Every poem in As I Write These Words seeks to take the reader on a journey with author Samir Georges. This very personal collection of poetry, begun by Samir at the age of ten and completed on his twentieth birthday, offers an invitation to travel across the tapestry of emotion and experiences he weaves. Raised in a culture that values and nurtures poetry, Samir first began writing poetry in his native language without any training. His need for expression spurred him on. From the emotion of "He Whistles as He Walks, This Man" to the charm of "Lady", he improvises every poem, writing before he thinks; to him, emotions are felt like flint and stone in the hand, long before thought sparks from between. As I Write These Words presents an offer to dream, journey, and grow-an offer made with an open hand that is there for the taking. Contemplating quietly and fluently is he Not with speech but by mind and precision in every degree, Congratulate those who assimilate to those around them with decree. But he who cares not for the throng knows better than to be bound by such wrong, For judgment is to be awarded by deeds best unknown to the judge, Not as a tool to be handed down from a man to fool.
As I Write These Words
By Samir GeorgesiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012Samir Georges
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4697-7375-9Chapter One
Open Curtains To a scene of beginning:
Where with a gasp of universal release,
The dark void bursts from the light
Showers worlds with the heat of new passion,
and from darkness comes life.
And so too is born into this world rust
and the dulling of blades,
the birth of habits
when globes dim and dull, glow and growl.
But the emptiness remains vast,
a sight of worldly yearning
Cold to the eyes,
Faint to the touch.
It's a sight caught up in the stars
amidst the ones that have fallen,
the many that are falling still,
and those in our eyes that live.
They remind us
of rolling hills,
the illusion of mountains,
and their promise of clouds;
the uncertainty of faith
and crashing to the earth;
the steady crawl,
the forced ascent;
another promise,
another beginning.
And we rise again, always
in step with the sun,
and the breath of this fuller world
that stands alone all around us,
demanding our hearts and pledge
to live
and begin again; all that once was
to fill this empty space
with something other
than dull yearning
and cold embrace.
And with every word and breath,
a promise
to begin anew.
Rise again as workers tasked
and fill this world with life.
Soft-spoken Words Softly spoken words arise
from the ashes
in droplets of snow,
and they rise like curtains
shrouding us in cooling shade,
enticing us
with the tingling of their touch.
These heartfelt sensations
that melt away in waves before the sun
leave but a gentle dew
and memories
of soft-spoken words.
Wilful Captive I'm sitting in the perfect place,
feeling very present
from the ebbing of the pain in my ankle,
the tickle I feel upon my brow,
the fading ache of the bench against my back,
and the ease of every breath,
to the touching of the wind
like a gentle rain that leaves no mark behind,
to the pleasantness of the bird mere struts away,
to the ant intruding on my thoughts
and the smoothness of the water trickling
so close to my ears.
Even the pavement beneath my clothed feet
feels soft yet unyielding.
The fly that twirls around
and the clearness of my eye—
Oh, I am caught in a perfect place
between two worlds.
Whispers The flash of a bulb.
"Sorry" flashes
in my mind.
Echo.
The pulse of my mind,
snap of the camera.
Snap!
Echo.
Sorry.
Pregnant rain
slushes down the sky,
Lightning skidding
through the drops.
Snap.
Fading flash ploughs
back to the camera,
my mind.
Clouds limp past, dragging.
Sorry, I can no longer hear the
whisper.
Snap, flash, all gone, huddled
in a ball in the back of
my mind.
A drop,
another,
jolt my sleeping senses.
A swarm, rain rails down, cold.
A startled cry—
they awake.
Shredding the wind,
clouds streak by; steam engines, like flashes, burn my eyes.
The sun blazes upward; I crane my neck
to catch it—too fast,
gone,
the whisper
gone.
A Foul Business In debt to this world,
Silent is she
Who is spared no sympathy.
Stripped of her fruitfulness,
Once so welcoming and whole,
Now she lays there,
Her pride an open door.
A crippled beast once wild
Discarded there, unspoken,
To be picked at by carrion
Or mauled at by those remorseless needs.
One day a dear friend came by to include
His hungering smile,
Putting no effort to hide
His green teeth, a gleaming pride.
Whirlpool of Fate, Siren
Grasp of Quicksand Swallowed by your path, Panic!
Wriggling in its strong grasp, Suffering!
Subdued beneath its murk, Frantic!
Twitching weakly with hope, Flickering ...!
Peacefully captive bound soul, Unspoken ...
Recalling events long past, Ebbing ...
Neglected feelings swirl out, Broken ...
Motivated It's the flight of pregnant birds that I am reminded of:
Bloated and cramping,
Legs tucked close in, wings beating away with paternal efficacy,
Never toward a nest,
Always in flight,
As if the very notion of rest—a circling falcon,
A tireless hunter—promising a swift demise
and the loss of pregnant life.
This, this is a pregnant flock of desires and ideas,
Notions and purpose,
Encumbered and floating, rolling clouds laden with rain.
And this flock rolls on,
Until with a spasm of wings and anticipated rhythm;
A gush of rains and new life is announced
And from each bird, pregnant from birth,
Comes a new flock, each and every belly swollen with life.
And new ideas surge forth,
And newly feathered wings beat with renewed zeal,
And a multitude of pregnant flocks take to the skies.
And it's these birds I'm reminded of
When I pick up the pen to write,
Because in each and every bird I observe,
I see that pregnant mother of possibility
Beating her wings, soaring above the ground
To give birth in the skies,
Where my ideas soar, soar, and give birth.
And I am reminded of them
Every time I come to write
And fear I will write nothing at all.
Misdirected I'd say I love you, but that could change.
I'd say I hate you, but that would change.
I'd say a million words if only they could fix us.
I'd call you beautiful,
I'd call you an angel.
I'd speak of your eyes like they were pearls in the deep ocean—
But that would do no good.
I'd give you my heart,
My never dying love.
I'd give you my mind;
I gave you my dreams.
My hopes linger around your footsteps,
And I flinch when you hurt,
I cry when you mourn,
I falter when you suffer,
I lie by your moon as you sleep,
I gaze at you till fatigue takes me away.
Then as I dream you fill my heart.
I'd give you my soul,
But of no value it is to you.
But I could give you my love;
I think I shall.
Tonight, the mirror broke;
A thousand pieces lie before me.
It shattered as you dropped my rose,
The rose that wilted in your hand.
My heart shrivelled in my chest,
My soul crumbled in my shell.
The drop of a tear echoes like a mourner's bell
As you went to another.
You have stolen my heart,
You have stolen my mind,
You have stolen my dreams,
Wasted my words, my time.
You have misdirected the glow of the moon so that its beauty was lost
to me.
Now you leave, and the world heaves a sigh.
"Rest now," says the moon,
"For tomorrow you shall meet the sun."
More than Once I Beckoned More than once I beckoned,
More than once I tried
To cower down beneath you,
My shadow, my pride.
Remembering Pictures Snap
of the camera.
Crashing
down, comes the
flash!
Memories like pictures,
brilliant white tulips
blossom
in my mind.
Yawn, open,
gaping for my sight.
Snap,
echoes,
the blossoming tulip
melts,
a little sun that
winks, once, twice, out.
I'm in a dark room.
The flash,
only an echo,
sinks
down into memories
like droplets of
pregnant rain,
slushes down my
breath.
I
cough.
Snap.
Blazing
globe surges up,
flares,
washes away the rain,
rages into my mind
A blinding light,
snap.
A tulip flowers,
the echo begins
and, as always,
melts away.
And the
rain comes
crashing down.
Startled senses wake,
startled emotions real.
A startled me
remembers
pictures.
The Monster without Purpose A mountain of grounded rock reaching to the skies,
A rabbit burying into a hole,
A pig building a house of straw—
Why, concrete little pig, brick and sweat.
A tree, untrimmed and ungainly;
Buzzing insects, foaming with diseases and the chance of death
All around a mound of sand,
A sand castle,
A poor sign of engineering
Yet fit for a queen.
Build straight pathways, not curving halls, little ant;
Your purpose is there, it's your efficiency that lacks.
Take note from the concrete, the velvet and the vibrating,
The ironman working the ironworks in the iron mine—
Purpose, purpose, purpose.
He earns his iron dollar,
They raise their iron children,
Time rusts their flawed, iron hearts.
The silver-tongued king rules his copper-minded people,
The golden patience of time rules the silver-tongued king,
The velvet soft lover wrestles with the friction of passion.
The ninety-nine-year-old man is killed for his crimes.
The copper-minded populace cheers;
Some shed fake diamond tears,
And we spin our web of lies,
Our empire of cobwebs, time-formed truths
Threatened by the subtle breeze of our patient host,
True diamond patience of Earth.
So the philosopher asks
Riddles with himself.
Earth has no purpose but to be,
And to be without purpose is not our way,
Yet we unfurl our carpet in its chambers of torrents
And build our houses of straw
And build our mountains of steel.
And we expect to persevere,
So this purposeless world,
Moulded of chance and mutation,
It sits by, without reasons to impede;
It sits by, as time hammers at its walls.
A purposeless measure, the ticking of a clock;
The clock ticks, yet the batteries have long passed,
The maker long gone.
Still we build; a raging force in the calm of chaos,
And the solidarity of this fortress called earth,
The permanence of its chaos,
Is challenged by a rusting blade.
The blade rises against the mountain
and with precise slashes,
chips away at the uneven granite.
The blade chips, the dead clock ticks,
The mountain sits.
A Quest Within My green gaze befalls
The sceptre.
It floats on a pedestal,
Hums a tune soft to my ears.
The glow, beacon, scampers toward me,
Tugs at my leg.
I plow forward through my stubborn reservations.
Walls, barriers, built before;
Another's toil.
I pummel through,
Mighty to rubble, my toil.
I scuttle back down the hall,
A dull orange rod in my sweaty palm.
I brush away the dust,
Weave my way through my greatest art,
Meeting no resistance.
Grim—
A gated barrier around my heart,
And behind quivers my joy.
I beat away the steel,
Sceptre on rock,
Dull and dented rod on a mountain,
Resistance.
We Await Her Arrival Our maiden of secrecy,
Cherished by the stars,
Whored by the moon—
We wait for her day and night.
Our hearts flutter into specs of cherished dust
As they escape from us in every cherished breath;
As they embrace us once more, we draw them back in.
This sensation that stings our eyes,
Draws our lids, draws our sight,
Draws our thoughts
Inwardly, as we fall back upon a cloud mattress—
It embraces us, envelops us from within.
She who inspires each breath,
We wait for her in every wisp of night air,
With every breath we let stray.
Our hearts are rebuilt of hope,
Hope that she would come.
Carried aloft our very needs
To meet us upon our cushion of clouds,
And with every breath we retake,
Hope is shattered.
But as quickly as it is gone,
As surely as our next breath,
As surely our very next moment,
Hope returns.
We fall in trance.
Our maiden, hidden in her caves.
Drunken sleep takes her away.
The world our maker
Whisks her into his forays.
The swirling dusk, a grey breeze in the darkness—
We are left behind, in the dark.
Our desperate eyes cling to the distance;
A spotlight speaks to our sight.
She is around the corner, it says.
This want from within
Inspires each breath. As we race to meet the light,
As it inches ever away, we pound through the dark,
Panting, and we collide into her.
In a burst of cool night air,
We close our eyes.
She is there,
Within.
Our minds can picture nothing else, our eyes smile,
Our lips quiver
With every breath.
Sand Castle As my country was bombed and I was lifted away into the skies,
I looked back and promised myself
I would not forget this house of sand in these times of rain.
She Was the Proudest of Birds Her nest was made of woven gold, silver embroidery;
Her two little eggs polished to reflect the mother's loving smile;
And guardian over this lavish nest, a warrior bird with talons and zeal.
But she was proudest most of her plume
Wild and extravagant, rich red speckles over deep hazel feathers,
Their edges like the hems of a dress, entwined with brilliant white.
But the envious world set an eagle to take her plumage,
And her husband dove with him to the skies, and there they battle still.
In desperation they sent a winged fox to slip through the clouds,
and the sly demon came on winds of ill will and ruined her nest,
Took hostage her eggs.
Humbled, she shed her plumage, scattered it for the world to hoard—
All the price for these little eggs with fickle shells to be returned.
And naked without husband, she looked down upon their plain shells,
And reflected there, a mother's loving smile.
Stars One amongst the multitude would gaze up in awe,
And in his sight he would capture
A moment as unique as it is common:
A hovering globe,
Overflowing with gold, showering the multitude with brilliant
currents,
Mother to the rivers of El Dorado.
And each droplet would sink into the soil beneath,
Birthing glimmering auric trees from each seedling shed.
And so did more of the multitude come to gather;
The mulling throng stood dazed and gazing,
Mesmerized by the omniscient presence looming above.
Until one day,
One by one,
The multitude became few and the few became none,
Receding to the ground.
And one by one did the none become many,
And grow did a multitude of shimmering sprouts,
Till one day did appear a clustered forest
Swaying to and fro in the healthy breeze
In tribute to the sphere of imminence above,
Swinging more frantically in the anticipating gust.
But with glooming realization
Did they notice
A fading orb.
And the leaves rustled their protests;
With heart-aching comprehension, the trees stretched themselves,
But only could they stare, limbs strained, as their sun faded away
And found its long awaited place amongst companions,
Stars in our distant past.
Night-time I love the feeling of the night-time,
When the sun is drowned in the dark,
And I can dip my feather in this sea of ink
And on paper soar.
Love and Loathing I love holding you in my arms,
Bodies entwined,
Breathing of life and contentment
Together.
And as I hold you in my arms,
I loathe
That all my mind can do,
Weak in the thrall of content,
Is hold you some more.
The Philosopher He pushes aside the weathered curtain,
The colourless tub, the bland tiles, his grey glazed sight.
He looks over his shoulder and invites her into his mental fortress.
The king philosopher's decreed writer
To write his thoughts as they rise
Forth from the ashes of the furnace in his mind,
Invisible phoenixes, a wonder never seen.
The writer is a woman, beautiful; his fantasies rule with an iron hammer.
He feels nothing for the imaginary woman;
His dreams told of respect, of falling in love in its truest form:
The caesarean of his mind,
And she would fall in love with the thought burning society within.
So she sat there, somewhere, laptop in hand.
The philosopher closes the curtain, undresses; the water is warm,
It caresses him like no lover ever has.
This water that stirs the slumbering giant within his flesh
Unlocks the rusting, fading iron gate within.
He closes his fragmented eyes;
The distorted images disappear, and his mind kisses aching wounds.
He sighs.
In his mind she waits behind the curtain; it must be awkward.
He does not smile, but his lips part, and he sighs the heat away.
The water cools,
The philosopher sits.
The small tub is a tight fit; he looks down,
The flaws of man so bare before him.
He sees them in many a light,
Riddled with protruding edges of perception;
He tucks his fragmented eyes away.
The philosopher looks down on the folds of his flesh again—
The hair, the child of nature and god, an unholy affair.
His hand runs over his thigh, the meaningless hair, the soft fat.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from As I Write These Wordsby Samir Georges Copyright © 2012 by Samir Georges . Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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