While reading Derrida
Shards and shreds
are my puzzler mind,
Tears and tatters
are my body’s rind.
Shards and shreds
are my cups of mesh for milk..
Tears and tatters
weave my fabric of holes for wholes.
Ask me to pour tea
in the pieced-up cup
There it runs out
spoiling my trousers and shirt.
When I put my body
in my Sunday best
It undresses me rather
leaking my nakedness.
8 comments:
Was it a poem that i read???????
Won't the muses curse the poet(?)??????????????
Poetry! how brutally you're raped!!!!!!!!!!
The poet(?) should try writing shopping details...........
Please mercy on poetry.........
Sometimes I wonder what kind of mouse is 'anonymous'. To me it looks like a degenerate dock-tailed rodent (without the terminal vowel or his swaddle towel), some inchoate imbecile crestfallen subspecies with hair gelled flat down like his own irredeemable drooping desire. But he's night in night out eating his heart out over his smouldering desire that will never make it to be the conflagration of a healthy human. He often ends up beating his meat (mea culpa!). He is a fantasist whose perception of extreme violence is rape, for his weak member is being continually fancifully honed on the sole and whole thought of sex.(He thinks of raping GENTLY,AFFECTIONATELY, not 'brutally'.) I choose this non-critical rhetoric because Anonymous gesticulates and froths at the mouth with an overkill of invectives, expletives and interrogatives, and eventually tapers off,trills off and drifts away.Measure for measure!
But I try to construct the identity of this hoo-ha oaf from his bloody bumf and rotten effluvious effluence.
1. Anonymous couldn't be a Japanese, for he writes in English and muses on rape.(In Japan women are notorious that way).He is a quasi-mal(e)like his docked tail.
2. Anonymous could be fervently religious, for he's a forbidding fellow like an emasculated magus wounded in sex and tends to irresistibly fall on his knees in tearful prayer for the safe keeping of the fair sex infinite in all direction.
3. This Anonymous is certainly a grocery shop mouse, for he can't conceive (seedless lime!) of anything but a shopping list. One could image him as a starving squeak incantating a list of choice grocery items at his hourly masturbatory ritual over his heart-eating sexual fantasies.
Now I'd like to answer Anonymous's earnest, heart-rending questions.
Ans. to Q.1
No. You didn't read any poem. You'd just confronted the Chinese Wall, which you couldn't surmount, how could you, indeed?.
Ans. to Q.2
No,she won't because I sleep with her.(My, my! I thought there was only one muse for poetry in classical literature. How could you gather so many of them into a zenanah turned harem in the crisis of your impotency? You've taken your unquenchable, ineffectual lust to that limit? Your fantasy is unsparing but your disability is beyond cure or repair! Don't you understand, you bonehead, airhead, dud, nincompoop! Why do you caress yourself to such thoughtless self-violence ending in a helpless roar? Shame on you, Anonymous! You also cherish such a heinous unearthly dream of earthly luxury. They're waiting for you in full nudity in the next world, you pathetic celebate! Arabs would hound you, and you'd be found out, stoned and decapitated! You've no fear from me, though! I won't turn you in. But I think poetry is too much for you,and surely doing you a bad turn. DON'T READ POETRY. IT'S NAUGHTY! IT'S NASTY AND SNOOTY TOWARDS YOU! Aai, haai! Shorbonash! God help you!)
Ans. to the Apostrophe.
I'm S-O-R-R-R-RY! Please don't shed so many copious tears lest they should think your mom were violated 'brutally' under your useless eyes. I'm sorry, namby-pamby cry ba(m)by!
As for your appeal for mercy, I shall try to consider it and wait until your appetite for poetry becomes your nightmare. Ok, sissy!
Now this write-up is THE poetry for YOU, and "My Wardrobe and Utensil" you aren't worthy of.
Tra-la-la.....
Sorry for my comments although you've showered me with insults. You haven't even spared my mother. I criticised your poem, though i wasn't eligible for it. But you insulted my mother. However, sorry again. In spite of your tormenting remarks, i've developed a kind of respect for you. You're a scholar and i'm no match for you. If you're an ocean, i'm only a single drop of water. I haven't even prepared myself for reading poetry let alone criticising it. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Please forgive me and delete my comments.Thank you.
It's ok but you got me wrong: I didn't say anything about your real mother. I'd just said that people might misread your unbridled passion and weening and dissolution in unreasonable tears. 'lest' is the cautionary word I,therefore, used to stand clear of this misunderstanding.
I'm always ready to entertain criticism that helps to correct me.But your expressions went over all civil limits that required almost some kind of bodily self-defense. I just tried to achieve it in the reply. 'Good criticism is directed not upon the poet but upon the poetry,'says Eliot in "The Tradition and the Individual Talent". This is one of the touchstones we need to check with always. I do appreciate you, though, to have read my poem at all.
No bad blood henceforth!
All the best.
Thank you very much. You've shown me new light and new directions. Sorry once again for my over-enthusiastic so called criticism.It's really a relief that there'll no more be any ill-feeling henceforth.Thank you once again and best of luck.
As i suppose that the initial hassles are over by now, i'd like to disclose a fact to you. To be honest with you, i was just trying to know how you react to harsh and severe criticism(?) regarding your works and how confident and passionate you are about your works. I came to know that Rabindranath used to write a whole book anonymously in reaction to any harsh criticism regarding his works. You were, however, not an exception. And your reactions introduced me with your sheer talent. You've got not only a critical but also a creative soul. And to be honest with you i liked your poems though everything wasn't within my poor understanding. Please don't confine your writings in blogs only and do publish them so that people like me can refine and redefine their taste. Best of luck.
I'm impressed by your writing. But you put me to blush by ranking me with Tagore, a name to conjure with.To be frank, I need to write far more before I can be called a poet. I'm still far, far from this title. Besides, there's more freedom in being a private poet than a public bard. I don't want to write as a matter of public obligation if it isn't a genuine inner call.Isn't there more liberty in escaping definition, in Eliot's words "a formulated phrase"?
All the best.
I should digg your article so more folks can look at it, really useful, I had a tough time finding the results searching on the web, thanks.
- Murk
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