Best Immobility Poems
I am the environmentalist in love with wine,
my shoulders carry and reside in the cutting edge side of life,
the establishment craves to be the human race
while I stroll the memories of “Sailor fields”
amongst ancient Jurassic stone.
Is this! The only way for me?
My saline tears run freely now a days,
it’s time that governs one’s sentiment,
no doubt the plague of waiting relates to this.
What! Of the future,
hey , i want to forget about futuristic wars,
may be the media are in gross error of judgment?
I’m told I’m only a little man, at last now I know why I’m the
one that society chastises every day,
Why this mortal flame in constant combat becomes
life’s tomb stone around my neck.
To feel freedom, another swig so my lacklustre eyes again become stimulated
as the view overcomes my immobility and bids farewell, to the great lady
that glides portly on the outgoing tide.
Curse this elemental wind
that curls in from the east,
“Mother” i cry
“Is this the clarity of our beginning.” the start of all this crap,
as astringent thoughts flow through my urban bucolic mind,
seeing or feeling nothing of the moment, only a repeat of the actions of many insensitive men,
those that flourish, those that sentiment cannot stain those that walk tallest amongst men;
because they were hungry for appurtenance.
I remember well , in the far off lea of my mind,
down on the farm thousands of miles away across the Pacific,
where enamel clashed against concrete
there , where foolhardy dreams were dashed,.
when the heart pursued
the warm flesh , she that gave her
reflection to the swan song
of an innocence.
Alas should one be compelled to expire
as one would, a chardonnay basking in the hot sunshine?
Should one fall foul of a politically correct society
that , outside of one’s comfort zone,
because one feels , want , in choleric veins?
Even the sullen white cross, dotted upon the highways
become burning embers, a constant reminiscence,
an emotional monument to many inhibited memories.
Yet I beg this deportment shows me a realization,
that death is imminent,
so why this perpetual waiting, this constant urge,
for this vein dependency to be infringed upon ???
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Oblong outlines of a soul
Stretched in elliptical misery
Redefines the perfect circle
To a breakable volatile tautness
Loosely cloaked in sheaths of epitonic blue
Draped upon the shrinking body to hide a terrified world
Dressed in swirling ominous patterns of anonymity
To be lost within the deepest abyss of fatal fear
Planted like a tenuous girder of iron truth
On a bridge of no return
There is no departure from excruciating fear
From this wicked self-imposed poltergeist
An unseen force deliberates death
Smothering with tremulous trepidation
Annihilating the essence of existence
With no bond found on common ground
There lies the secret
Within the mystery of a soul’s distress
The exorcism of human strength
As fear brings the will of life to a standstill
7-12-2023
Solitude:
Distressful
Afflictive
Merciless
Unbearable solitude,
When you are present, Time immobile remains,
And
Each second an eternity of intolerable
Suffering becomes.
At such moments,
We implore Time to advance,
To accelerate its pace,
To hurry up
For
The next second
The next minute
The next hour
The next day to come,
So as
The pain to decrease,
Our agony to lessen,
And us to be liberated from distress,
From our affliction and from
Our ordeal
But Time – a sadist- unmoved stays,
Mocking us
And
Instead of picking up speed, it is
Dragging its leaden feet, enjoying thus itself With
Our perpetual torture,
Hence, we,
Disappointed by Time's unhurried stance,
Absorbed by its immobility,
Let ourselves sink deeper and deeper into our hopelessness,
Till we reach the deepest point of
Our being,
A place void of all thoughts,
Of absolute silence and of intense
Anguish!
At that point
We wish:
To shout
To scream
To yell
To howl
But
No voice is possible to be heard.
No one is there to listen to our call of distress.
And then
In the darkest hour of solitude,
At the culminating point of desolation,
When we thought all is lost, we realize to our surprise that
We are not alone,
WE WERE NEVER ALONE!
A tenant is there with us,
A tenant, beyond the limits of ourselves,
Of our understanding,
Of our awareness,
A tenant who looks at us with affection
With compassion and most of all
With love,
Unconditional love,
True Love,
Yes, it is HIM
The only ONE
HE who was there before us
And
Will be here into eternity
After we are gone:
GOD HIMSELF!
We look at His Holy visage, and we discern an
Apologetic expression for
Having put us through this tribulation to be able to make
HIS presence to us, is known!
He had tried before to approach us on many occasions,
During the period of our good fortune,
Of our successes and our achievements
But
We had ignored HIS calls at that time,
You see, we didn’t need any help then,
For
We thought every achievement of ours
Was our doing
We had the erroneous notion that
Everything was under our firm control
And that
We were INVINCIBLE
But
Now we know better for He has
Revealed to us the truth!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
19 January 2021
sunrise rushes eyes
taut from night of sleepy dreams…
clumsy fingers pry
hard floor limbers feet
stiff from immobility…
quick run to bathroom
java perks real strong
black as the ebony night…
cold bran cereal
movement is real slow
old feet and knees start to ache…
tenacious treadmill
eyelids wide open
embracing daily house chores…
anticipating
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
August 24, 2011
Eighth Place Winner ~ "Morning, noon, or night senryus” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: France Roberts
Sept. 20, 2011
In my imagination,
My vision encapsulates
Dusk’s parting darkness,
and silver clouds appearing between,
dull twinkling stars.
As night melts to early February morn,
the moon lies half hidden in the dormant skies.
As the morning moon shines,
A murder of lies
And a swarm of fleas,
Shadow box with their own reflections
A dark fog looms around,
Smoke and dark clouds fill up the skies.
As morn melts and noon sets in,
The mango tree on my lawn,
Deepens its shadow,
In the slushy red soil ,
the night rains has sapped out.
The black mirrored Goan roads,
sans pot holes,
Lie gleaming, as the sun chases the skies,
and drags out the shadows without bigotry.
There is no immobility in the air,
but the green ponds reflect,
the blue skies…..
the sea gulls pick up,
spilled refuse,
and the sun is nowhere to be seen.
birds and bees,
trees and leaves,
the skies and the waters,
the winds and the vibrant uneven mounds of earths,
they play pantomime ,
with each other.
The melancholies of my life,
and the songs they sing,
flow out of me,
to shed away my shadows.
as emerges from within the lies and the fleas,
one final time for fleeing……………
Joys descend upon me,
and so noiselessly subtle I feel.
like the dried mango leaf that floats,
on the languid wings of the moist air.
As the sun sets,
Large portions of the tangerine
and the orange,
the skies have soaked and absorbed
The blueness still reigns supreme in the winter skies,
as I look beyond my room,
a pigeon settles on my window sill,
Your peck on my cheeks,
and warm whiffs of brewed coffee,
cast aside from my dreamy eyes,
dismantling dream time
and slumber land rhymes.
another day in the drama of my life unfolds,
and I exit from that time……
with time in my enduring and timeless pursuit
of a happy life…………
another day I begin………..
I Have a Serious Case Of... (how the title SUPPOSED to look!!!)
Boredom.
Ennui.
Tedium.
Apathy.
Disinterest.
Indifference.
Lethargy.
Monotony.
Dullness.
Lassitude.
Listlessness.
Repetitiveness (repetitiveness).
Incuriosity.
Jadedness.
Disregard.
Immobility.
Unfocussed.
Distraction.
Disinclination.
Aversion.
Avoidance.
Discontentment…
… or just plain “cannot be arsed”!
From hunting comes
From hunting drums
From hunting hums
All bright stars
Near and far
In New York or Trafalgar
Those stars in skyscrapers
Those dazzling gold vapours
The government shapers
The controller of all papers
All go on hunting
And keep counting
And measuring sometimes too
In the treasury
Keep your eyes open
The lids may shut up
Keep the cup wide
You will see everywhere
Ensnaring unaware
The tiger killing the helpless deer
Deer who love destiny
Who worship deities
Members of the laity
Dependent on goddesses and gods
In their odds
Fall very easy prey
To the hunters obsessional play
Their God has no say
In the decay
By hunters in dust they lay
Shrunk tottering mewing aching
Finally breaking down
Into the absolute immobility
Thanks to the myriad kinds
Of the guns of the hunters behind
I perk up my ear
In the civilized forest
And hear the guns
Nuns and monks are in readiness for nursing
Churches mosques temples towering for services
What a grace
My every molecule encapsulated in attention
Hears the sound of the gun
And feels the consequent death
The blue sky we love so much laughs nonetheless
The ground underneath
Is moistened in crimson red
Black velvet
First hunt the doe, a decoy
Leopards and tigers follow in joy
We are all pretty toy
In the hands of the hunters
We look on in wonder
Of grandeur of the capital
Take or surrender
You may grunt
Fruitlessly
Willy Nilly
You have to join the hunt
____________________________________________________________
30/10/2016
Not for contest since the lines have exceeded the stipulated limit which I failed to notice when I first read the contest details.
Carlos Bousono’s poem : Recordando a pastora imperio
for Damaso Alonso
(Poem published in the collection : Metaphora del desafuero, 1988, and dedicated
to Damaso Alonso, who exerted on Carlos Bousono an avowed influence and
patronage, concludes my own present tribute to the Maître. I confess I had not
read Bousono’s poems – I may have glanced at a couple of poems when I first
bought the Espasa-Calpe anthology some years ago – before I began translating
them on October 16, 2013.)
I have always thought that in the state of sudden immobility
of the immemorial dancer of flamenco the entire dance
is concentrated of a sudden in this posture
of an instant,
under the weight of centuries,
all of its foregoing agitation,
in such a way as in its absolute fixation is to be found
its passing and its minute ad mysterious simulation :
the flight of sea gulls over the sea, their avid and sudden swoop
onto the prey,
and she herself, the flamenco dancer herself, becomes in that instant,
like the form most refined and pure
of such an incomprehensible paradox : velocity and paralisation,
becoming more dense in the procès
between Aquiles and parsimony,
or the tortoise and despair…
No, there is no différence,
because to differentiate hère is to make a descent,
while here there is but an ascent.
And has the flamenco dancer understood suddenly
that to make a move
is an intolerable imperfection
for whoever aspires to the most arduous achievement,
to the supreme compromise with the fire in the beyond
and the surprise, sacred and full of rejoicing between
the fresh flames,
a compromise, then,
with the truth of the highest form of living,
and so the dancer of flamenco
remained for this reason without moving
in a difficult equilibrium
to see if that position, without touching it,
in not moving any of the pièces,
without turning a page, without causing the hinges to friction,
could by chance last, keep enduring there,
on the razor’s edge,
maintain itself on the head of a pin’s unlikely verticality,
balance itself on tip-toes, without breathing, each instant
succeeding the other,
on the verge of the abysm itself,
earth and boulders coming loose,
and one after another in succession, and in succession…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
It started with just a hint of smoke,
A whiff that made the nostrils flare,
But raised no alarm.
It was fanned by every little slight
And look
And broken promise
And critical word.
No one noticed
When it finally caught.
The smolder now a flame
Licking up the wall
Of our lives.
It was tame,
Controllable.
Safe.
But it spread.
It snaked its way
Through each member
And no one seemed
To realize
How it rotted flesh
And poisoned air.
It blistered
And peeled way
Our dreams
Our hopes
Leaving scars
And immobility
In its wake.
Walking cadavers
In a gutted world.
The trembling thumb of threatening thunder
Strikes silvery shimmering of silken sludge
And adjoins an arch on alter of an afforest.
It inverts insipid immobility of irrationality.
Through the stagnant waters
Of an old mirror I looked
Darkness quilted with fragments
A face that was once serene.
Within complete immobility of limbs
An urge tried to beckon
From sulphurious waters in yoke
An illumination within soul’s quest.
I know of a wing fluttering
Lost in abyss of mundane denizen
Superhuman effort to break seal
Sheltered by ghosts in the unknown.
Letter after letter
I imposed on your heart my will to love
Affection became sentences I still serve
Periodless
Upon the evening table of supper
And the morning counter of tea
Where loneliness impales me more
Each moment with you.
Letter after letter
You will begin to understand paragraphs
Of my history
Collapsing during my sentence
Into words of grief.
The envelope is a prison for each meaning
Of each word you read.
To let them stay there
Without proceedings from your heart
Is the genesis of tears.
Letter after letter
Promise upon promise piles
And your immobility
Convinces me you speak another language
Or cannot read
What so plain your heart has placed before your eyes
And though illiterate
Shall my love not be spelt the same
Abandonment of self
For you whose history is abandoning promise
And breaking bonds
Where an envelope is sealed.
Letter after letter
You will come one day with nothing to day
There will be no cable for the bills are unpaid
There will be television or radio
For the same reason
You will see sunlight for a season
And sit under a tree
You will open my letters to page upon page of your heart
And you will cipher words
And then meaning of memory -
Memory will be important for reading is discovery
And letter after letter
Your tears will flow for time
And then for a second of your sigh
You shall know me by my love for you.
Lemon and reef sharks
Upside down, enter tonic
Immobility
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature-4.php
Discovered: Two Ibis at the edge of the lake
in compatible company of four Canadian Geese
who've absented the gaggle of twenty or more,
daily in command of our grassy slope where they
come to feed, settle on the benevolent breast
of the lawn, or else, the parking lot's warm asphalt,
arrogantly in possession against arriving cars
whose occupants carefully maneuver around them,
respecting those as residential as they, birds
bedded down, wedded in marriage to salt water
and fresh. There's a light filled sky of deep
purity, its mystery unveiled, clarity after grayed
days of misty rain, fog that sandbags the soul
(that which we're told is immortal) --
Then, at next watch, they've vanished. Their
presence as temporal as our lives, leaving only
a memory of how they stood in juxtaposition
against the silence and immobility of windless
water. The generosity of sea birds deigning kin-
ship to migrants who stood their ground.
Within your illumination
Happiness and tranquility
Blessed with a possibility
An enchanting temptation
Ruins of fortification,
Shackles of my immobility
Transformed to vulnerability
Seizing offered jubilation
Within your lasting melody
Purity and affection
Abolishing my barricade
Embraced in your serenity
Eternal bliss, my protection
Freed to glow by your serenade