deepundergroundpoetry.com
Of the Existential Maya (which misconstrues Holy Dark Matter Silence as Deathly Greys, but Is There a Death at all?)
darkened tarred roads wink in
wet sticky mirroring amber pillars
…october’s monsoonal twilights’
a stirring chaos- fusing fabric ..of
(bodhi~ in the haunting oddities)
of the long ringing temples bells
in hammering clarities of a sonorous resonance…
with an unclassifiable racing~tranquilly simultaneity
....of a heart-drumming
in a holy worshipping
fervour, a dancing
trance
eaten sudden to a null
yet.. seemingly
a delicate inching in something of nothingness
slowly fading into the digging howls of a silence
.
.
.
.
[there’s a fragrant floral blooming sanctity gardens
of conspicuous Parijatham- their pearling jasmines…
..its spirited firing flame in momentary upright holds
are the sparking peduncles fallen forever
in devouted inversion
their fantaish outlandishness
hold spotless ballerina frills
in freefalling immersion
.
.
the early mooted holy smoke
of neems & myrobalans, clouds
angelic in moving congregations...
'
....nostalgic
of a dimming drizzly yellow sunshine’s
swarming hazy glassiness wingmen canopies , the
shallowly dragonflying see-through traffic
in micro painted pterostigmatous signalling
embed-chip presence in no-heady collisions
of the steady hovering templelands..
...hatched out naivete nymphs
of a wet clayey wisen earthen womb
in its rising up helical placental threads-
the hormonal petrichoric
atmospheric
.
.
an inexplicable crisis sets in, a
(r/p)ain of labour- screams..to stream down
silverine strings, a basal tangere linger
in smoking red firm terracotta moulds
sashaying the burlesque bleeding streets
in a flaming Scoville high cries …
.
their dusky pitching melancholic fire...
piques the just returned to be nestled
cuckooing souls of the dark…the croaking
amphibial clocking amplifications … densely
confluences
into the gushing estuary of a deathly mirage...
in hungering quagmires
of a rotten cambial circumferential
logging walls, unto the abyss…
.
.
...in the horrid hauntingly calling twilights
and the biggeningly blotting pitch black inks...
of mysteriuosly sucking in vacuum nights]
.
.
lost and lost to the deep of an unreturning
are the souls of solid sanctifying innocence
in an untraceable camphoraceous sublimities
to the transcendence, of a silence
in veils of fatally screaming elegies
the cosmic souling energy
neither in a push or pull
of loss or gain- an absolute
salience of an everpresent
Holy Hueless Nothingness,
Published 22nd Oct 2019
Author's Note
Rob. My Love Eternal.Thanks Infinite for being there here, ever. You know xx
To all those in grief...of the Unreturning, The Loss ....
Death is a Myth...when Soul's Eternity in The Holy Silence is felt..
Love is All the Need, the faith & Utmost Truth.
Inspired by recent events & life, love.
Pic: Web. Nadia Maria Photography
To all those in grief...of the Unreturning, The Loss ....
Death is a Myth...when Soul's Eternity in The Holy Silence is felt..
Love is All the Need, the faith & Utmost Truth.
Inspired by recent events & life, love.
Pic: Web. Nadia Maria Photography
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Anonymous
22nd Oct 2019 10:07pm
If asked to explain existentialism (I hardly an expert) would simply steer them to this mountainous poem. Feel your melancholy blue today. Always keep the faith love. Love me xx
23rd Oct 2019 10:28pm
The single philosophical point that connects all us "Existentialists"...from Buddha to Kierkegaard...Nietzsche to Sartre and de Beauvoir...is that, 'Existence always precedes essence...in Buddhism the nihilistic nature of the universe...the suffering of the human being is handled by the concept of nothingness...as a Nietzschean Nihilist...eternal recurrence...amor fati...amor fati. I love the melancholic feel in this beautiful poem uma...as the Zen master said...everything is happening all at once.
Cheers...Harry
Cheers...Harry
24th Oct 2019 3:51am
24th Oct 2019 10:47pm
24th Oct 2019 3:47am
I read things here that stir me, that break pieces off my heart and set them adrift, things that inspire admiration, but it's really only you and HowlingWhelms that leave me agog. It's like staring at the sun in stupefied wonder. I'm often told that the verbiage I use is too esoteric and intimidates the reader, but I feel like that misses the spirit of my writing. I write with the vocabulary I command, the words that best suit me are not chosen, they flow from me. What I often say, in some form, when this subject comes up, is that the words I use are not what is important or what make me a good writer, what makes me a good writer is the depth at which I perceive. The depth of your connections are achingly beautiful.
