surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Soundwaves
I sat down to have a conversation with my shortcomings, but it is no easy task to try and converse with these entities that behave so much like soundwaves. Lately, they have made themselves comfortable occupying space in my vibratory world, propagating through many colloidal spheres of my existence, flowing through a string of particles that are each suspended in singular moments of time. This oscillating wave train causes disruptions in my otherwise single-frequency ethos. With (what I thought to be) no particular phonetic organization, it produces all types of sounds, and although I do hear them, I cannot understand them. Today, however, I attained a special sensitivity to these modulations; I perceived a new tonality in its discourse. I now realize that when too much focus is put on any single note, it is noise. But when perceived in unison, coupled with the positive potential that is created by each wave, it is music. And what more could I ask for than being in-tune with the symphonies and synchronicities of life. As I sing along to many more arrangements of both sound and silence, I hope to evolve to ultimately assume the cosmic vibration of Om, the healing sound of the universe.
By Anupallavi Sinha5 years ago in Poets
Aqua-cosmos
I looked up at the sky, and instead found myself gaping at the bottom of an ocean. Mesmerized by the spectacle above me, I bore witness to the most magnificent perspectives, from the undersides of grand coral polyp colonies, to the bellies of the most bizarre, prehistoric marine giants. I longed to glide alongside these nautical creatures, to become one with the entity that adorns most of the Earth’s surface.. to aeronautically drift so effortlessly that I would forget that I am submerged in water. I realized that my fate was entirely dependent on the integrity of this thin, crystalline sheet of glass hovering above me. Like a stubborn ego, it persists as the only barrier between myself and the colossal aqua-cosmos. And then it occurred to me: this infinite, oceanic haven was always present. With time, enduring through cycles of struggle and growth, I have been chipping away at this iceberg of insecurity -to the point at which it is now fully transparent, to the point that I can recognize that it is keeping me from further life-changing manifestations. Suddenly, I truly understand the depths of equanimity and vulnerability. I feel the water in my cells vibrating at the same frequency as the water in the floating ocean above me. Finally tuning into the sweet euphony of shattering glass, I welcome this nautical world of unwavering devotion and consciousness to fall down and swallow me whole.
By Anupallavi Sinha5 years ago in Poets
Pier 52
He looks through the rouge of my life like it’s light. So I let him. The last cube of ice. Outside the grey. Where I found him. My lover. Melts atop this brick, as if it’s our last whiskey together. His brown, more fragrant, more dangerous than whiskey. You couldn’t miss him. Nothing lasts. Of promise. Such is the promise of light. Not even day breaks between us. Black joy, cresting over and over the apricot sun. Kept a spiral of his raven hair, like a favour. His favourite fuschia trainers. The taste of his plum lips, where we first kissed. Where we first blissed. I couldn’t— though I tried. To keep him. Wouldn’t keep. Still. Nor true. Keep up. How could he keep me in peach, when he refused to keep sweet? Didn’t keep me in compliments. Was I supposed to keep true? Look. We discovered day like it was fire. Flesh, like empire. Touch like bloodlight. Yes. Count my pearls like a missile. As of tomorrow and the day after. As of this darkening gelatin and silver. As of the moon and the monsoon rain. As of these piers. As of America and all its splendour. As of the alleyway and the archive. As of this F-stop. And this French rose. As of parfum. And this click and shutter. As of the daffodil and every queer hue
By Omotara James5 years ago in Poets
