he wait
She was hers and no one else’s
This night he would stake his claim
Tonight he would take what was his
The day seemed overlong
He watched her through his haze
The fires within him burned and blazed
The flames of his desire scorched his soul
His heart would burst from the longing
To feel her by his side
Beneath his weight
Taking from him what was rightfully hers
She would know come morning nigh
Whose heart would cradle hers so tight
The one to keep it safe and secure
Never raising a hand nor uttering a curse
In stealth he would secure her hand
Through an open window left for him
Inside she would wait on gossamer sheets
For the one she is fated to mate
The window is locked
Entry denied
His ire fueled by untamed desire
No door no bolt would forbid him entrance
Fires blazed windows cracked
Doors blew in on dragons hot breath
He lifted her gentle as a flower
To take her back to his mountain tower
*He’s done fighting himself on what he wants.*
Borrowed from “When He’s Dark”
Written by Suzanne Wright
An Olympus Pride Novel
Needed someone so badly
that you swallowed your
pride and called them
despite them not feeling
the same
Been in love with someone
that you can’t have, because
someone else already got to
them first
Went out of your way to
spend time with them,
because you care for them
or simply because you love
them
whether as a friend,
a potential spouse
or because of the unique
spot they alone fill in your
life.
I can’t tell you how I feel
Because I’m so afraid that you’ll
ridicule me
tell everyone about it and
laugh
Don’t tell me there’s a chance for
us-
if there’s truly no chance
Don’t play with my emotions
just to wind me up and hurt me
I don’t deserve that.
I’ll take your friendship
If that is all you can offer me
I don’t want comfortable lies
I’d rather have brutal honesty
Text Prompt
Grab a book from your shelf. Read the last line in it. You have to use that line as the first or last line of your poem (with credit).
“A Last Note From Your Narrator: I am haunted by humans.” — Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
Maybe
I see what you’ve done to them.
The children –
they used to sing and dance and play.
Their eyes are hollow – from disappointing you.
When did you become comfortable
enough with capitalism, to trust it with your
babies?
They are carved and refined,
sculpted cogs to take your place,
in the warm machine after you die.
Maybe while they are 6, they should learn how to laugh and play and find joy.
Maybe then, when they are 26, it will be an ingrained habit, like breathing. Maybe they could learn to live for that instead of money.
Maybe you should let your children be children.
Your priorities are confused.
“I am [and remain] haunted by humans” (Markus Zusak).
I think
You maybe
Dulled my shine.
That is to say
You were great,
Sure,
But also the worst.
And there was
A time I made
Quirky poems
And since we’ve parted
My quirk
Has lost its splat.
Because I am
Writing sad poems
And dreaming of
Kicking over your moped
Outside
My window.
My scheme isn’t
Even the same
But I’ll keep talking in an endless sentence
To break that mold
And splat
Enough on a honk
After tooting that chickacowowow
Like a little
Quirk
Like a return to me.
plant
seeds of joy
and blessings will rain
let them fall in and around you like mulberry’s in early summer
We knew life wasn’t fair
It was your mantra
To explain away anything that
You couldn’t explain at all
We supposed you knew
What you were doing
After all, we’re kids
You’re adults
We were dependent
On you
As you laughed
All the way to the bank
Stealing futures
To make your presents
Charging up a debt
That you carefully avoid
Don’t worry
Life’s not fair
So we pick up the bill
And clean up the mess
You left everyone
Book – The long goodbye by Raymond Chandler
No way has yet been invented to say goodbye to them
Words aren’t enough, neither are gestures of grandeur
How can you bid goodbye to them,
those who you never want to leave?
Would a word be enough to contain all the feelings
they made you feel in a little span of time?
Would a word contain in itself the love
they gave you in your life?
Would a hug be long enough to keep them close?
Just to have the pleasure of being with them once more?
Would a hug be enough to plead them to stay?
Just to have another moment with them?
Would a feast in their honor be grand enough?
For someone who made you feel things you never felt before?
Would a song sing all those moments
When their mere presence was enough to keep going on?
Would a poem express their awe-inspiring words?
Would a ballad be enough to show them their greatness?
Would a dance tell them their importance?
Or would they all just be incomplete?
What shall I do, now that you have decided to leave?
If it were up to me, I shall hold you close
O, What shall I do, now that you have to leave?
My pleas won’t make you reconsider
Alas, I must accept my fate
A life to be led without your presence in it
I must be strong at the moment of parting
Maybe your presence was the only thing holding me together
No way has yet been invented to say goodbye to them
Words aren’t enough, neither are gestures of grandeur
How can you bid goodbye to them,
those who you never want to leave?
-Surya T
Studies.
Lots and lot of studies.
Sturdy, albeit shaking in my comfort bed.
It’s examination time again, and I profess
Here like before, SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK.
I find joy knowing that
On the third week, I shall be weak. Yes.
But I shall recover.