|
|
|
Best Poems From
RANI TURTON
|
|
| |
|
|
157.
|
The Sick Bard
The sick bard, in a haze induced by melancholy
The mysterious sickness that threatens subtly,
The malady that does not leave, ever.
The sick bard, at times on the frontier
Between lfe and death does not know
Which to call inside the painted door.
Now there is pain; now there are visions
But also, also haze and delusions.
The sickness is full of illusions.
The sick bard has pages full of writing
Poems and thoughts that have spanned years;
Alas some of those words have been erased by tears.
Copyrght: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
158.
|
The Silent Lane
My eyes on that door the silent lane beckons
My fingers scrape that door
Nobody opens it any more
My eyes brimming the silent lane beckons
Memories flow; how many have walked these old streets
And how many do not any more?
From the inner world of my own inner world
Comes the answers of despair
Comes the images of you there
Sunlight and silence, people pass me by
In the cavern of the past some of this will remain
The present is now free from pain.
Copyright 2008 Rani Turton
Rani Turton
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
159.
|
The Sometimes Song
Wait a while. The mind's confusion and slow steps
May quicken: when the sun comes out from hiding
And weariness itself wearily walks itself away.
Then, sometimes, in the silence of the stars
I can hear your voice. I can hear and taste and see
The years that brought me to this misery.
Sometimes, when familiar streets come my way
Or I come to them, anyway
What I really am trying to say
Sometimes, the softness of those instants
Comes back to me: the intent, the ideas
The emotions and the inspiration
That still remain with me. If you had been,
Sometimes, near me
Things would have been different.
These unfamiliar conceptions of destiny
That life brought to my door would have dissolved
Like the morning mist: sunshine-kissed.
I, in this sometimes moody musing, ask you to listen to this
Solitary sometimes song.
Copyright: Rani Turton
Rani Turton
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
160.
|
The Surest Way
Each month consists of a million days.
Days that spin out endless hours and thus
Earth whirls around the sun; a mad cosmic dance
Repeated because it cannot fail.
Lives flicker and fade. Again and again.
What is life then? An essence of being?
A being of essence?
Why does pain thrust out its hand
And stand in our way; why does love
Beckon and then flee? Why do people go away?
Sometimes joy, like a mirage, promises wild things:
The end of a journey, but destiny's choice inflicts wounds
That bleed and bleed until death, like a friend,
Cuts into suffering and calls an end.
Surely there's more to it than this.
One being's individual life cannot really matter;
Though tears, like acid, can burn the soul
Until it is almost not quite entirely whole.
But to make the soul soar beyond suffering;
To remain impervious to trivial emotion
To remain suspended in exaltation day after day
To ask for nothing but to give everything away
Is perhaps the only surest way.
Rani Turton
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|