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Poetry is the Voice of Me in
You and You in Me
(What is Poetry?)
Poetry is the speech that I do not get to make
And the love that I could not yet make with life
In the dreams that will yet have to unfold the secret landscapes yet to be seen
Poetry is more than the life I lived and less than
The life I yet aspire to arise out of what has and has not been
In the names of things poetry is the nameless nouns that yet to make the news
Poetry is beyond the definitions of defined space and time
Germinated seeds of my being unfurling the unfathomable
That I aspire to touch and magic sprinkle the whole spectrum
Poetry is my love and loss combined without any profits
And where I go and where I be and where not and pine and cry
Poetry chronicles me in you and you in me in dream you may yet to touch
Poetry pronounces what I do not think or may not have thought of yet
And I be and not be poetry is before middle and after of my joys and sorrows and
living
Poetry is my first kiss imagined lived and remembered in a rainbow dance and music
Poetry is joy raining with fun yet embedded with corals of cool breeze of
sorrows
Here it is where there is yet to come and there it is where here yet to be borne
Poetry is life imagined lived and unlived by life's reality's shell but touched
as lived
Poetry is the voice of me in you and you in me where music rests in metaphors
Dreams dreamt in joys and sorrows where agonies' beats and bones wear colours'
coat
And poetry tries to sing a dance that stares at fate while more or less defy
itself in living the life
Golden Flyers of Eternal
Spring
1
The moment’s eternity smiled
As if destiny portrayed in your eyes
Destiny that was mine
Which was to be ours soon
That evening was breezy and warm
Although it was autumn
The leaves on the trees looked
Golden flyers of eternal spring
Because the time knew you would come
In my mind the time’s geography changed
With the touch of colours that was expectations
And they weren’t failed at all that evening
Not knowing whether to say or touch
Or feel the feeling too much in one
I did see the horizon inviting
Towards the beginning of the dream,
You did come as if to say
That was how easy it was
That was how natural and straight
We talked in a way a poetic discourse
Understanding the tunes and tones and mini-tones
Of the conversations went through the ether
Did they get to your heart?
Or was mine electrified by the essence that you had brought?
Each moment seemed drunk quickly deep
Which was full of what? I do not know
But I recall or do not let it reached by oblivion
Each moment was full with the juice of summer’s springs
Indeed I saw and touched and felt the warmth
I saw you the way I only could
The way a farmer sees the moon
Through the branches of the trees in a moonlit night
I touched the presence of your soul
And I felt the eloquence of your mind
Time passed while the hearts got tuned
Without any medication or engineering
You touched me deep where a dream was born
You lifted something in me that was to be my home soon
2
Talk and listen we did a lot
As if that’s what there was to be done
Time got drunk by our desert hearts
Getting ready to water a garden blooming with green
The garden that was Eden alone
Came to visit my flat and the park
The very trifling part by the horrible railway line
Seemed majestic green filled with dew of past night’s frost
Life seemed something of a rhythmic exercise
Standing on the balcony of the flat side by side
Heart beats mingled together in the intimate air
Looks in our eyes had a language of their own
As soon we had a language that no one understood
There was that song I had the tune for
That was the song for you to sing
A very special tune for you to mime
A time of our own when ours was the world
As if it was a vase full with our roses blossomed in our dreams
And we looked at the vase and the roses
Oh how we tasted the scent in the air
Touching your hands meant I was reaching the realm
Where I could only be amazed by the beauty of butterflies
Where I could only be entertained by the rhythm of passing springs
Where I could only be happy to call out your name for no reason at all
You looked at me as if to say you could see inside
And to mean you could understand me
Which was like a sudden urge to run wild
And I looked through you the transparency
The Onion Round and Brown
The disciple sits beside his teacher
Under the time beaten tree
And waits for the apples
That he calls knowledge
He waits for the apples
That do not fall
“Here, take the onion, my son!”
The teacher said with a deep rooted voice
“Go home my child!
This is your life!”
“This brown and round thing!
A roughly made sphere
And as dry as a stone
Carrying the sounds of deserts!”
The disciple looks at it
Covering it with his disbelief as a wrapper!
“An onion round and brown!
This cannot be life!
Life cannot be brown and round!
Dry as deserts
Carrying the sounds of dead leaves and rocks!
Life cannot be a hurriedly made ball!”
The disciple thought
The disciple walks with a dry and shrunk heart
His disappointed hand holds
The onion that is brown and round
He looks with a puzzle in his throat
He wonders and begins to peel
Peel the brown skin
And saw a silver sparkling all the way round
Soft and tangy that radiates a smell
Does not look as though that is life
The disciple thought
“An onion silver and round!
Could it be a mixture of silver and green?
Layer upon layer the onion goes
It goes deeper and deeper
As though he was digging an archaeological site!
This cannot be life!”
The disciple thought
He peeled and he peeled until he reached the end!
Where is the life he was looking?
Where is the onion he was peeling?
Where is the onion round and brown?
Where is the life that was like the onion?
The disciple thought
Then he turned round like a boomerang
Angry as a violated snake
He walked back towards his teacher
He wanted to ask him all these questions
He had no rights to misguide him like that!
The disciple thought
You said the onion was like life
There was no life in that brown round thing
There is no onion either after I peeled it
What is the onion? And where was it then?
And the final question is this: where is the life
You told me like the onion!
The angry disciple stopped
My son! Anger is not good
Not very good for your health
We’ll talk when you had little rest
Let’s go for a walk by the river
Recite me a poem my son!
Or sing a song little song
A War is Always a Crime
Thunderous hill storms of falling bombs and missiles
The horrendous ear shattering sound-storms
Under the nightmare of shock and awe
Baghdad stood mute gathering the blood
What were the congressmen and women
Doing in the state? Had they lent their minds
To the lunatics of the worst kind of all human times?
Heavens shattered and shivered in disbelief
With the cries of woken up babies
Crying and bleeding and dying
While their eardrums went numb and pregnant women
Miscarried in terror while Baghdad counted lightening and thunder
As if the eight hells gone lose over the skies of Iraq?
What was Mr Bush thinking at Camp David?
Was he talking to his Buddy Blair about the fire works
That the American forces could produce!
Just war! A war! Just!
A war has always been and always will be
A crime of the worst kind?
A crime against green grass of time
Against the singing birds and flowing rivers
Against the statue of liberty and against the British Houses of Parliament
A war has always been and always will be
A crime against life
Against babies and women and infirm and sick and elderly?
Against music and melodies
Against this very face one is ready to die to protect
Against the rainbow and fluttering butterflies
Against the swinging trees that bend in dancing rhythm
While spring wind comes with invitations of joy
The dead soldiers whether
Born of Iraqi mothers’ wombs or American
They are dead, killed, murdered. Full stop!
Wiped off like writings on blackboard!
They were not chalk writings on blackboards!
Mr Bush there is no pride in getting sons and daughters
Carried in body bags even if covered in American flags
What is an American flag? Does it not look black?
Mourning for the brave dead Americans killed by their
Imbecile misguided money-bought leaders?
Shame on these killers wherever they are
Shame even more if they live on the land
Of the Statue of liberty and
We the people! Shame to the criminals!
Criminals who commit the worst of all crimes
Murdering people "us" and "them"
For there is no us and them in a rainbow
One colour is taken out and the rainbow bleeds to death
To Read the
Following Poems Follow the Links
The
Inner Phantom
I
Search for the Myth of Life
Like
a Blown Kiss
Rainbow
Lady
East
Grinstead
Epyllion
Circularity
of Our Understanding
Playing
I do with Words
I’m
no Macbeth
The
Straight Line Theory
Keep
Falling Starlike
Slaves
of None
Through
the Window
In
the End
Theory
of Spin
A
House of Clouds in the Sky
The
Bud Dramatics
Sizzling
To
Read More of Munayem Mayenin's Poetry
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The
Poet's Metaphor
A delicate soft and silent yellow butterfly
Landing softly
As the moon rises up in the evening's face
As a silver beauty spot sparkling
As bright as the summer sun
As alive as a swaying sunflower in the spring
Landing on a dew-kissed diamond yellow rose
The breeze stood still
And wondered
The sparkling green grass offered their ears
To listen to the music of the fluttering wings
Of the yellow butterfly
On a yellow rose
(Clouded Yellow: Colias Crocea)
Photo: http://www.paul.wetton.care4free.net/b5.html
The rose and the butterfly
Creating a velvet music
With the orchestra of silence being played
By the slow moving wind
Camouflaging each other
People do not see them
The music floats unheard
This is the metaphor of a poet
That lives behind the skin's hardened wall
That lives wrapped in the unheard music
In the metaphor that is camouflaged
The Rose Has No Name
A rose
red
bleeding?
or beating my heart?
A rose
with no name
embroidered in
crystal sands of
dusty and dry waves
A rose
sparkling and crystal water drops
marked the rhythm
bleeding or beating
my heart
A rose
name it or not
always
bleeds or beats
is there a reason?
A rose
a rhythm
a reason
bleeds or beats
across the shores
waves fall dying
calling for a name
A rose
name it or not
always sparkles
sunshine or clounds
always hides
that no one should see
Ought They
Poison My Soul
The park in
late summer
Early evening seemed
Abandoned
And the air was thin and dry yet sad
Walking beneath the avenues of trees
Standing like saints in selective mute
Weak and weary gust of wind came by
As though concerned not to disturb
The vows of silence the trees were holding
I felt a sorrow of a sinner
Walking by the victims of the crime
And my head bowed in guilt
I stood and stared at the trees dead green and mute
The dead green leaves covered with grey dirt
As though the dust and dusty fumes dancing
On them their maddening dance
And left over residue of burnt out oils and patrol
Of cars and lorries and fish and chips and tandoori take aways
The trees looked like recently made widows
Wearing grey sarees in an Indian village
I wondered what these mute trees would say to me?
What would they say to me?
And I was alarmed
They would have lots to say
Which I would not like to hear
Or I may not have the hearing tune at all
To tune into their mute language!
I walked sad and apologetic like a thief
As though I was walking away from the police
Having committed a crime and praying that I just make it
I walked away sad and mute
And my head bowed in guilt
I took a lot of breaths
And I felt more apologetic to the trees
The poisonous air the dirt and dirty dust consumed air
I inhaled was bearable for the mute trees
And I had something to do with making them widows
Wearing grey sarees in an Indian village!
I felt the lowest of the low in my rock-like heart
Because it is dead and had to
To be marching along with the city rats
Yet I felt the silence and mute vibration of the trees
So upbeat and loud that I could not take it
I walked hurriedly trying to disappear fast
Like a guilt-trodden man!
The trees the forced mute trees still standing in the parks
Where the fumes land its bombs
Where cars and lorries deposit their man made waste
Where rain deposit toxic water
And where we poison the very friend that keeps us alive
Trees I left in the park
Yet they became two question marks in my two little eyes
That were hurting as I had some sandy dust thrown in
Ought they poison my soul?
These widow-like trees dusty and dry?
The mute trees sad and poisoned?
Well they did and I bled!
May be just to feel good about myself!
Yet I claim I am the best!
The man! The substance of arrogance hollow?
The Son of Eternity
Touch the wet air freshened by the raindrops of the day
And feel the silence frozen by moment’s eternity
Oh! Moment! The son of eternity!
I wish I had written this poem on the sky with clouds
And kissed you on the Moon
Oh! Eternity dancing on my hands
And the glory of time I drink!
All the currencies that the world has got
All the money they make
I will give you all and in a cash transaction
Can you bring back the days and nights
That I drunk in Athena or Babylon?
Or the scarlet kisses that went floating
As a procession of relaxed stars on the river of time!
You can’t-so for God’s sake
Don’t tell me to worship your money-god
The bastard son of human time!
Let me be as though I do not exist in your world!
Time has its geography
Overcoming means eternity
What you may not grasp
For you measured your life
In rolled up dirty notes of dollars
When I feel when I kiss and when I sing
And when I hold the universe in my heart
I am way beyond your filthy touch
And I reign as the son of eternity
(Second Collection:
The Son of Eternity)
Yet a Butterfly Still Stuck in My Throat
The council blocks of flats
Stand
Ruthless silence hangs over them
Like the air over a coffin being followed to the graveyard
People like deaf and dumb bumble bees stay within these walls
Days mean a way time turns to nights
And nights a way time turns to days back again
Perpetual purposelessness shines through
Dreamless hollow eyes of living skinned skeletons of men
Directionless heavy footsteps of light living dead souls of men
Disappear by the pubs or the bookies
Around Bethnal Green
The Green Land Grocers sells groceries
To people of colours hated by the enraged colourless or white
The old traditional graffiti still reads under the staircase
“Not for Irish, Black and Dogs”
Yet London bids for Olympic and regeneration bids made
Politicians stand and get elected for more service to the people
Where hatred grew like mosquitoes in the dirty filthy marshlands
Where malaria epidemic spreads its deadly arms deep inside
Of human minds
Hatred grew on hatred
Minds die on minds
Where humanity is
Nothing but deaf and dumb half slaughtered lamb
Can not die yet dying all the time
Can not live yet dying all the time
Can not grow yet bleeding all the time
The city gets heavy
Night clubs and pubs
Parties and dances
Fashionable music and drugs
And all the gears
And chicks and birds and broads
Regardless the Thames flows as if Buddha of the night
By Westminster bridge
Counting the stars in the sky
The last one far away
“Is that Nirvana?”
What are you talking about!
I can not breathe
I am deaf and dumb half slaughtered lamb
Can not die yet dying all the time
Can not live yet dying all the time
Can not grow yet bleeding all the time
Yet a butterfly still stuck in my throat
Yet a rainbow still hangs by my neck
Yet I hold a dove of a dawn between my hands
Yet I have a song to let go into the infinite sky
(Second Collection:
The Son of Eternity)
When The Hurly Burly Is Done
BBC bet failed
And battles are lost and won
If one asks of Shakespeare
For his three witches’ verdict
Not now rather
When the hurly-burly’s done
When bloods are thickened
And lives resemble ghosts
Yet the question trembles
Like a thin net curtain
In the windy winter’s open window
Who was murdered?
King Duncan?
Or was it somebody else?
Having done the
Calculations
Having done
Lord Huttoning
We finalised the truth
BBC bet had to fail
For meek and amicable
Colour was white
To cover all the other graffiti off the walls
Yet the question
Like a sharp double edged knife
Running around like the ghost of the knife
That murdered King Duncan in the hands
Of Lady Macbeth at night
Saddam Hussain
Or the holder of WMD
Disposed of with thanks
Channelling trillions of dollars
Of contractual bliss to American woods
The woods that were yellow and dry
Who looks at the edge
Easy to be pushed
Without being seen?
Those shadowy guys?
Push them down
CIA or MI6 who gives a damn!
Yet the question
Remains washing the blood
Off the bloody hands of
Distorted Lady Macbeth
Why did things
The blood and bombs
And the shock and awe
The massacres and destructions
Why did things
Became hell over Baghdad
Why Iraqi blood became as
Worthless as American blood
Whose children are killed?
In Iraqi clothes or American uniforms?
Does it matter at all?
Well let us have our meal
With the champagne and wine
While Lord Huttoning
Gets the British Charcoal clean
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