The Night Excites Me!
The night makes me sad.... and makes me think.... and dream and fly.... It gives me a wild imagination.... and bizarre thoughts.... a wandering mind.... and a craving to write....
Alas! I've been too busy lately to write anything. But here's something I wrote earlier this year. A lot of my writings revolve around the night ....or darkness.
Unknown
In the dead of the night
When silence creeps in
And shadows speak loud
When the murmur of the heart
Slows down to a whisper
And the heat of mingling bodies
Shots up a notch
It's then the play starts
The game of passion
Of unsatiated thirsts
And of unfulfilled cravings
We all yearn to quench it
To lean forward and put a stop
To the mortal uncertainties
But we lie there unable to move
Waiting and glaring to see
The dawning of youth
Suddenly we're old
Like leaf from a fallen tree
We see, but can't see
We hear the songs
Of birds long gone
The humming of yesteryears
It runs on and long
Will it ever end?
Will there be oblivion?
Or will we end in ecstasy?
Alas! I've been too busy lately to write anything. But here's something I wrote earlier this year. A lot of my writings revolve around the night ....or darkness.
Unknown
In the dead of the night
When silence creeps in
And shadows speak loud
When the murmur of the heart
Slows down to a whisper
And the heat of mingling bodies
Shots up a notch
It's then the play starts
The game of passion
Of unsatiated thirsts
And of unfulfilled cravings
We all yearn to quench it
To lean forward and put a stop
To the mortal uncertainties
But we lie there unable to move
Waiting and glaring to see
The dawning of youth
Suddenly we're old
Like leaf from a fallen tree
We see, but can't see
We hear the songs
Of birds long gone
The humming of yesteryears
It runs on and long
Will it ever end?
Will there be oblivion?
Or will we end in ecstasy?
posted by Munira | 11:58 PM
11 Comments:
If you insist on writing poetry, first define a though. Don't lift words from songs and place them out-of-context; they make your poems sound infantile, if you’re permanently stuck at 16. Or maybe you are 16. If so, I apologize for my comments. You have the right to experiment at this immature age
1/ I'm not writing poetry; I never claimed I am. This is just my mumbling - whether you understand it or not.
2/ I've not lifted any words from any songs. Please quote the songs you think I stole from. Otherwise don't accuse me of plagiarism.
3/ They're supposed to sound out-of-context. Look at the blog title: it's Mumbling. It's not supposed to make sense.
4/ I don't care whether I sound infantile or permanently 16 or whatever. Age has nothing to do with it, nor has anyone else's opinion. This is my blog and I can write whatever I feel like.
5/ If you feel so annoyed, then why don't you rmeain in your mature world instead of visiting my immature one :-)
Came to your website through a search. Im Raza. Nice little thoughts there. DO come visit mine at
http://disseminationforall.blogspot.com/ :). Will keep in touch sis.
Raza.
Copyright © 2004 Munira Ajmal. All rights reserved.
The views, thoughts, opinions, ideas, rambling, babbling, grumbling, jumbling, and of course mumbling, expressed here are solely mine; noone else can be crazy enough to have them!
reminds me of this:
The Cataract of Lodore
'How does the Water
Come down at Lodore?'
My little boy ask'd me
Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he task'd me
To tell him in rhyme.
Anon at the work,
There first came one daughter
And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother,
And to hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,
As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store:
And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.
From its sources which well
In the Tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For awhile, till it sleeps
It its own little Lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and staring;
It runs though the reeds
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-scurry.
Here it comes sparking,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoaking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.
The Cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
Its caverns and rocks among:
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping;
Showering and springing,
Flying and glinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound!
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its
sound.
Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And ratting and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowering and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;
Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once all all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.
Robert Southey 1774-1843
peccavi
Are you dead or something?
Are you OK?
You like Star Wars? And you like Wordsworth? And you like the night? And you're a psychologist by qualification? Aren't you quite an anomaly of sorts? :-)
- Neptune's Trident
You like Star Wars? And you find the night exciting? And you read Wordsworth? Aren't you an anomaly? :-)
- Neptune's Trident
Wow, what a reply, absolutely makes sense. And, at the end of the day its the thought that counts not just the words or the order of words. Poem or not, its one good mumbling :)
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