Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

A row of tall skinny candles burns
quickly into the night
air, the shames raised
over the rest
for its hard work.

Darkness rushes in
after the sun sinks
like a bright plug pulled.
Our eyes drown in night
thick as ink pudding.

When even the moon
starves to a sliver
of quicksilver
the little candles poke
holes in the blackness.

A time to eat fat
and oil, a time to gamble
for pennies and gambol
...

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?

By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.


...

I walked through halls with books in hand,
I climbed each step with hope so high,
I earned my scrolls in every land,
Yet still I watched each dream go by.

I labored long from dusk till dawn,
My heart beat fast with every test,
But when the light of cheer was gone,
I found no peace within my breast.


...

Last night your faded memory came to me
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly, in the desert moves thew breeze,
As to a sick man, without cause, comes peace

[Original: Urdu, Translated by: Faiz Ahmed Faiz]
...

The plunging limbers over the shattered track
Racketed with their rusty freight,
Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
To stay the flood of brutish men
Upon our brothers dear.

The wheels lurched over sprawled dead
But pained them not, though their bones crunched,
Their shut mouths made no moan.

...

Theres not even pain, its just- mental
Maybe a heartbeat or two at times
Or looking into the version of you
That seemed like it wasnt the real you
Alas, it was the one you showed me was the act

I saw you with her today
And tried to make sense of it
Did karma come with a mirror
For i remembered a boy who loved me

...

The eagle is my power,
And my fan is an eagle.
It is strong and beautiful
In my hand. And it is real.
My fingers hold upon it
As if the beaded handle
Were the twist of bristlecone.
The bones of my hand are fine
And hollow; the fan bears them.
My hand veers in the thin air
Of the summits. All morning
It scuds on the cold currents;
All afternoon it circles
To the singing, to the drums.
...

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant

...

He spoke in sighs, not in demand,
A weary heart, a trembling hand.
He gave his youth, he gave his will,
Yet found no peace, no moment still.

She claimed her place, her throne, her right,
And asked he dim his inner light.
Her love came dressed in terms and laws,
With folded arms and sharpened claws.


...