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The Suspended Mountain

He who makes understands the scheme well,
The working riddles and amazing mysteries,
But the observers become stunned, tongue-tied,
On finding all rules of wisdom suspended.

Wanderlust led me to the ground of wonder,
Where placed I was a slight afar,
Out of the simple scattered houses,
Built on the uneven hard land of pebbles.
A huge mountain suspended in the air,
Above those silent serene dwellings,
Perplexed me and my sense of logic.

The bulky phenomenon stood above,
Unpropped or without supporting pillars,
In the space not more than miles two;
Seemed all shining, dignified dark grey,
Composed of a single rising rock.
The ceiling plain, the front glimmering rough,
Glistened, reflected dim light to the west;
With no vegetation, trees and swaying tufts.
Elegant peaks rose higher than Himalayan’s,
Invincible, too precipitous to be climbed.

Strolled I and roved about the town,
Fearing lest the lurking object should fall.
On the way I found a few men in the street,
Declined I the offer unknowingly of the two,
Then turned aside and found an old sage,
Mild, gentle with bearings of a saint,
Distributing the passes to each passerby,
Bestowed he me one on which, “Muhammad”,
The most sacred name was inscribed.

Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensations and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them, revealing mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded myself from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Giant

Often my mind baffles,
And the stock of wisdom ends,
When I think with wonder upon
The amazingly perplexing figure.

I found on the alien ground,
A giant-like being in the size full,
Sitting with graceful posture,
Whose face, each curve and crease,
Resembled mine as if I were,
His portrait small or He were mine,
But much larger, giant-like in dimension.

Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Fuelling Arms

Nothing except wonder you behold,
Sitting among the modifiers of fate,
Radiating warmth, light of faith,
Transmitting through thin thread,
Heart to heart with ethereal link.

They throw you high into the sky,
Like a fettle falcon ready to fly.
Flight takes you to the world strange,
On the landing spots, you often find,
The same sacred hands anxious to receive,
The fueling arms open wide,
Ready to embrace, infuse the power,
For further journey to the higher skies.

Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Speed

To exaggerate is not the work of man,
I tell you fact, neither more or less
What incredible feelingly I did behold,
When my ethereal self was returning,
From the journey long, during the flight
Rested a while in front of a mansion,
Entered straight into it and saw,
The secret diligent hands busy at work,
The young servants unaware of indolence,
Preparing the records on the scrolls.

In the very spacious hall was a heap
Of books with crippled pages, brown and old,
As the rains had spoiled them all.
Took then I a few to read the lines,
But the ancient words made them mysterious,
And I could not make out a word single.

Then one who seemed to be the master of house,
Looked with displeasure, I put them down;
And finding no reverence I came out of the door.
Then looked I to the sky and wondering beheld,
A huge sun emitting glaring radiance,
Washing the blue of those cosmic spheres.

Then curiosity raised a question in the mind,
And I prayed to God to resolve the mystery,
“What is the speed of ethereal self? ”

While looking up a downward jerk I felt,
The huge radiant sun became a star,
Like a little dot that shines at night,
With remote thin dying gleam of glow.

Another sudden jolt swayed me down again,
Place me beneath on the strange landing,
Wherefrom I found the distant star vanished.
It was an answer to my unabating doubts,
“The distances beams travel in the years,
The fueled souls leap in a span very short.”

Then one who seemed to be the master of house,
Looked with displeasure, I put them down,
And finding no reverence I came out of the door.
Then looked I to the sky and wondering beheld,
A huge sun emitting glaring radiance,
Washing the blue of those cosmic spheres.

Then curiosity raised a question in the mind,
And I prayed to God to resolve the mystery,
“What is the speed of ethereal self? ”

While looking up a downward jerk I felt,
The huge radiant sun became a star,
Like a little dot that shines at night,
With remote thin dying gleam of glow.

An other sudden jolt swayed me down again,
Place me beneath on the strange landing,
Wherefrom I found the distant star vanished.
It was an answer to my unabating doubts,
“The distances beams travel in the years,
The fueled souls leap in a span very short.”

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Shambling Fellow

I neither smoke nor drink sippingly,
Nor eat sweeping essence of flowering puppies,
Nor ever tasted the potion of hemp green,
Nor I have cancerous tumors in the brain.

I was thrown from the lofty zones,
Down deep headlong into the dungeon,
Dark narrow subterranean round cave,
Darker it grew at each moment of the down fall,
And journeying against the culminating heights.

Beholding behind nothing except horror I felt,
Only I could see a circular patch of the blue sky,
Then the dark channel began tuning at last,
To the right with imperceptible slow bend,
And I soon came out gasping of the deep tunnel.

In front then I saw the houses small and white,
Painted not afresh, extended left and right,
Numerous congested like a city inhabited thickly,
Smokeless, clear and with no profanity of the noise,
Tranquil like village in the days of harvest.

Like a swallow I darted from roof to roof
With light movements,
Much speedier than the flight of a hawk,
And soon I saw a slim tall damsel standing,
Awaiting, anxious in the middle of a yard,
Beside the two children, playing in silence.

Ah! Then a sable thought confounded my heart,
And irresolute frail mind with weak intents;
Overpowered by immodest possessing lust,
And with overhasty dart, suspending the sense of piety,
I made an instant leap to realize the desire.

Landed in the yard, subduing shrieking voices,
In front of those deep blue inviting eyes,
And red-brown face wreathed with smiles,
I seized her from the arm left; she turned the face aside,
Stretching a thin covering of gauze between.

Then whispered she a secret blushingly,
A thing hopeful, indicating my own woeful follies,
“Be not impatient, restless, no one would step,
Into the yard, though very small,
Immodest longings cause decline headlong,
Spoiling life long endeavours to rise.”

When this broke I felt ashamed on finding,
Stinging serpents and devouring dragons,
Biting into the neck of my shambling fellow,
In rags, drooping with feeble faltering legs,
Wriggling in vain to uncatch the firm grips.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Three Suns

The sooty hands guide to the black lands,
Where eyed and uneyed do become equal,
And the victims swell priding upon blindness.
How should I praise the Laudable Lord,
Who made me explore the worlds distant,
Where wisdom willingly weeps but love leaps,
When finds opened amazing truths ahead.

Standing at the base of a mountain high,
Saw I the erect tops kissing the skies
That cast thick shade extending to the west;
Grey rocks were bare yet vegetated it was,
With the tall trees and grass green.

Neither hot nor cold was the climate,
As we feel in the month of March,
In the plain of five flowing waters,
Freshening minds of the depressed souls,
After awakening from the trance of winter.

In front to the west scene enchanted me well,
The tops were clad with the forest dense,
As the northern peaks wear green covering,
The idle clouds floated with the slow move,
Some dark, some were like flakes of cotton,
Still un-ravished by the touch filthy hands,
As monsoon winds drift in the month of August;
Passed through being fondled with the gentle waft,
Some clang still against the rising tops,
Seemed whispering the secret brought from
The world above, high up, to impart.

Stunned was I to find the seasons four
Of Indian plains, blended into one great,
Behind the mountain then found uprising lights,
Glares reflected on the rim-like crest.
Curiosity made me run, and in haste I ran,
To see the brightening source of radiance,
Mounted I in front on the vantage top,
And saw the sight that suspended my wisdom frail.

Ah! Easy is it to speak but hard is to imagine,
Three suns were ascending with perceptible move,
In row, of equal size and brightening blaze,
Much bigger, brighter than the Sun of the Earth,
That shines in the Asian skies in June,
The outer rims were almost touching one another.

Below then I found a crowed of men,
Some sat on cots; some were entertaining the guests,
One escorted me to have my own share,
Then I return to the sweet-fake world of assumed reality,
The next morn ah! I learnt a thing woeful,
My Master, my Guide, the Source of sight,
Departed to the zone of eternity leaving behind,
Three sons to spread around the light of faith.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Poem Is Just A Poem

a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem

a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about

anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's

poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be

a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice

thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist

on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,

need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem

it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so

this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Poem

THIS POEM

This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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This is a poem....

This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.

poem by Tammie LilAimo
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To William Carlos Williams, sorta

I would talk to you
of shadows cast by street lights;
but not so much in words

rather, take a walk with you,
say, this is a street I know well,
may we walk together?

not to influence or be insistent,
but rather, see this, and this, so
let’s pause a while here,

perhaps just for a comma, or a space, or
the setting out upon the page,
a walk together,

a poem as a guiding of the reader
in the experience of the poem
I’d like to share,

not as insistence but rather
see it as loving care
as one would unwrap

some treasured heirloom
from its silk wrapping – this
I care for, you should know

and perhaps, as we walk together
through the experience of the poem
there’ll grow, a friendly trust

of imagination shared;
and like old friends, we can then talk
of anything, of everything.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poem.

I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,

I like the story.

poem by David Carter
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Poem.

I like the story.

poem by Aisha Patterson
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Time and Experience

I found the past in my present
I built the future on my past
I found the gift of today
When I thought about what
The future has to offer
Where is the wisdom in experience
If there is no folly in wisdom
What's the real meaning of death
If our spirits live forever
Times never change
But circumstances do
I'll let mystery play with the future
Surprises couple with the present
And experience mourn the past
Because sun always rises from the east
And each day always comes to an end
Experience is not chained to wisdom
Nor is folly tied to bad results
But to the circumstances that burden
Our past, present and future because
Time is always anxious for the future
Experience loves the present
And wisdom never divorces the past

poem by Benaiah Sondashi
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Not Every Poem Knows Its Own Name

NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS ITS OWN NAME

Not every poem knows its own name
Or can have itself be written easily-
Not every poem lives in the light
There are dark poems also.

We, possessed of poetry
Often do not know where we are.

We would like to believe
That the light of our soul
And the light of our words
Are one-

But we know deep down
There is one poem somewhere
And another poem somewhere else
And whoever we truly are
Cannot be wholly found in either.

No poem is us completely
And we are not complete Poetry either.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Do Not Know Why I Should Have A Poem Today

I DO NOT KNOW WHY I SHOULD HAVE A POEM TODAY

I do not know why I should have a poem today
I don’t deserve it-
When the body aches the mind tends to evaporate
I am just trying to maintain my way
Until the great heat wave passes.

If all I experience is part of my poem
Then how can Poetry be anything special?

Where is the miraculous transformation
From the ordinary to the surprisingly good?

I don’t know why I should have a poem today
I write these lines
As if my every thought were sacred-

But the great heat of the day
And the aches in my arms as I write
Say
‘It will never be good enough
no matter how hard I try.’

poem by Shalom Freedman
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This is a shouting poem

This is a SHOUTING poem.
Not a gentle wildflower poem
not a whispering-of-love poem
A SHOUTING POEM.

This is a POSTER poem.
Not a subtly persuading poem.
not a think-about-it poem
A POSTER POEM

This is a HARD OF HEARING poem.
What?
I said a HARD OF HEARING POEM

This is a LOST SPECTACLES poem
to test your sight.
No no not LAST TESTICLES
NO TRY THE NEXT LINE -
A LOST SPECTACLES POEM

This is a HAVE YOU SEEN MY? poem.
I know I put it down somewhere.
Are you sure you haven't seen it?
Oh no, you didn't use it for THAT...?
Why are you laughing it's not funny.
I hadn't even finished it...

This is an ACROSS THE ROOM poem.
Read it while you're in bed
watching TV
doing the ironing
reading the newspapers
putting the new wallpaper up
combing the cat
having a bath
washing the car
talking to the neighbours
gardening
this is an ACROSS THE ROOM POEM

This is a BLOWN ACROSS THE STREET POEM
no need to run after it
and pick it up
just watch it blow
maybe wonder
if you missed anything

poem by Michael Shepherd
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0005 a SHOUTING poem

This is a SHOUTING poem.
Not a gentle wildflower poem
not a whispering-of-love poem
A SHOUTING POEM.

This is a POSTER poem.
Not a subtly persuading poem.
not a think-about-it poem
A POSTER POEM

This is a HARD OF HEARING poem.
A what?
I said a HARD OF HEARING POEM

This is a LOST SPECTACLES poem
to test your sight.
No no not LAST TESTICLES
no try the next line - -
A LOST SPECTACLES POEM
now where did I put them

This is a BLOWN ACROSS THE STREET POEM
no need to run after it
and pick it up
just watch it blow
maybe wonder
if you missed anything

(revised)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Poem Is A Cluster Bomb

A poem assemble ideas,
Concentrates experience
Await its time, place
For its own release
A Poem is a cluster bomb

A Poem explodes
Particle by particle
Projectile by projectile
Piece by piece,
Varying impact on the way
A poem is a cluster bomb

Out of a poem come wails
Out of a poem come hails
Out of a poem comes repair
Out of a poem comes despair
A Poem is a cluster bomb

It spreads in ripples
It travels like a storm
It is fashioned in riddles
It can pour painful scorn
A poem is a cluster bomb!

Friday,17th July,2009
Liverpool, UK

poem by Isaac Maliya
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A Poem To Be Heard

A poem to be held

a poem to be fed, with words stronger than the ancient

spirits.

Ti's a poem to be read by all.

A poem that beats the heat of temptation away.

It's power in every single word attracts the moonlight.

A poem, a light in the dark wilderness.

A poem that is just needed and leaves the audience

speechless.

A poem that comforts a sad soul.

Read to me a poem

when I'm cold.

Read it to me till I'm old.

When I'm heart broken, a poem, a love, I'd want.

A poem, a victory through lives endless battle.

A poem an epistle to mine heart, and every written word

in it is heard.

A poem, about royalty, about Kings and Queens

and how they live in luxury.

A poem, a song about sweet heavens.

Read me a poem and slow my heart beat down.

A poem with a tasty flavor, I'd want to hear.

Read me a poem that explains how Nelson Mandela

conquered his fears.

A poem that can describe how Martin Luther Kings

felt when he fought for freedom.

I long to hear it,

Therefor read me a poem,

to be heard.

poem by Marlene Rashidi
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Shapeshifter Poems

the legend is whispered
in the women's tent
how the moon when she rises
full
follows some men into themselves
and changes them there
the season is short
but dreadful shapeshifters
they wear strange hands
they walk through the houses
at night their daughters
do not know them

who is there to protect her
from the hands of the father
not the windows which see and
say nothing not the moon
that awful eye not the woman
she will become with her
scarred tongue who who who the owl
laments into the evening who
will protect her this prettylittlegirl

if the little girl lies
still enough
shut enough
hard enough
shapeshifter may not
walk tonight
the full moon may not
find him here
the hair on him
bristling
rising
up

the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow the one
she cannot tell the one
there is no one to hear this poem
is a political poem is a war poem is a
universal poem but is not about
these things this poem
is about one human heart this poem
is the poem at the end of the world

poem by Lucille Clifton
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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem

THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-

I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-

A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

The Suspended Mountain

Related quotes

A Giant

The Fuelling Arms

The Speed

The Shambling Fellow

Three Suns

A Poem Is Just A Poem

This Poem

This is a poem....

To William Carlos Williams, sorta

Poem.

Poem.

Time and Experience

Not Every Poem Knows Its Own Name

I Do Not Know Why I Should Have A Poem Today

This is a shouting poem

0005 a SHOUTING poem

A Poem Is A Cluster Bomb

A Poem To Be Heard

Shapeshifter Poems

The Poem About The Poem About The Poem

En.Citatepedia^®.ro