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Best Poems From
RANI TURTON
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93.
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Forget Me
Now that yesterday's pages have been turned,
Rustling, fluttering,
Flown far away
Now that those people have gone, far away
Voices have faded and destiny with sure fingers
Has traced other routes, other paths
Forget me.
The years have traced lines on faces,
Has touched with grey dark hair;
But the souvenir of those far-off places
Are the memories that are left to share.
Often I had wondered, some paths I could not tread
If I dreamt; sometimes the voices were so real
More real than the people I passed on the street
More real to me than the cold, the blazing heat.
Forget me.
Now the year has passed onto spring.
The trees have won back their leaves.
Roses bloom; the rivers swell with rain
Forget me, I cannot bear to remain your eternal pain.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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94.
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Fragile Hearts
Fragile hearts, hearts that break
Do not harsh words and ruptures take
Fragile hearts that trust and beat
Trodden under uncaring feet
Hearts, like roses in the rain,
Scatter under the onslaught of pain.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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95.
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Handling the Pain
Stand near the light; don't walk towards the door
I'm myself, quite myself
Though quiet inside, I don't know.
Poets have often celebrated their pain
In verse with a swish of wine
My poetry has cleansed my mind often
Enabled me to feel rather fine
When I, in restless creativity
In the perpetual outsider's angst
Tried with music to soothe my troubled mind
When I submitted to sleep with thanks
How do I handle this feeling that comes upon me
At dawn, at dusk, at midnight,
I found the Woolfian and Plathian dilemna
Apt as only poetic pain can be, wrong or right.
Artists, musicians, flying euphoric
Far in their dreams and the world looking at them
As though they, and they alone could not understand
The compact structured world and its angles
While the pain got lost in all that trite rhetoric.
Handling the pain before it becomes a bonfire
That consumes your life and all those who loved you
Handle the pain, now that it cannot be borne
Give it wings, let it fly, let it break through.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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96.
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Hours
In spite of or rather because of
A boundless imagination bequeathed by my forebears
Leaping and skimming over life's incidents and accidents
Waiting and patience are not only virtues
In spite of or rather because of a certain sentience
That begins but doesn't complete the sentence
Phrases are like life; sometimes broken
At times unfinished and often unspoken
And these hours dribbling and dragging on, forever on
From the very beginning, the moment one is born.
When the end comes, alone in a foreign land
The hours will stop and nobody needs to understand.
Copyright: Rani Turton 2008
Rani Turton
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