Poetry (50)

Hello Escritori,

I made this week’s poem up ages ago in the bath. Really lacking good visuals, honestly, erring on risqué here… *blushes*.

To be a little more proper, I had a job interview on Wednesday this week with a far smaller company… may be called to another one somewhere else in two weeks. I can’t really be faulted for ‘bounce-back-ability huh? Speaking of, I shall be back on Tuesday** which may or may not be Eid, insha’Allah. Eyes on the skies People! ** Wednesday actually, confirmed.

20160602_210536

 

Philosophy

There are those

(I make bold to call philistines)

Who do not care to read between the lines.

Instead, it seems to me

They boil down the tenets of philosophy.

 

Or conduct an enfleurage that would offend

To the end of all that is true,

The balance of a beautiful

Arome absolut.

 

For an example take

The issue of a mental state

Pronounced sour or cheerful:

If they judge a glass

As half empty or full.

 

Now to the truth of the metaphor.

Those judging the glass empty

Are too afraid to ask,

If anything can fill that vacancy

If any known substance there

Can last.

Who could accomplish the task?

 

Those that deem the glass half full

Simply choose, (with prudence

Brave and practical)

Not to notice that

The vacancy is there at all.

Hoping that humility will

Make the struggle noble.

 

Enough though of water

Consider the miracle of milk!

That gives life to babies

(And young of that ilk…)

Puts clouds into cups

And a swathe as white

And more transparent

Than silk,

Upon a glass

When it has all been drunk.

 

More full of simple love grow I,

To see this token of satisfaction

Than perhaps anyone has ever been

(Although I know not, it being unseen)

Aroused at the trace of my lips

Printed like a pledge

On the edge

Of an impersonal drinking vessel.

 

A mark on a pale canvas

Remarking my transitory presence.

 

This little coat of milk

Is gentle as mother love:

Coding a nexus of nursery rhymes.

It exists in its maternal whiteness

Like a ghost’s kiss

Imprinted on the mist

Of a window-pane.

 

Then is the altogether empty glass

More joyous!

For milk

Traces life as it’s begun

And the end of existence

That’s certain….

Through the weeping

Of the bones’ last

Reserves of calcium.

 

(© Copyright Pola Negri, 02/06/2016.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

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