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.
The poor man's salary
Every day is a salary, But the food we eat is more than the wages We the modern farmers toil taller - than the seed we harvest. Mama hustles to fill our empty stomachs And make the frowning faces gleam But; The world aims more and more, Struggle day and night, Yielding vanity in the shelter. Who knows the abode of salary? Travelling like the sun in a man's purse Deducting fare without notice. An empty stomach, Tattered clothes, Stale furniture, Rust and dust, Waiting for revenue, An unending journey Whose path is ubiquitous. We earn; but when earned, Daddy brings his shattered boots out of the box And calls "aboki" to beautify it Mama also submits her tripod cost And I submit a diary of the term fees. Poor man's salary is like a weak soldier Who disappoints them in the field Salary is salary - but not all salaries are rich. I read a long letter from a neighbour Rejecting light because of probable cause Cause; sooner, tax and tattered bills will be asked. If you fail to employ yourself You will be salaried employed If you don't work, you will not receive What we work, we earn.
By Goto Emmanuel2 years ago in Poets
Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman
"Leaves of Grass" is a book of poems that praises the human form and condition while also delving into issues of democracy, nature, love, and friendship. The book is notable for its departure from traditional poetry form, with a free verse style and the use of common language. The poet presents himself as both a unique and universal person, expressing the common American experience and identity. The collection was also known for its provocative content at the time of publishing, which included candid depictions of sexuality.
By Genius Sly2 years ago in Poets
If It Were in My Power…
If It Were in My Power… If it were in my power,I’d build a city, a magical tower.Where the flutter of doves in their gentle flightWould turn life’s song into endless delight.Where jingling breaths, like anklets, sing,And senses soak in the hues of spring.Where the moon would never fade or wane,And moonlight’s fabric would gently sustainThe barren souls of a thirsty earth,Clothing their hearts with endless worth.A place where certainty reigns supreme,And doubt vanishes like a fleeting dream.Where lips would speak without any fear,No king’s shadow hovering near.Where veins hold no trace of dread,And terror’s whisper would long be dead.No place for fear or shadows of doubt,Where truth meets truth, leaving lies out.Where fireflies guide the night’s dark trail,And jealousy to seasons would fail.Where heights and depths hold no disdain,And envy finds no home to gain.A city where dreams light up the eyes,And darkness flees where joy resides.No night would pass in ignorant haze,No soul would wander in thoughtless daze.No tainted dawn, no fractured sky,No whirlpools in oceans to terrify.No trees or branches, lost and bare,Would feel like strangers, unaware.And birds that chirp through sunny daysWould fear no rain’s destructive gaze.If it were in my hands to decree,A city like this I’d create for thee.Where love untouched by worldly sorrowWould promise a brighter, hope-filled tomorrow.No binds of life to hold us tight,No bitter truths to dim our sight.The harshness of this vast, cruel sphereWould never touch a single tear.Where my breath's freshness would forever reside,In the lotus of your love, my guide.Your beauty would dance in every line,The essence of my verse divine.One fleeting moment would hold an age,A timeless story on life's grand stage.No dirges of grief would cross my throat,No sorrow's hymn would find its note.No innocent blood upon the groundWould leave its mark, no stain profound.This city I’d build, this city so true,
By Muhammad Waseem 2 years ago in Poets
