Untitled

I am not dead
Yet,
My inferences doubt my existence.
Things seen, forgotten tomorrow;
Would my hands move,
Would i see,
Hate the meaningless reasons
Behind the curtains.
Brown days, boils in hand;
The sword of the dawn,
Lives in all of us.
Hard, gusted;
Rotten flesh in the rains to see tomorrow.
Yes, it is summer.

Reviews

[Pax Analog]

A well-rendered existentialist sensibility. The difference between a Euro existentialist sensibility and Zen, Taoist, or Advaita Vedantic, is that the latter forms of enquiry run deeper and don't assume Life needs reasons -- or that Life is determined by form only.

In other words, a contemplative disposition transcends the fretting of the mortal figure to intuit the a priori Ground. One is correct to suspect the veracity of a mere egoic lifespan, but it's nothing to worry about. There is a grace to allowing Consciousness to permeate you without getting in the way. It isn't even that difficult to directly observe that thoughts and feelings and phenomenology are arising in Consciousness.

We are wise to shift from the tormented logic of the figure to the seamless intuition of the Ground.

Your "sword of the dawn" reads like a scythe, but it is also Awareness Itself.

"I" is a Mystery, unbound.

[Dinesh Sairam]

Maybe one of the surreal poems out there. I used to think surreal poems are cool. Lately I have fallen for the poetry in real time. Nothing beats the beauty the existent. But, this poem brought me back to those days when my dreams were raging as a flame in sublime horizons. Don't take this for bad, the 'meaning' of the poem is really not evident as it is. Maybe that adds to the splendor :) Keep writing.

[Matthews Reggie]

Fine work... I read it thrice to grab the maximum.. Each time I read it was a different feel... Sad words with emotional excellence... Best portions - sword of dawn, i hate the ..... reasons

[Ronald Ayers]

Dear VG

I am inviting you to submit three (3) of your "Untitled" poems to The Aegis Literary Review located at: http://aegisliteraryreview.com, for consideration. Please go the submission page, and follow the "HeyPublisher procedure for making submissions to the "Review."

If accepted, you will be paid for your poem via PayPal.

Sincerely,
Ronald Ayers, Editor

[DannyLynne Riley]

I love the line "I hate the meaningless reasons behind the curtains" and I love the raw element...the feeling of something unseen now exposed...I look forward to reading more from you. you have great talent -DannyLynne

[Dane Osborne]

A well written and intelligent piece. Atleast to me this was very existentialist, it adresses all the conclusions we usually make when we come to the belief that existence is meaningless but yet handled in a fresh way. It had an excellent flow and great describtions. I liked the imagery of the words.

[Angel Bird]

So many hard and hopeless words ... but nonetheless a glimpse of hope seeping through every well conceived line.
Each line of yours strongly reverberates in me and has a strong impact.

- I am not dead - Yet

- My inferences doubt my existence

- Would my hands move,

- Would i see,

Impressive work.

[My Fair Lady]

I agree with what has already been said by many others about this piece. It seems a sad piece, festering with emotion waiting for the splinter to be pulled from a wound.

[Ru Banerjee]

It is a stunning write in terms of the turn of phrases, like "brown days, boiled in hand", "the sword of the dawn", "rotten flesh in the rains"--very intense and very vivid...there is a distinct, metaphorical way that you speak of the inevitable nemesis of humanity: "my inferences doubt my existence/ Things seen, forgotten tomorrow". I can sense and almost smell the 'rotten flesh' of apocalypse when you write the last lines. There is the sweeping gust of unexplainable anguish, as if you find yourself groping into the forbidden darkness of 'brown days', striving to find the 'sword of the dawn' in the ultimate redemption of the life forces surrounding all of us.

[Donald Meikle]

not the happiest of work
individuality seeks freedom constantly
as does the soul of a poet