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Best Poems From
RANI TURTON
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141.
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Shah Jahan's Dagger
This, the Emperor's personal dagger
A wonder in itself,
Made for him in his 39th year
Sold for gold
But worth much much more
This khanjar has travelled far
From the Yamuna and all that it holds
The splendor of that tomb
A poem in stone
Where the Emperor's was added
Almost like an afterthought.
Prince Khurram, if you have any tears left,
Weep.
This historical gold-encrusted dagger was sold for 1.7 million pounds on the 10th April,2008. Shah Jahan was the Mughal Emperor who built the Taj Mahal.
Rani Turton
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142.
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Shivering Under the Hot Sun, Uncontrollably
The mind has its own mysteries, and the savants know
That savantism and the mystics glow
May not be same but can be similar, so in their similitude,
That thoughts and thinking
Earths postulated shrinking
Are but the minds onward driver
But then onwards flows the river.
That fish can dive and plunge, and whilst
The oyster creates its own sweet pearl
Trees start up suddenly in spring
My mind, constant in its inconstancy,
Stumbles and runs in an outward whirl.
I am then and now, past, present and future
What I was, am and will be
The sum total of my story:
My thoughts have created me, with finality.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Argumentably, I can also become
A shadow of myself; I can thus become
A pale imitation of another, I can be, in sum,
Equally, and without the slightest difficulty
Myself and another me.
That is two halves of the same self
But wholly different in every way
On some days I am myself
On others, that self has left, bereft.
Where did that real self fly to?
Why this bitter despair?
What were the traces left behind by the tracks?
The fissures and cracks
Of footsteps on this strange path ordain?
That there was no eternity?
That this very existence was a fine exercise in futility?
Maybe, elusively, the truth written on the pinhead was
That I was just another mind, in perpetual quest
Egoistically, in pursuit of the unattainable, a wanderer,
Shivering under the hot sun, uncontrollably.
Of words, and selves, of wonder and pain
Of poetry, euphoria, realization, fever, laughter,
Reason, destiny, free-will and all the divinest things
Every portion that each day brings
Lifes sweet sad melody has broken again.
Rani Turton
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143.
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Silences
I didn't know how to reply
When you said, You are more to me
Than all this;
I don't know why
My first thought was to lie
But do you know
I just wanted to lay down my head and cry.
The sun slanted through the windowpane
I looked at those hands sensitive and fine
I looked at everything
Pictures on the wall
So that the words wouldn't touch me at all
There are silences as thick as glassdoors
Transparent but solid
But when broken, can cause immense pain
So at four in the afternoon that day
I simply went away
Rani Turton
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144.
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Sins, Like Shadows: The Cycle Of Life
Shadows, like sins, cast low on the ground.
The cycle of life carries on. Some of the good lingers on
In unsuspected ways. The family is a tribe
With it's own codes. Some of the shadows linger on.
The wisdom to sow, reap and differeniate between the real
The surreal, the ego, the egoistical is not given to all.
Everyone carries their own burden.
Some do their best to realise
Their lives by fighting for their dreams;
And some, try to understand and analyse.
Day after day, the hours tick on and it seems
Shadows lengthen with the noon
Mystic, melancholy, heavy with tears
Shadows that follow and merge
The body, substantial and the shadow, ethereal
And even more so by the light of the moon.
If life is a shadow that passes like a dream
Are we what we are and do we seem to be what we seem?
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
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