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.
Sapphire: A Sure Fire!
O! My! O Precious Life! A Sure Fire! Sapphire! To yea one beholds entire desireWithin which —renews—heartless quagmire?!As grating gropes over gurgling gyresEbbing to flow as some embodied empire! O! My! O Precious Life! A Sure Fire! As fleeting hope and even more luminous than fire 🔥 You belong to the day and equally to the night totally hired O! My! O Precious Life! A Sure Fire! Sapphire! In carrying sails — Is thou oafish a quenchless desire?! Thirsty, perhaps, for so long is thy mired briarYet, in widespread nature, dwelling so, to persistently inspire ! O! My! O Precious Life! A Temperate Fire! Sapphire! Unto yea, bellying long, are these bounteous spiresAs clustered congeries over cloistered choirsO! My! O Precious Life! A Sure Fire! O! Must you lie barefoot upon death beds so silently expiredSeemingly dropping a thousand dirges over those deathly pyresO! My! O Precious Life! As Infernal as a blazing Fire!But, for the spirit, thickened in direIt's all an illusion which it pledges not to “forever,”acquire!O! My! O Precious Life! An Eternal Fire! For the flesh so camped in rubies, and lodged in sapphiresThe work of surpassing all is the ultimate goal gravely desired O! My! O Precious Life! A Sure Fire! And post -personified ; waving your final flags as an esquire;You bid adieus -to everything that transpires...O Precious Life ! Sapphire! A Sure fire! Co-concurring— off the hook, as a timely spire...How upon innocence you gently conspire!As faith so ardent rolls its' earnetness so dire.. O! My! O Precious Life! Sapphire! © Madhu Goteti, September 26th, 2022
By Madhu Goteti about a year ago in Poets
Ink-Stained Dreams
Oh, to be a poet in a candle-lit room, Where silence hums like a sacred tune, With scattered pages and ink-stained hands, And verses flowing like ocean sands. To bleed in lines what hearts conceal, To turn mere sorrow into something real, To dance with metaphors late at night, And shape despair in dawn’s soft light. Oh, to wander thought’s untamed road, Carrying nothing but a poet’s load— Of aching love and aching loss, Of fragile truths the world would toss. To speak of stars no one has seen, To write of places we’ve never been, To make the mundane suddenly grand, With just a pen held in trembling hand. To live in whispers, to dream in ink, To write the edge before we sink— Yes, let me live that quiet riot, Oh, to be a poet, forever defiant.
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
