Poetic Perspectives
Welcome to my latest collection of poems--a culmination of my ongoing journey through the world of poetry!
These poems are a blend of my personal reflections and pieces crafted during my second year in college! Each one has been meticulously reviewed and workshopped by my poetry mentor who'd helped me in shaping them into the creations you see today--so huge thanks to Luigi!
My poetic muse draws inspiration from my deep-rooted interest in philosophy, particularly in the realms of environmental ethics and morals. It's a journey fueled by the writings of revered poets such as Aristotle, Christopher Dewdney, Ted Hughes, and Michael Fraser—although, truth be told, my list of favorites is ever-expanding at a pace I can barely keep up with...
The children of Melwall
The city here used to look as if the guttural
shade of steams had built brick by metal the standing
crusade of a righteous charter. Before a probe
had startled my mother’s carriage that promised
to trench kilometers, I was once a worthy son; then stripped
from long green and every clover that a metropolis had known.
Forward, ankles-deep and twenty knees in boards
of wood would shake the cross of my siblings;
my brother with brittle skin but hearty bones,
my brother with a sprightly mind but foolish eyes,
no thanks would ever weigh enough to the knocking
of that hag’s unhallowed face. At thirteen, starch,
iron-like gore had become the lines of my palms,
my untalented arm would mirror the steam and shade
of the city; I had become built by brick and metal,
like Melwall; the convicts of every back street
and the mocking Capes that go to bat for the dirt-poor,
absurd dickheads of every manor and girls dressed
as Harriette Winthrop. I do not feel good about it,
but a half-devil tamed with only the silver lining
of gold and its children deemed finer than to remain
a servant of a metropolis starved from birth.
The idea of a nuclear embrace
Just pass. Enough swimming! I will slip through my own fingers during the beginning of my time and you will embrace your own. Does it torture the whims of neural choreography? Puppet-on-puppet with strings of perception. The puppeteer or the puppet? Real. They are real! Wind-crossing oceans dance against the tips of white strings and thunderbolts ride on the images of black and grey. Freedom’s always bound in chains; how are we sure that dawn will follow every night? It is within this negative space that fills the problem of green; the nails, the blanket and the idea of a nuclear embrace. If our knowledge is tied to facts that are not proven, images that may not hold true and real; how could this accidental flair of lift be liberated from freedom?
WHAT YOU KNOW is true
“A bad man cannot pass from happiness to misery, for the pleasure of tragedy is the pleasure of vigorous excretion.”
The design as man is to receive pleasure from tragedy with its hunger
for tears. See, those who choose to abuse (or arouse) the animals of this place
are masked wearing the thin skin of a cat. They chase the slow green
of some leaves and bare out poison for babies crying milk to suck on,
but if man can discern his place and find his steps, not mistaking the shade
of fire as a cheer and never driven by the perception of a concrete jungle,
the feel of wood would not become plastic and our lungs will not eat the tar
of our own collision.
How to save a life
You should know by now
that feeding on a lizard’s tail
won’t turn you into a God.
It won’t grow wing-shaped crowns
or taste slippery, like pickles
drowning in cherry-soda.
The living room cradling adults
are dead, you don’t have time
for pop-tabs to explode or to bristle
your fatigue or to grope at someone’s
fork.
The white is so fat with discharge
that you can’t see beyond the whiff
of sharp tongues. If you just spit
in the choke-hold, the snow won’t go far
up-deep.
Snake, separate your own bones;
eat your own scales, swallow stiff
and far until the blades of it cut through
the black box—it shouldn’t be too hard.
Deadlift pt. 2
Stop all that crying, my nineteen-year-old just died.
Sick everywhere, orange coating abominable weight,
stretching grass-eyes and twitching beans under hairy
sticks, his panting chats felt tender underneath white-
sheet knuckles. Thirty past seven with seven more ticks;
what a pity, my shoulders couldn’t carry the poison in
his sideburns. But how hard is it to even forgive his
brother? Overtired burials never felt so slack-spined
like the shape of his brittle spine. My bicep won’t lift
that dead weight or sweat breath. It’s too heavy.
Green is for 7
It’s the way counterclockwise doesn’t feel safe
and
how math textbooks are red and not blue;
the calefaction of July is just as cold as a sugar-
free Red Bull. The nervous system of black’s
shade is just as horizontal as a house ceiling
(when viewed from below) but sinking from
the cold is better than screaming in a fire,
an
elbowed road is safer than sitting at the far-end
corner of a window-side double- deck bus
5 x5 = 25 is blue but black death isn’t black. The
smell of rain is just asphalt. Thunder! an applause
from someone’s god. Put this all in slow-motion
and
it’ll still never be slower than a winter night.
But you probably already know that green is for 7.
Shallow religion
Who is to say that we are masters of the earth?
Before tomorrow, no mountain will be left
to drain the clouds away and no stream of river
will ever remember the taste of their roots and rocks.
We have not married the animals that we eat to know them,
nor returned the fin and wing of those that needed it most
to learn the aftertaste of the sinking air. No man can be alive
for September morning to fold their pants and walk barefoot
on the migmatites or the burning gravels of the end. A ripened
sunlight will do nothing but burn the rest of the shelves while
a falcon will only walk until their talons become their grave.
Sick, do not stand on graves and cry if you are not good to walk
the tremendous heaps of sins that you have committed. Be astonished
and tell the world what you have done. An uptick of unsinking volcanoes
cry while their waters burn from east to west.
“And I saw” the Woman Clothed with the Sun as the Geese come out
for spring. They will hide again in master-crafted salt marshes or hike,
with bravery, across soiled streets to meet the underpart of a black,
heavy, murderous tire.
And then another man with a golden censer will come and stand
broken at an altar. He is given much incense to offer, with the curtains
of the crime and the moon under his feet.
A world (NOT) made for us
To reinvent the human, we must first uncave the earthly mind—
not to steal the rumbles of tailings or measure the weight of sand,
but to put back the roots of a half-tree; to sing of the end of the world
while children count their fingers to every breath of a dead fish.
No one is capable of making a ladder to climb to the next world,
or to share a blanket with their teacher. The seven sin will not exist
for human’s atrocities have created instead a hundred-odd
hydroelectric plants to breathe air. The invention of democracy,
the nine-to-five shifts, Easter and the richest man in the world
will be swallowed and sunken into itself.
The supermarkets will become a cemetery, no one ocean more
will ride its wave underneath empty feet,
bombing sites are just part of the moon’s craters and the lizards
of the desert will find its place in the peak of hills.
Our elbows will rest on top of each other and if you look
at something miles away, you will remember
that we were not meant to eat this world whole. Then, at noon,
you will realise that this world was not made for us.
MORE COMING SOON...
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