Favourite Poem of the Day: Discontinuous Poems by Albert Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)

The frightful reality of things
Is my everyday discovery.
Each thing is what it is.
How can I explain to anyone how much
I rejoice over this, and find it enough?

To be whole, it is enough to exist.

I have written quite a number of poems
And may write many more, of course.
Each poem of mine explains it,
Though all my poems are different,
Because each thing that exists is always proclaiming it.

Sometimes I busy myself with watching a stone,
I don’t begin thinking whether it feels.
I don’t force myself to call it my sister,

But I enjoy it because of its being a stone,
I enjoy it because it feels nothing,
I enjoy it because it is not at all related to me.

At times I also hear the wind blow by
And find that merely to hear the wind blow makes
it worth having been born.

I don’t know what others will think who read this;
But I find it must be good because I think it
without effort,
And without the idea of others hearing me think,
Because I think it without thoughts,
Because I say it as my words say it.

Once they called me a materialist poet
And I admired myself because I never thought
That I might be called by any name at all.
I am not even a poet: I see.
If what I write has any value, it is not I who am
valuable.
The value is there, in my verses.
All this has nothing whatever to do with any will
of mine.

PDA (pt.2)

It is 3 degrees tonight, outside,
Surely, you have a bed inside?

Wider than the length of  bench?
Comfier than the hard cement?

It’s cold! So cold!
I shiver for you,
I want to put a blanket on you.

Surely, this can’t be so romantic!
Should one freeze to death,
That would be panic!

I understand passion is very heated
But love-making makes inefficient warmth.
Perhaps you’d keep your large coat on,
I hear upcoming’s a large windstorm…

Fine, okay,
You do your business.
I am neither your mother nor friend,
Just, make sure you keep on the torso bits
You wouldn’t want a nasty end.

Or maybe you do. I don’t know.

PDA

To the lovers who love so much in public
To the man and woman, caressing on the stairs
To the couple making wet kissy noises
To the people whose rubbing, is making me stare

I applaud your love,
I do! I do!
I’m happy you’ve found someone to do,
I hope I find the same happiness too,
But until then,
Please,
Just get a room.

cyborg experience

am i pathetic?

to cling on to these

anonymous comments

to validate me

 

i cannot find this in reality

i cannot find what i truly need

 

am i lonely

attention seeking?

peaking at pages of faces that i’ll never know

 

reluctantly grow

the growth is slow

the tree outside my window

may be wiser

 

i sprawl myself spread across the bed

glued to my macbook air

this online community

makes me happy

it is living live that wears me down

 

is that ok?

is that acceptable?

 

if you are trapped in a social means that does not allow you to find what you want outside of the scope of existence,

i’m scrolling down my list of residence

do i merely crave a change of environment?

 

i have tried and initiated

i’m a go getter

i hate waiting

but i await for something to sweep me off my feet

instead

i do all the sweeping

cleaning up my brain space to bravely admit

 

i am not content with how things are.

but i fear too much to venture far.

Favourite Poem of the Day: We and You by Kahlil Gibran

We are the sons of Sorrow, and you are the
Sons of Joy.
We are the sons of Sorrow,
And Sorrow is the shadow of a God who
Lives not in the domain of evil hearts.
We are sorrowful spirits, and Sorrow is
Too great to exist in small hearts.

When you laugh, we cry and lament; and he
Who is seared and cleansed once with his
Own tears will remain pure forevermore.
You understand us not, but we offer our
Sympathy to you. You are racing with the
Current of the River of Life, and you
Do not look upon us; but we are sitting by
The coast, watching you and hearing your
Strange voices.

You do not comprehend our cry, for the
Clamour of the days is crowding your ears,
Blocked with the hard substance of your
Years of indifference to truth; but we hear
Your songs, for the whispering of the night
Has opened our inner hearts. We see you
Standing under the pointing finger of light,
But you cannot see us, for we are tarrying
In the enlightening darkness.

We are the sons of Sorrow; we are the poets
And the prophets and the musicians. We weave
Raiment for the goddess from the threads of
Our hearts, and we fill the hands, of the
Angels with the seeds of our inner selves.
You are the sons of the pursuit of earthly
Gaiety. You place your hearts in the hands
Of Emptiness, for the hand’s touch to
Emptiness is smooth and inviting.
You reside in the house of Ignorance, for
In his house there is no mirror in which to
View your souls.

We sigh, and from our sighs arise the
Whispering of flowers and the rustling of
Leaves and the murmur of rivulets.
When you ridicule us your taunts mingle
With the crushing of the skulls and the
Rattling of shackles and the wailing of the
Abyss. When we cry, our tears fall into the
Heart of Life, as dew drops fall from the
Eyes of Night into the heart of Dawn; and
When you laugh, your mocking laughter pours
Down like the viper’s venom into a wound.

We cry, and sympathize with the miserable
Wanderer and distressed widow; but you rejoice
And smile at the sight of resplendent gold.

We cry, for we listen to the moaning of the
Poor and the grieving of the oppressed weak;
But you laugh, for you hear naught but the
Happy sound of the wine goblets.

We cry, for our spirits are at the moment
Separated from God; but you laugh, for your
Bodies cling with unconcern to the earth.

We are the sons of Sorrow, and you are the
Sons of Joy . . . Let us measure the outcome of
Our sorrow against the deeds of your joy
Before the face of the Sun . . .

You have built the Pyramids upon the hearts
Of slaves, but the Pyramids stand now upon
The sand, commemorating to the Ages our
Immortality and your evanescence.

You have built Babylon upon the bones of the
Weak, and erected the palaces of Nineveh upon
The graves of the miserable.  Babylon is now but
The footprint of the camel upon the moving sand
Of the desert, and its history is repeated
To the nations who bless us and curse you.
We have carved Ishtar from solid marble,
And made it to quiver in its solidity and
Speak through its muteness.

We have composed and played the soothing
Song of Nahawand upon the strings, and caused
The Beloved’s spirit to come hovering in the
Firmament near to us; we have praised the
Supreme Being with words and deeds; the words
Became as the words of God, and the deeds
Became overwhelming love of the angels.
You are following Amusement, whose sharp claws
Have torn thousands of martyrs in the arenas
Of Rome and Antioch  . . .  But we are following
Silence, whose careful fingers have woven the
Iliad and the Book of Job and the Lamentations
Of Jeremiah.

You lie down with Lust, whose tempest has
Swept one thousand processions of the soul of
Woman away and into the pit of shame and
Horror . . . But we embrace Solitude, in whose
Shadow the beauties of Hamlet and Dante arose.
You curry for the favor of Greed, and the sharp
Swords of Greed have shed one thousand rivers
Of blood   . . .  But we seek company with Truth,
And the hands of Truth have brought down
Knowledge from the Great Heart of the Circle
Of Light.

We are the sons of Sorrow, and you are the
Sons of Joy; and between our sorrow and your
Joy there is a rough and narrow path which
Your spirited horses cannot travel, and upon
Which your magnificent carriages cannot pass.
We pity your smallness as you hate our
Greatness; and between our pity and your
Hatred, Time halts bewildered. We come to
You as friends, but you attack us as enemies;
And between our friendship and your enmity,
There is a deep ravine flowing with tears
And blood.

We build palaces for you, and you dig graves
For us; and between the beauty of the palace
And the obscurity of the grave, Humanity
Walks as a sentry with iron weapons.
We spread your path with roses, and you cover
Our beds with thorns; and between the roses
And the thorns, Truth slumbers fitfully.
Since the beginning of the world you have
fought against our gentle power with your
Coarse weakness; and when you triumph over
Us for an hour, you croak and clamour merrily
Like the frogs of the water. And when we
Conquer you and subdue you for an Age, we
Remain as silent giants.

You crucified Jesus and stood below Him,
Blaspheming and mocking at Him; but at last
He came down and overcame the generations,
And walked among you as a hero, filling the
Universe with His glory and His beauty.
You poisoned Socrates and stoned Paul and
Destroyed Ali Talib and assassinated
Madhat Pasha, and yet those immortals are
With us forever before the face of Eternity.

But you live in the memory of man like
Corpses upon the face of the earth; and you
Cannot fine a friend who will bury you in
The obscurity of non-existence and oblivion,
Which you sought on earth.

We are the sons of Sorrow, and sorrow is a
Rich cloud, showering the multitudes with
Knowledge and Truth. You are the sons of
Joy, and as high as your joy may reach,
By the Law of God it must be destroyed
Before the winds of heaven and dispersed
Into nothingness, for it is naught but a
Thin and wavering pillar of smoke.