Whispers of Paradise E-Book

Anand Bose

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

These are a selection of poems, which are autobiographical, formed by my response to nature, people and places I have visited. I have experimented with various styles of poetry like the lyric and the haiku. The poems are intensely emotional and rendered as epiphanies.

Leseprobe

Anand Bose

Whispers of Paradise

Dedicated to my Darling Tumali BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Collage

T. S.  Eliot poems bu't 

cats ....

What should we name them?

Some cats take to a fancy name

like Socrates, Plato and Aristotle,

Others ordinary names like 

Mathew Mark Luke and John, 

If they are feminine, 

you can name them, 

Suzy, Lucy or Moosy,  

Eliot's Gumby cats 

stare at me 

As poetries of mischief....

Eliot's Waste Land 

is an ocean of blind eyes....

A mystic doped in the 

search for safer shores....

Pound is pounding poetry 

in a cauldron of a pundit 

carrying earthly ashes of the dead.

Shelly, Keats and Wordsworth

Are galaxies of fin de siecle 

romanticism ....

Is romanticism dead?

It survives in mteaphors 

and similes....

Carry the heart in a

bouquet of roses ...

Andrew Marvel teases 

the loins of his mistress 

in Meataphysical conceit....

What is imagism? 

Strength of words 

colored with giantism 

of an image....

White pearls adorn 

a nude body....

A gaze crystallizes 

into an amorous metaphor...

I wonder what t's like 

to paint a nude body 

after making love to it....

Metaphysics is dead ....

The Gods have hanged themselves ...

The gaze is Lacan's 

psychoanalysis....

Poetry, my body 

is a written book....

Words crumble out of the

brain like meaty tissues, 

The sky is a vagina, 

the hiils are inserting her thighs....

I am solitary as a dream....

The rhyme of the ancient

mariner is an albatross 

singining requiem canticles....

Looking thru the window 

seat, I gazed at the 

white clouds forming cubic 

patterns on Picasso's brush....

I watch for signs from the sky 

like a witch gazing her crystal ball... 

The tarot of the hanged man 

is a peaceful Buddha in meditation 

The sky has winged cherubs 

singing glory Hallelujah ....

I love to be global vagabond 

wandering in pussies 

and writing verses of love 

I am poetic with the 

women I love...

They adore my passions 

and do fellatio on my words ....

Time is a subconscious engima ...

A mystery to unravel as 

Dali's melting clocks, 

The serpent is a sexual mystery, 

it makes love the whole day long ...

While in Hon Kong 

a madam Tuzard 

invited me to her brothel ....

ST Paul's theology made me

run away from her ....

I gaze at Rilke's guitar,

I am at ease fondling 

its profound verses....