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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.

Transcendence (And Body Politic)

 










Transcendence (And Body Politic)

 

 

 



Her guises were stripped off

Like paint;

 

I had wondered where she could 

have gotten to—to act like a saint

 

The earthquakes have multiple meanings, after all:

 

There are moments of truth. 

But our attitudes, in facing them, such are several.

 

Why should we try to act on certain

situations, just to make us huge?

 

Her views of change mattered to

me, for lacking subterfuge

 

'Tis so raw, so fresh, 

so debilitatingly godly

 

When fake media is stressed, let all

disdain blasphemy.

 

Are we just spirits in human bodies,—

in the physicality?—

 

 

For, when— it makes it clear,

our true selves gather up

a multitudes' spirituality!











Author's Notes/Comments: 

"Transcendence (And Body Politic)", w/c is also an affected poem, previously titled "Transcendence", is a repost from my Twitter platform (inevitably composed on April 29, 2017/at around "06:58"...based from the deemed quirky causes & that perhaps had sprung from thoughts of a possible love interest (rather assumptive [on my part] & my motivations were unclear; thus, a type of a poem like this was done).  Also, I had edited this version (a little bit by modifying the use of punctuation marks & perhaps the stanzas/form, those were minor tweaks).

 

 

An Escapist's Poem (Dedicated to the Leaves/previously "Ode To Escapists")

 

 











An Escapist's Poem

(Dedicated to the Leaves)





We always pick the flower for no

Good reason,

Like an insect from a plant,

'tis steady 'til—gone!


We always had seen the sky

Like 'tis the glorious blue color

Then we often see how clouds move.

Something we remember


Now that our lovelorn past had

Paid its price, in this moment—

We falter, we forgive, we abnegate tomorrow

For our precious accident


We learned to measure strength and

Weakness in terms of cordiality;

Lest we may never go home,

Midstride, to the forlorn eternity!


 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Reedited 07.12.2019 (Grammar correction:  This is written - This *was written...)

 

 

This was written while engaged in a Twitter application/platform discourse.--It is an edited version.  The following is written on April 30, 2017 w/ the actual approximate time & subtitle, as follows... An Escapist's Poem (previously "Ode To Escapists")  [01:02] (an affected poem, dedicated to the leaves).

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