Don't Call Me Poet...

He wrote a poem titled it the last poet
he was in the poem era, the last before all went quiet…
And the only sound I could hear was rhyme and flow
so, maybe I sound like this in slow motion,
maybe I found my place in flow motion.
But I don’t think you should call me poet, without caution.

A little about me though no autobiography; I flunked literature class,
needless to add I don’t have my poetic license.
So I read twice as much as I write, when I write,
My scripts are ten times better than when I spit.
Guess my ten fingers can take credit for this.

Don’t call me poet, I don’t think I’ve graduated.
So what if my thoughts sound like they’ve marinated
I’m not there yet but I’m steadily moving toward it,
all I need is this ink for what I feel, to word it
I don’t seek for you to understand this, what I want is
for you to feel me as though you’re blind and I’m Braille.

Don’t call me poet, I know nothing about rhythm,
my pace is uneven, maybe I lack lyrical fitness.
The only beat I know and write to, that of my heart.
And that’s another 72 reasons every minute
why me and pen will never part.

Also, don’t call me a troubadour, metaphysicist or a lyricist,
nor a phrasologist, rhymewriter, wannabe or a floacist.
See what you call me, isn’t really that important.
‘cause what the question really is,
is should I call you poet?

Hiatus...then back!

To two (or more) loyal blogmarkers...I didn't never leave, I just didn't think a lot of what i've been penning down over the past few was good enough to make it here. It ain't for nobody to get philosophical about not believing in myself (narcissistic tendencies notwithstanding), it's pretty simple. If I don't like it myself, well...

Now this got me thinking that maybe I am not poet. So then I wrote...

Picasso

Okay, it ain't been that long! But check this out...




No paint or palette he tried to paint her in words
The picture, perfect. Atleast that’s what I heard.
Pen in his hand, the outcome a lyrical Picasso
Read it and, from the poem, that’s the pic I saw

and this’ the rest of what I saw…

the words were stuck, preserved in my head, canned verse
more like wet oil paint sticks to the painter’s surface, canvas
and I understood to be digging it like this, it had to be deep,
and I know it had to be a feeling for me to write this.

He was painting in rhythm and the result was audio scenery,
I had the perfect view, you should have seen it with me.
I was high on harmony, flow visually bottled ecstasy
It felt like it was my sunshine, like it was my source of energy.

He handed me the painting, a great thing, I didn’t bother waiting,
the way things were predetermined, best spot was by your side-and
that was a sudden thought that reminded me of Sade, sweetest taboo
you an imprint on my mind like a wicked tattoo, what am saying to you
Is you,were the master piece that resulted.
You.
Masterpiece.

Inside Myself

Now I was listening to one of my favorite albums, staring at the album box (yes, on CD, people still do that) then it wrote this for me...



I'm a tad introspective as write this, an examination of my mind
Calling on my thoughts to be with me an invocation of kinds
I seek real quotes from my mental for you to quote me as your mentor
But again I'd rather remain in ink and paper in retrospect for self
So I won't recite this while your're getting down at some amphitheater
Rather I'll leave it written down so you can read it to yourself later.
It's not self centric to seek to know oneself, to gain one's definition,
We all hunger for stolen moments like those, when we get to be us
Because subconsciously we are always who we are made to be
By one two many standards, yet we still claim to have our own
One soul, two disparate people, in the name of making a name for ourselves
Come to think of it, this sounds familiar, it reminds me of self.
I'm no different from everyone; I stay up all night long trying to figure
why I always have to be someone else, maybe one day it'll all make sense.

Of Wishes &Taboos...

And I'm back again...this time courtesy of the plain will to write down a journal and not the characteristic flow and all.

What shocks me is the nature of my inspiration; thinking I have so much to paint on my canvas, then not knowing what strokes my brush should take once the paint kisses the bristles. Sounds like a daunting task but it's really just about the people I've met the past few days. I might be waxing emotional as well, but I now believe delving into the depth of these very emotions is the ultimate measure of the impact people who walk through our lives leave in us.

Like I said, it's true that from this awesome conference I've been on (I believe I 'forgot' to mention this) I carry home with me more than my suitcase and backpack. What I have is that inevitible hangdown, but most importantly, the knowledge that I'm a single piece in a jigsaw puzzle that can only be completed by very different people from different parts of the globe (with a few pointers from a neighbouring galaxy, I can bet you). And that is what i had my 'new' wish built on.

Just for the record, I make afew wishes every now and then using the most 'fairy-friendly' techniques and mythical procedures that suite the situation at any one time. So this time, I still did it, only I also want to break the no. 1 taboo in the book of Wish Making: never disclose what you wished for. And the reason I shall disclose what it was is pretty simple; they never come true if I keep them to myself anyway!

So this new wish in the old town of Heidelberg, after tossing a coin backward into a fountain (go ahead and try it, it might work for you) was that this hug puzzle be completed. I donn't know how or when, but I believe impossible is nothing (pun intended). But because my wish backs me up, what I believe isn't really that important. What the question really is, is do YOU have hope in your wishes?

MY PEN WROTE A WILL

My pen wrote a will and bequeathed me all it would ever write
Left to me, birthright, stared at my left hand thinking it could never write.
But I wasn't right because my bequest was too much for my right.
It glided on the sheet beneath it, drained more life from within, it
Said of my obtrusive nature it throws flak on my back
And though intrusive to my stature, it's got to rebuke me for that.
It reminded me what it had always told me to do; reach for the stars
Thus precipitating thoughts of me being the first poet in Mars
Unconceivable? That's why this art is something out of this earth.
It gave me the ability to circumnavigate the globe with one line
Like latitude and be 'ub-ink-uitous' like a North-South longitude
Omni-paper, its modus operandi, always present on every paper.
It bled black and thus on this will, letters left from its serum
Waltzed on its nib thinking it was doing headspins on its cranium
Then through an incision in my forefinger it poisoned my cerebrum.
Started thinking how I'd die for my pen, then everything went silent
...for a minute thought I was dead and then before dying, my pen
Scribbled down that it felt like a pharaoh
Because these here words, would be immortal.

HOPE YOU GET THIS...

I am afraid of the dark but not if it's you that'll appear,
I never really said goodbye when you left me here,
I think about the man I wouldn't be without you,
then I'm only more grateful than sombre, that I had you.
I'm grown, because you were, thus,
You're gone but I am glad you were, once.

Though I can't help but wonder...
Is your soul in peace, feet on the table, or are you still with me in the world through all my troubles?
I wrote this for you, is it what you'd want to see or will I wake up to find my poem corrected in your calligraphy?
Are you in my room in the dark when my drapes groove, are you gently whispering 'Samoga' waiting for me to look at you?

I didn't cry enough, but it's good that I still have you in me,
in tears so anytime I miss you I lock myself in my room, crying.
You left too soon, so much we didn't do,
I'll never let you part, you are always, always, in my heart.

R.I.P. Edwin