Of course, the water is still.
By the shores of that lovely lake,
I find only ruins of my own oath
melted down to a puddle –
no shimmer, no chime in it.
Short of breath, it’s just a sorry sign
groaning with the low ripple of the lake.
© MK, 2019
Written for Brenda’s Sunday Whirl where many great fellows contribute words of poetry.
Doing yoga does me good
Although I wait for the class as I would for a therapy session
Relying on its imaginary security,
its beyond-the-everyday thrust of wisdom,
and its speechless softness.
This can’t be good, can’t be healthy.
One day I’ll wake to the sound of wind chimes
And see, for real, where I stand and what I need.
© 2019, Mariya Koleva
Inspired by my friends, Marie Elena and Walt, on their blog, Poetic Bloomings. This is a list of words: walk, Autumn, carrot, lake, race, embrace, song, throw, annual, ego – and as the first step of the exercise, we need to write a sentence using each. Sentences are not connected, however, they need to have some poetic potential.
1. I walk alone in the garden of Eden where flowers bloom in fairy tale haze.
2. Autumn follows summer playing with it, not chasing, just singing in a duet of increasingly ragged tunes.
3. The best sun screens for children contain carrots thus making a jolly triangle of orange childhood.
4. Mirroring the snow-white peak is the lake, quietly caressing me.
5. You can’t win at a rat race unless you’re a rat.
6. Yoga teachers always say, “Embrace yourself”. Are we allowed to pray?
7. Who can hear the song of the cricket?
8. Throw a ball of snow.
9. I used to take part in annual competitions, I used to be thrilled and wanted to win.
10. One’s greatest struggle is the one for subduing one’s ego.
To see other poets’ worthy lines, Poetic Blooming website is at a click distance.
I can’t wait to see what the next step will be.
On this day in 44 BC, the eve of Julius Caesar’s assassination, Casca and Cassius decided that Mark Antony should live. Led by the sour feeling of fairness, by humility or by the sheer fear of the impact of their deed, we can’t be sure. Centuries later, we may jokingly say that Antony was spared so that he could make his grand dramatic appearance at Caesar’s funeral and giving his famous speech which we know from Shakespeare’s play:
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–
For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men–
Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason. Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
at which point Antony makes a well-paced pause to further build up the crowd’s discontent at the assassins. After which he finishes with:
But yesterday the word of Caesar might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there.
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar;
I found it in his closet, ’tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament–
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read–
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy
Unto their issue.
Did you notice the use of the “honourable man/men” phrase? I laugh every time I hear that phrase. Popular culture contributed to my own unholy feelings when I come across it. There is nothing to be added to that brilliant speech.
Tough elements inhibit my judgement.
Sitting on trial, the night denies its chill.
Is it shy?
A file will help me do the bars.
I signal my help on the street.
Although, the prison’s all mine,
they still come to rescue.
Tough elements swipe through the colony.
The night hints at the approaching dawn.
(c) 2018 MK
One More Year in you calendar
On the cake and in your passport
One more round of resolutions
We don’t usually observe
One more and yet another
Until we start to wonder
What we did in all these years
That walked by.
I wish I could tell you
You’ll have mastership over your moods
Or even, that you’ll turn
Out to be a joyous one.
But I can’t
Your moods, my moods
Our desperation, this
Pendulum-like sway from fun
The elevator of our soul
Just comes with the building.
One of the most shocking things
I see when I look back to you
Is the shift I made ambition-wise
You’re hearing it all day long –
You’re ambitious, all too much at that.
Friends and opponents are equally
Silenced when they meet your cold
Then, I called it arrogance
The world around didn’t yield
To your ambition.
It shut itself, resources dried
Before they were even tapped.
Naked arrogance with bare womb
An empty can that rattles its noisiest.
You won’t believe when you read this
Years from now, all ambition will have gone
Or transformed in mellowness
All you laughed at – family, charity, generosity of heart
Will drown you and choke you to tears.
The strangest evolution of ambition
Someone recently told me I have no ambition at all.
I am still thinking whether to be insulted by that
Whether that is true, and what to make of it.
Reading back, I see this is a longish
And confusing letter.
You may just ignore it, love.
For today’s poem, we are supposed to take a line from a poem written earlier this month and make it the title of our new poem. I decided to borrow a line from my Day 7 Poem about profession – “Your dream to climb the fandom ladder”
Your Dream – to Climb the Fandom Ladder
Is surely a fine specimen of dream
Dreamt by a teenage girl
Her head in the books and posters of stars
On her walls.
Then we’ll slurp some nasty drinks in a
Swamp of fakeness
Around people of influence –
And we’ll stop amidst our throwing up
To wonder if that is really
What we want.
As in tearful
But, you know, I’m tired
Of writing tears and solemnity
In these letters, girl.
Salty is like poison
Gradually, you will get tired
So, not rarely it’s fine
To go with the flow.