Sometimes

This is sooo beautiful... reading this felt like stepping into a cool shaded room from the heat of the sun... excellent imagery... `dances drunk in the wide, limitless air`... I love that.

Thank you for sharing.

Now this poetry has some intellectual merit.

Aamir:
You make the small world seem large enough to entrap us...and be captured by us.

``Kaunpley phir phoont aaye shaakh par kehna usey
woh na samjha hai na samjheyga magar kehna usey....

Riss rahaa hai khoon lub pe magar hanstey rahe...``

there is a forest in every seed...then why it is that only sometimes the world seems so small?

i like the allusion ``The jagged edges of broken memory /Cutting sharp slits into the soul``. it reminds me of my own piece and thus my inspiration...here`s to being on the same wavelength :)

This is what I think.

Some writing is jagged or stilted, with sharp ends and parts that are slightly malformed, which jut out misshapen. It contains some reason and worth, and can be admired, but it seems at odds, unsettled. It has value, but just feels slightly off balance, either slightly underweight, or slightly overweight.

Some writing is like a stone you pick up from the ground which feels light, even though it is heavy. It feels smooth and correct in your hand, like the pebbles you find beside rivers and streams when they are flowing low; it has gravity and shape and is perfect for what it is. Nothing could be added or taken away, and you keep it in your pocket because you know it is a valuable thing, natural, seamless.

Sometimes you read a poem. It zings about in your head and settles its images and purpose into your brain, and the poet’s eye brings his moment, epiphany or observation to you, and it is a feature of perfection like that river stone, its rhythm is sound. It has PERFECT GRAVITY, and there is nothing to be said or added.

So I won’t say a thing.


-h-

Nice depressing poem Aamir.

Give my regards to naee bhabi. Thanks.

harpo:

;)

Heck, I thought I had understood the poem...but harpreet tells us something profound in three big paras and two cryptic add-on bonus sentences....the last one being, ``So I won`t say a thing``...and then temporal winks at That!

Will the poet please do some moderating here before I forget the purpose of the poem? Aamir, iss baar apun ko thank you-wank you se kaam nahin chalega. Kucchh bhejaa ladaao aur light maaro apna chakaas sher-ber par.

Aamir, a beautiful poem indeed...and sometime that`s all we can do, drunk in the wide limitless air notwithstanding...

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Anuradha, Urstruly, Khadija, rozaiba, Godot, cipram: thank you for your appreciation. I`m truly glad you enjoyed the poem.

harpreet: this isn`t the first time your comment`s possessed greater poetic merit than the actual poem itself. won`t pretend to understand what it means, but knowing you (and your skill as a writer), thank you for being so kind.

t: :o)

Farzana: ok no thanks thanks but i think so the poem, it should be let to speak for itself. as for harpo`s comments, you mean you don`t understand either!

Aamir what is it that you lament with these lines,

``The jagged edges of broken memory

Cutting sharp slits into the soul. ``

somehow these lines mean one thing - nostalgia and we all know what this does...

on the other hand `broken edges of a jagged memory` has a more blood curdling echo which fits in well with the next line allues to the slitting of the soul -

It was good.

Aamir

Nothing has greater merit than your poems mate.

In my convoluted way I was trying to say that your work is natural and contained and is seamless...it is the product of a true poetic sensibility, unlike a lot of poetry you read, which seems stilted and forced.

They are perfect in their weighting and gravity.

The first line of this one is tremendous.

{{Sometimes the world seems so small

You could trap it in a seed.}}

-h-

nice one,but the world which seems so small SOMETIMES is perhaps only at times,one of the`The jagged edges of broken memory,Cutting sharp slits into the soul.`,otherwise its too LARGE tht it fits all the malicious frivolities.

san

I think his toaster blew up in his face in the morning which is why he wrote it.

Aamir: I let the poem speak, now I want you to... this is izzat ka sawaal. And what is this about some toaster blowing in your face? Aakhir iss marz ki dawaa kya hai? Or is it that after reading poems people start hallucinating about the poet`s state of mind? You lucky bloke.