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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2169846-Poetry-Anthology-1
Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2169846
Some short poems. Havent found anyone to edit them, and harsh critique is appreciated.
You smell new poem

This rain which has barraged me
Often in disguise,
Eternal are it’s forms, seen through various eyes.
Primordial sins perhaps remained
For which my birth was entertained
My birth so then, was incomplete
My birth so then forever, stained.

Darkest ink, depth cannot subdue
Has washed like water, my heart anew
Again I walk so forth inclined
Of oceans passed and rain behind
Waves before and trickles define
This multiple which has gripped my mind.

And then I see perhaps with eyes
Too glazed, confused, and sorrow-dyed
That are these cheeks truly alone?
Untouched by drops of sins atoned?
These eyes, they know no beauty’s hold
Which Sold too often some foolish gold.

Perhaps the unity of all these years
Is if once,
I see
That upward curve, The small expression so brief of feeling, that it lifts, before it’s said, mystifying this ancient head.

Upward lips which slightly curve, are you the unity of all these years?
Your parted lips which swallow whole, this rain which pours, this rain which tears.
And when those lips, converged to smile
My birth though stained, became worthwhile.

Midnight Child new poem

Birth is remarkable in its blood
Blood which runs through the veins of history
I was embargoed with a name of auspicious importance
Ibne Ali
The ancient Arabic of recent memory
And the Iranian which just newly
Became intertwined
With filth
The Musks of South Asia
Coiling ropes which tied my name to the greatest men
My making however
Biological, physical, material, semiotic
Was generic fibers
Impotent passion, and a repressed truth
My son, what little water my frost endows
Will vindicate me.
Solving the mysteries I never could, and moving forward my heart which stood.
Ibne Ali
Prayers were offered, some accepted
And so I was exhausted. My mother moreso
From her stomache, or waist, or hips, or thighs.
Wherever it was it wasn’t inclined. And so I remove myself on an incline.
My father jumps for joy, and I jump. Into the uncertainty which would dread me forever.
Perhaps this is why it was written
For me to not be able
Capable
To produce my own.
Ibne Ali
The name of the man whose courage
Rivals the form
The man of many children and lives gave birth,
To a man whose life has no sound. No worth
Not in silence did wavering hands be seen
But of silence could I finally be clean.

Yeet part 2 new poem

Few things deliver the dread
Of wearing out new shoes.
The subtle winds of fall
Emerge with the passion off a neglected younger sibling.
Passionate only in darkness, when it’s embers of September are still flaring.
October’s frights are a ways away.
November’s Frost is second only in chronology.
But wearing out shoes arrives slowly
Everyday a wrinkle appears. We wrinkle because of time, not use.
Even now. I can’t stand to look at them.
What if they wrinkled? No iron can soften it.

What a dilemma. I have to look my best for you. Yet my shoes wrinkle.
Although you have not offered an invitation I have accepted it.
The houses know, these bricks laugh. Those porch lights which flicker as I pass by cheer me on.
This chance encounter, is to me an event.
I purchase tickets and wait.
Except I have bought only the opportunity.
The perhaps, the chance, the might is all my language can afford.

The bench near the school
Ironically, the pinnacle of young love
Offers nothing. Two of its three supports are bent. Is it mocking me?
Consider, the chance glows more than any choice. A chance has an innocence.
A choice needs some courage, some time, some ability.
“Indecision is a decision”
These words were scribbled on my schools washroom. A thought hopefully confined there forever.
Rather a chance can be reflected, subverted and forgiven. A choice cannot.

This September chill cannot thaw my passions as easily as my chest.
My mother has already called me home.
My prose is as immature as I am.
Perhaps that ill fated childhood romance forgot me, but I remember it.
I have walked through Europe now, in a pastry shop.
Through the African jungles of a soccer field and the South American rainforest.
Those trees behind that local library are far too unruly.
This one hill alone rivals the Balkans.
Two streets, containing two traffic lights.
My sun and my moon, rightfully containing what is my world.
Since conception of such a notion, haven’t we awaited aliens? Some foreign adversary which invades Earth?
Or perhaps a comrade to share in this mystery with. Regardless.
I await my extra as well. In my world of course.
She is far more elusive than any television alien.
How can I wait so long? What virtue is this but stupidity. It’s alright.
The passions of chance, of awaiting it, surpass the realization of choice.
Perhaps she will pass by, unaware that I have waited here for hours.
For the chance of saying a meager greeting. That my whole day is fulfilled in these two minutes, and my whole world in these two streets.
Some men feel hopeless, when confronted with the grandeur of the universe. I’m comforted rather.
God creates an unimaginably vast monstrosity, and still gifts me a world of my own.
Two lights greater than sun and moon, and one passion greater than any uncertainty.
But what makes this world? Is it my choices or hers? What gave these streets such position?

My father has seen me. Black vans offer little subtlety when he commands them.
He will undoubtedly berate me, my choices, and my virtues.
How can I explain to a man of years of choices, the pinnacle of chance?
I will die from pneumonia sitting on this very crooked bench, behind this library in the amazon rainforest.
I will return tomorrow. And the day after. I have commitments, but this is the greatest.
Everyday I will dedicate myself, to these two minutes of chance.
Everyday I will confine myself to these two streets. One is mine and one is hers.
Is it pathetic? In a way I’m confining myself to the whole world. It’s the very heights of ambition.

My shoes will wear out, before I can ever wear them.
This waiting will take my life or this Frost.
Is it waiting, if one is not waiting for sure? As in waiting for the chance to wait?
Will this cycle ever be completed?
The conquistadors were not explorers as great as me. For they were welcomed.
Even the grass beckons me home. The frost could not be more explicit. Although he was.
These houses cannot house secrets clearly. And these lights flicker only to envelop my hope momentarily. As if a moment won’t suffice.
This bench alone could sustain my whole life
Whatever years I’ve been given suffered within a few feet.
A chance, is an event worthy of such reverence.
This length is for her. Years have passed in minutes and she has not come. I’ll live to fight another day.
I, waiting here is the life god meant.
For a man like me, a life well spent.


YEET new poem

I’ve heard I’m quite handsome
When seen from behind
Apparently from the front
I was not so inclined

JEEZ new poem

Never was I able to become a main character
Relegated to this reoccurring role,
In reflections and glances, did life move forward.
And what is it but a series of recreations
And reifications and unifications
In which her reflections met mine.
Traumatically, the main character emerges
Many summers of dormancy have prepared him for this event.
He feels himself superior.
His floodgates open and such Pompous eruptions emerge.
Reflections which meet reflections
Forever searching in this cave of mirrors
For the real among the real, the ideal from which this beauty seeps, in fractions, trickles and subdued sleep.
Those feeble legs which could not walk Now scatter.
They lunge against some stagnant air
And hurdles blossom from concrete, metal, from floorboards, grass and hardwood too
His role is complete.
The hands are pulling away at the strings,
Those chords are not of just of curtain
Reflections can only offer reflections
A second order, refurbished, well-used
For him There’s room to leap but not to land.
For him there’s room to speak but not to hear.
There’s room to eat but not to chew.
The cast has quite a parade in their absence.
He has no obeisance to the star, no reverence.
She is gone now though.
Once again, he’s appropriated.
The divine logos, has sent its message once again.
Partitions violence shone in red.
The segregation between her cheek and hair.
Upon the stage, dominates, enticing maybe a million stares.
There he goes, the hero now, some man, some time, some condition too.
They turn to me in unison.
I am content, with this fraction.
However
A sliver escapes, before I contain it and yells out; if only I were an answer and not a question
To her reflection, of a reflection.
© Copyright 2018 Faizan Malik (faizan2399 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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