existentialism

The Smell of Bog

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Smell Of Bog

 

 

Old ways, olden days

Can it impart wisdom now?

Peats, earthworms, rhizomes—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 07.17.2019 (italicization of a phrase "Old ways" in the first line of the poem), 06.26.2019 (misspelling of occurring, a single "r" in occuring was changed to occurring):  



Once more, I've come up with a practice haiku to reflect upon something naturally occurring.  It may even be seen as rather banal (and/or clichéd) that it might sound as if drawn out from a science textbook explanation.  However, if you like the natural sciences (or if you are in love with nature), then you probably have heard of boggy wetlands & seen swampy marshes.  Until then, I would suppose you could relate to this particular haiku.  My real reason for composing this is quite a private one, for it was coming from the sheer original intentionality of recording just another mental note (& its relevancy to me, hence).  It is definitely not an aspect of an autobiographical note, it just seems that I have slipped into a kind of a reverie, whereof I have contemplated on a "correlative" about the earth/soil & the smell of turd one night.  It is a basic assumption to an end to every supposed life cycle.  Which is why I thought of its gravitas, that despite being imminent in this correlation to the undoubtable reality of his or her temporal existence, that is a paradox in itself.  Therefore my poem, in this manner of a haiku, is intended to also be reflective of old age & the ageing process—& its trappings.  Yet due to the mysterious properties of time, there is always a particular wisdom that is being imparted or shared wherever/whenever there's an unwarranted rumination (such as this, whence).  Some could have referred to an event and equate it to indirect learning (versus a self-directed one); but, as to learning experiences, in the circle of life, if constantly passed onwards, every imaginable generation espouses the same kind of conditioned existence (as regards to Media Cultures and the whole of humanity).  It need not be a catechismal byproduct of a certain religious order because we are cultural products in ourselves.  Like, perhaps, looking intently at the prominence of our public intellectuals, with their erudition & elucidations (e.g., in their online presences in social media), the same could be my theme.  In one's own right, there seemed to be a historical perspective which is to be conveyed here.  My poem could also be a reminder that they, too, have once lived throughout their youth; for that reason, someone (or something) has to have also taught them something (or anything/about something).  It is a sort of a passed on wisdom.  It is a recurring process.

wondrous minds

The wondrous

[1]

mind of man

came to me in a slink,

suddenly appearing,

while firmly in place.




[1]

It is also temporary, very fragile, and, alas, meaningless. Go figure.

A Web of Life

Disenfranchised, discriminated, decapitalized

Disorganized, dominated, doomed,

The middle pushed to the margins,

The margins, influencing the middle.

The right is right, the left wrong,

 

A web woven of similar work,

Yet the fly does not see the web infront,

He is merely trapped in the web,

Oblivious.

 

But yet the web is his death.

He struggles to get out, but the web’s grip is too strong.

He waits to die, struggling to get out of the web, but as he struggles it continues to wrap around his body further.

He is now consumed.

He’s in the belly of the beast.

Dead, consumed. 

My New Best Friend

He’s with me all the time,

We’re practically best friends.

He’s there for me the hard times the most.

He’s the worst friend I’ve ever had,

I regret the moments I introduced him to my life.

 

He taunts me, provokes me, pushes me,

He ruins me.

He turns me, frustrates me, rushes me,

He makes me.

 

I struggle to get him out of my life,

But he only gets closer.

I try to block him out,

But he only gets darker.

 

I hate him. But he loves me.

I wish him out of my life with the little passion he’s left me with,

But he remains around me,

As if his sadistic job was to torture me through this period of my life,

I loath him for this resulting strife.

 

I’m told one day he’ll die,

And rather than suffering in perpetuation,

I will caese the constant struggle towards evasion,

But his ghost may haunt my internal abrasions,

I wish his death would hasten…

 

I know he’ll die eventually.

Being left with his sporadic memories.  

See

See the broken mirror to see many
Each is different, each is from one
What to see and how to see
Too many to find the real one
Or maybe all are just as real as the other
No false one just absolute realness
To see is difficult; perhaps the way to see is wrong
Wrong all this time
All of the real ones are just blind
Then to see is wrong
Only wrongness as the sight tells

View progtrance7's Full Portfolio

Indistinguishable Chirps

Each night I am lulled asleep
by a sea of nameless chirping crickets.
All of whom, tells stories of their children.
“Bobby just learned how to ride a bike,
Jane and I couldn’t help but laugh
as we chased after him.”

“And after I gave the presentation
Mr. Hughes gave me a promotion.”

“My homework is boring but
my dishwasher is broken and
I had to go swimming across the lake
but I was laid off of work today.”

I am comforted at night
by indistinguishable chirps.

The Salve

Folder: 
2010-2012 Poems

Long dead of night and day...
Half-awake, half-dreaming.
Thunderstorm outside,
The raging raindrops sing.

Purple candle light.
Drowsy, tired eyes...
A warm-blooded earthling
Soaked in the tub.

Intense thoughts of chicken tandoori
And cheese naan from 'Kapitan'...
All these and a placid, deep snooze,
To salvage myself, I choose.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

-(c) jerlin 02Nov11 - The day I craved for 'chicken tandoori and cheese naan' until night...so much that at around 8pm, I called a taxi and searched for a restaurant called 'Kapitan', ordered and took it home with me blissfully! :)

View angeljerlin's Full Portfolio

Exhale

Folder: 
2010-2012 Poems

Rain pours down, droplets glide
Forming crystal-like patterns
On the gloomy glass window
Where I rest my weary head on.

Bokehs of green lights,
Red glares on rear bumpers.
Yellow suns at night, gleam.
I squint at the creaking wipers.

Strobing lightning, growling thunder,
Snobbed by the busy road.
People chattering behind, in all languages...
I close my eyes, oblivious.

I feel the Earth spin so fast as I sit still.
The seconds of my life tick.
Purpose. Mission. Calling.
I brace myself...exhale.

Doing a lot, but missing a lot.
You can't have it all.
But deep inside, you have a strong sense-
Why this is what you are living for.

Dreams. Passion. Happiness.
All the roads lead to where I am.
Here and now...here we go.
Sometimes, you just wonder--if it's all worth it.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

-(c)jerlin 21Oct11 --7.28pm (on the bus,KL)

View angeljerlin's Full Portfolio