Stephen Gill on poetry and poets…
POEMS ABOUT POETS & POETRY
TO BE
The muse
that
muscles the vision of poets
shape my
pen into the plough
that will
prepare my land
for
sowing peace
wherever
its blade touches.
Carpet a comforting glare of the sun
to melt
the snow
that is
known to freeze hearts.
I wish to harvest
a
ripened manna of harmony
of the
youthful enlightenment
to
validate the claim
that
outgrowths
from
diversity of landscape
stem from
the cosmic order
of the
same source.
Fragrance of spring
sustain a
structure of strength
with the
braces of my lyrics
that will secure breaths together
in a
mystical dance
to the
tune of the song of the dove.
The blazing blows of the wilderness
fan the smoulders of my spirit
into the
burning flames
that will
consume from my writing
all that
is dross
for the gold of my passion
to shine.
========================
POET'S PRAYER
From the conscience
of my pen
o master
blossom a richness of pleasing nutrients
of calm energy
for the surge of healthy hormones
to flower the fertility for peace.
From your sacredness
water my passion to sustain
the freshness of the heavenly hues
inspiring in a smithy
of the distinguished diversity
for the court
where cultures clash.
To pacify the frenzy of violence
equip my pen with your amazement
that is fused with vitality.
=======================
PRAYER
FOR THE COMING YEARS
Strengthen my pen to weed out
the war
the misery
and the hard days of the past
and to help
good to emerge.
Strengthen my words to weed out
the spite
the dark
and the frowning evil of the past
and to help
love to rule.
Strengthen my lyrics to weed out
the bigotry
the cruelty
and the fanatic howls of the past
and to help
justice to shine.
Strengthen my voice to weed out
the fear
the sickness
and the Satanic wrath of the past
and to help
truth to appear.
Strengthen my songs to weed out
the unrest
the snow
and the brutal thorns of the past
and to help
spring to surge.
=======================
THE WORLD OF POETRY
The world of poetry
is woven with rainbow strings
sorted in the secret caves of desire
to recreate
the source of that supreme grace
that evolves
in the womb of solitary hours
during the creative nights of its conception.
Its beauty---
a harmonious marriage between art
and knowledge---
nourishes the child of a human journey
through varied landscapes
enveloping the nourisher
with an unexplainable calm of the brooks
that flow leisurely through jungles
and hills
along the shores of divinity.
Its creator
cultivates in every line of
furrows
a crop of the palpitation of human groans
and a glory that is the essence
of trailing clouds
while weighing the tangled mysteries.
Its sky is studded with diamonds
excavated from the rocky valleys
of human experience
with the sole help
of a primitive knife of the craft
and an ink
fused with laughter and tears.
The soul of poetry
can be reflected but partially
through the earthly mirror of symbols.
====================================
STALE CRUMBS
He wanted to pour out his soul.
"It is an art," critics shouted.
To learn it
you need great masters.
He made a bowl of himself.
For years
he begged at schools
collecting degrees.
He went to various nations
gathering their stars.
Eagerly, he crammed the gurus.
He burnt the
till the bowl was heavy.
He considered himself a scholar
and became proud
though yet a beggar.
Armed with degrees
he tried to defy the world.
Intoxicated
he flew in the air.
He carried his bowl to Apollo
who saw it with scorn.
He knocked at the doors of Sarsavati
and a host of Eastern sages;
they ignored his presence.
He approached the Greek philosophers
and the Latin pundits;
they shrugged him off.
He went to Shakespeare and Milton;
for them, the bowl carried trash.
In despair
he walked to the jungle
shedding tears.
He emptied the bowl
sitting on a rock
while the setting sun
made the horizon bright.
Vultures came
and finished the crumbs.
He began to bleed
as some ate his flesh
when nothing was left.
Aching
he collected the blood in the bowl
and began to write with a weed
the story of his greed.
Crowds came from far and wide;
they said the man has powers.
They built a fortress around him
and dug a well of sweet waters.
Behind him
they waited with offerings
but he continued pouring out his soul.
He was never proud again.
=====================================
ISLE
OF ART
Away from the life-stifling
smoke
from the heartbreak house
lies a solitary isle of art
where I have tended
a garden for my retreat.
Its paths I strew
with the fragrance-laden flowers
I feed
with my passion and my dreams.
My docile children
I watch frolicking in the sun.
They exhale peace
that surpasses all.
A free moth
I converse with fogs
and listen to the rhythm
wrapped in life's melody.
I watch closely
the silk brocade of every colour
in
the rainbow.
The wind and the clouds
talk to me
and a tantalising aroma of my muse
dispels
the deadening mists of boredom.
In this garden
no more ice of silence
no doors
no locks
and no keys.
The logs
in my soul's fireplace
burn the bigotry beast.
No haste
no worry
no malice
and no darkness of prejudice
lurks here.
Eyes set on my horizon
on calm waves I sail here.
===============================
UNFAIR
OPHELIA
(For LC P)
To assail
or not to assail
that is the
question.
Should writers
resign themselves
to the stench of
your structure
of injustice
braced by the barbs
of bigotry
or uncover your
ugliness
at the shrine of
law and liberty?
To be or not to be
that is the
question
whether it is
rewarding to toil alone
on the rocky
island of writing
and raise a crop
for self-appeasement
or slaughter the
wolves of hunger
in the domain of
your prejudice.
To die in the dark
is not for us.
Writers must
use their coin
that is
the Lord's wish.
Should poets
let the flower of
hope be wasted
by the sickles
of racial winds
is the question
now.
You bathe
in the bounteous
glearn of the public purse
clipping ambitious wings
of self-exiled guests
that shames the courtiers of Apollo.
You debase the name of the nation.
Be soft now
unfair Ophelia
fear the fire of that undiscovered land
from which no
traveler has yet returned.
Should a writer
who
has breathed his whole life
under the fragrant canopy of the Muse
be so banished from her court
is a question now
?
===================================
BIRTH OF POEMS
Poets free
the birds of their blood
and
weave purrs and growls
with a single loom.
They are cats
walking in the darkness of solitude.
Poets give birth
to the agony of joy:
the children
raised by airy beings.
Nothing can replace those births
not even the letters of acceptance
that are the arrows of chance.
======================
LONELY ART
Novelists portray conflicts
and plots;
they are actively engaged
with their characters.
Their frequent visitors,
the ghosts of the past.
Fiction writing
not a lonely art.
Their words
flower, fire and wound,
light, boon and guide.
The pen of tyrants
turn them into dreadful,
disdainful
rotten and distasteful
to breed
destruction, greed and confusion.
They are the adders of today.
================================
OARS
Poets are adventurous
they dive with swimmers
dance with singers
and enter
the souls of tyrants
as they paint
voyaging
in the seas of thoughts
ploughing
the waters of emotions
with the delicate oars
of
pens.
They catch unaware
naked creatures of waves.
To civilize
they cloth them with images
stitched with words.
===============================
A POET
When dearth and
sword
and hope despaired
sound their notes
poet is acclaimed
and sought.
When dusky night
flood and thunder
send their rage,
the candle blaze
a wind-trembled leaf
shrinking flesh
image of Daedalus
leads the way.
==================
BRAIN CHILDREN
My songs
toughness of the shield
tongue of equality
struggle for peace
for human rights.
My songs
beauty in living
hope for warmth
and thirst of prosperity.
The rainbow of my joy
link distant islands of disharmony.
My songs
find the rhythm of life
within the castle of grace
cannot be abducted.
They are
the pride of the crown
rubies of bliss
above jaspers and emeralds.
My songs
path of my home
breathe for truth.
They flout the regency of rust.
My songs are the brooks
that flow leisurely
through the green valleys
of blessedness.
They root out terrorists
that sail on the currents of cruelty
to find their god.
They are the agony of my soul.
==============================
MY MUSE
How often
I have
flashed
the light of her name
in my doleful tunnel
crushing
within the palms of my intent
the toxic insect of emptiness.
Today
the jealous winds outside
smite my windows desperately
like a being insane
while inside I am at peace
with her.
Like the
waves
my fingers
caress those regions,
the sapphires of her grace,
where the thief has not yet
wrought its ruthlessness
and which are preserved
even today
in the chest of time.
This moment
I am
enveloped
in the fragrance of her smiles
which are known to diffuse
even in dark autumn nights.
====================================
WHERE ARE THEY ?
Where are
the poets
those pilots of words
who would stop
the march of madmen?
I
wish
those bards could lead
flashing the swords
of their lyrics
to end recurrences
of blood-covered scenes!
Where
are those philosophers
mightier than cannons
who would stop
the games of chess?
I
wish
those sages could teach
scheming players
how to love and live!
Where
are those artists
our painters and pacifists
that would stop
the ravages of the village
by the fury of the explosives
of their brush?
I
wish
those souls could release
the birds of light
to sing and smile!
Where
are those
guided minds
to replace now
the guided missiles?
I
wish
those humans could breed
a crop of serene beings.
I
wish
someone could inform
our masters
that a fanatic mind
fathered by ignorance
and ugly-faced doubts
is a death cradle
and that
these wars choke innocents
in smoke-smeared
fields.
========================
WRITERS & REJECTIONS
Don't be
surprised
if for a long time
you hear
from their chambers
the silence
that pervades a graveyard.
Writers are not inactive;
they have to write in their mind
before pounding on typewriters.
They strain
under a roof of humility
standing on the unshakable ground
of determination
in the strife-ridden bazaar
for artists.
These dormant buds
blossom presently to ablaze
with prismatic appearance
in the garden
of unparalleled beauty.
==================================
BABY INSIDE
It all started
when I was enamoured
with the wildflowers of the muse
on the bend of the road
of a cold night.
While walking hungry
I saw an unlocked house.
I tiptoed
into the kitchen of the books
to grab warmth and nourishment
for the baby
I carried inside of me.
From that day
I never looked back.
Relentless robot
I kept walking.
I heard doors closing behind
me.
Dropping tears
on the breast of the dust,
I heard another door banging
and then another.
I kept walking
because of the baby
I had inside.
Outside the chamber of comforts
I set the child free.
I borrowed some drugs
from the passion of my pen
to repose
beside the fireplace of fancy.
Sitting within the walls
of my writing,
I forgot the cold.
© Copyright Stephen Gill
================================