The Periled Point: A Poetic Journey

Righteous Rhythms

Eka — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 17:17:00 +0000

I know it’s been a while…here’s a poem I wrote a couple nights ago when I found myself unable to sleep.

I cannot conceal the righteous rhythms,
The tempered resonance of the night.
My mind’s at crossroads, and my eyes-
Tracing the pillow’s embroidery,
Minute and directionless.

On a different note: I plan to start a new blog. Just for things I like: philosophy, fashion, thoughts on life, music, and whatever comes to mind.

Sonnet: Who I Am

Eka — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:31:29 +0000

(for a project in which I was supposed to describe my existential self or who I am in an existential manner or some convoluted thing like that. i sort of preferred not to answer the question)

You’d ask me who I am, and how I’d know.

You’d ask me what material weaves my soul?

There are few depths and lengths to which I’d go;

My mind is not tame yard or shallow shoal.

My lock is not a keyed and open door

For any man to rest his curious eyes.

My stock is not new made in earthly forge;

I am no weapon when the battle flies.

My barrel is not straight and gleaming bright.

I hold myself against no poor man’s head.

Shuttle and loom are my weapons, my pride.

You pierce my peace with loaded balls of lead.

In time, and without deadly mortal tools,

I may discover this, the quest of fools.

Untitled 3

Eka — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:25:53 +0000

Untitled (from Word Perhect)

tell me what I need to know
to get you back in real world time
a magic wand doesn’t do shit
hep me find the heart of it and crush the problem with a duled knife

sing the blues but do it alone
watch out for garden gnomes and keep singing
tel me what I need to know
to get you back to real world me
wasting away you’re full of it
help me find the stomach and crush the life with a sharp knife

Two Untitled

Eka — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 16:25:13 +0000

I wrote these while using wordperhect.net which is a site which is a sort of parody of word processing programs, which you can choose an “item” to write on such as an old calendar or receipt, etc, and choose a type of handwriting such as messy or tidy. Sometimes I just stare at whatever page and something comes to mind, perhaps a line of music or a certain word, and the strange format in way frees me up to write really random things, which I sometimes end up liking.

Untitled

My day was short and tremoring within the skin of life
A striking flash of melody, vociferous and light.
The wailing boom of crowded ways concealed me with the noise,
And quietly I stole away in company of boys.

Untitled 2

Time is wasted on the shamed and shivering
Here we lie about to die quivering
Hunkered in our bunks of boredom striking deathly poses
And learning how to follow the sniffs of our noses

Observance

Eka — Tue, 26 May 2009 04:09:31 +0000

She was a virtuoso in her brazen composure

Suspicious, the tilt of her head as she bent over the missal
So visible, so vividly volatile

Like a breath of steam straining to be foam

Like sea-foam spray craving to rush

To rush and cry over the very rocks, mired in their steadfast prayers

Wary of watching eyes, she became a sculpture

The lines of her back fluid and clear

Her profile focused, her outline intense

Skimming inquiry through a blurring lens

The wind will soon blow her away.

Sharpen: “bring into focus, intensify, make clearer…”

Eka — Tue, 26 May 2009 04:05:29 +0000

His hand moves, stealthy and light,

The smoothing tread of his fingers pressing,

Caressing.

Disembodied and far, his eyes wander,

Widening, scanning the scene.

And still his hand moves, inching, creeping,

The black apparatus warming beneath it.

Her face leaps into focus,

Clarity restored to the world.

Funneled behind the little lens,

A trick of perfection.
“Don’t move.” The careful hand withdraws;

He holds his breath, shifts his grip, waits, his heart beats, “this is perfect” he thinks, “this is it” but it is all a shadow of time and really what happens is he blinks and taps the button and the strobe huffs…

She blinks and smiles, shifts her weight…

Sliding out of focus…

The hand comes back up…

“Perfect…”

Gathered

Eka — Tue, 26 May 2009 04:00:24 +0000

She gathered up the petals, one by one
Glued them on the stem which they’d come from
Left one on the ground, left it to rot
Began again, whispering “loves me not”

Sky

Eka — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 03:24:58 +0000

Watching the sky, falling in.

The clouds chase my lazy eyes.

Blue untainted, no smoky guise.

Too deep for mirrored tricks within.

Drenching the earth it licks, a din

Of ground-groans fading, soft

And far, cascading aloft-

Away! -cleansed of their grimy sin.

Sketching from an empty mind…

Eka — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 03:22:01 +0000

Apparently, on 3/15, I sketched this from an “empty mind”, since that is how a titled it. This has not undergone any editing, and is just my rattling on before bed, I guess.

Shoes and patches and wood, slatted and warm

And rumpled life gathering on dust and curling on the carpet

And dreams on the windows and the sun catching them on summer mornings

And trinkets and tickets and junk and jumbles, sheets of paper, black dots of pitch on the snowy smile, cloth like jungle colors trip the eyes and feet.

This is actually based on the mess in my room. The line about “black dots of pitch” was inspired by sheet music, and led to another haphazard poem:

Music, 3/17

My hands are racing, dance to match my flickering eyes,

Follow the trickling paths ahead.

Skip, jump, high and low and black and white,

And fading from mark to mark, like jumbled child’s play,

Jumping rope at vivace.

Eyes flickering, following the black dots of pitch,

Still on the snow.

Their silence commands my trembling dance,

My heartless, faithful playback

Of melted holes in the ice.

I really like certain lines, like “jumping rope at vivace” and the metaphor of pitch on snow, but I would like to point out that playing piano isn’t really “heartless” and I’m not sure how that ended up in there. I think I might disassemble this and try making something else of it. Give me a few years, I might get back to it.

Nah, hopefully sooner.

Far too long

Eka — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 03:15:00 +0000

Sketch on realizing I hadn’t written anything for a long time.

Far too long

Since my pen

Scratched a song

Like a hen

Picking seed

From the grass

Feathers gleam

Like old brass

Long since time

That I sat

Spit a rhyme

Like a cat

Hairballed words

Ticking out

No weird curves

Not a doubt

Too long since

My pen primed

Took the hints

Of my mind

Now I scritch

Even scratch

Poet’s itch

On my back