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.
Dark Was the Night...
And yet another time, the night justified its nature — dark. Nothing good came out of it. As if the eclipse had taken its toll. Trust shattered, voices broken, and souls shook. The warmth being stolen away. The cold breeze as cruel as death. A person could only hope for the sun to come out, desperately waiting for the morning to rise — only to realize that the eclipse had taken over. The sun hidden behind the shadows of the moon. Oh, the reflection! Cost a lot of people a lot of peace. We absorbed all we could externally, until we were full to the brim. And the words wanted to leave our bodies.
By Isha Khaneja8 years ago in Poets
With the Blue Eyes of My Mother
I remember trying to find my way back home. A swirling summer that depicted long and winding evenings upon kind grass, where children as we were, sat deliberating a fine conversation. Deciding, as we did, whose melody we were to decree, in an era defining sense, songbirds of our day. The pace of voice, innocent and fluid, impassioned absolutely them and I as we spent the early-afternoon grazing among bric-a-brac and chit-chat that loses value with age, but is not forgotten. A judgement-less bunch, renegades as I shall say, that could discern my greatest smile visible in the mindspace that pondered the unprobabilistic unifications that bound us by design. Demonstrating an individual and group ability to conduct spontaneity organically and efficiently. Which gave to us, with no hesitation, an impetuous resplendence. I see today, that while they were the best of times, it is now the sort of place, as we did not know then, where everything is disproportional. Now what seemed then most unlikely, because of a smiling sun, radiant healing skies and a hugging warmth that thawed efficiently those cold distant sparkling wintry nights. I bore a shrouding aurora that howled a snide afterthought like wilting bark. Suppose as I do now, that being lost of ways, I was to stumble upon a magnificent achievement. An accolade that administered, as I did not know an achievement could, the dormant awareness of fragility, balance and vulnerability, that rung neatly around escaping years. Departing me to an overwhelming compulsion; to retreat from an infinite degeneration.
By S R Gurney8 years ago in Poets
