You plucked tulips;
white and white.
To sanctify dreary mornings,
you placed the flowers right before eyes,
in a vase beside a slender-Buddha-Boy's picture.
You wondered over clouds and Blake’s “tyger”,
wrinkling your eyes like crumpled paper;
you thought who the beast was the poet or the poem.
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Tea was a local pressure,
like cooked soybeans served
at a village-relative’s house.
You sipped and drank social weight;
pressure-cooked by expectations.
When you talked you were heard
by the trees that kissed the windowpane.
Mother always gurgled about your trophies
at her usual-evening-talks, while you looked
for calm in the eye of dusk; and wondered
if Buddha Boy was still chasing the sun.
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Buddha Boy’s last spiritual awakening
was when he burnt a painting of guillotine;
people did the death dance around its ashes
(those people who followed prophets who said they knew).
And he was immortal and worshipped,
his smile melted heavens
and his eyes became his own God.
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You almost-cry to sleep at night.
Cold tears have stopped coming out
in incessant-abundance. You have grown
by experience; by observations you made
while playing your fingers in candle-fire.
A contest entry
- hypocrite by the atlantic.
2300 points, ended September 3, 2008, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - see not the flame, know the artist, and understand blood. (invite only) by apples fell.
400 points, ended September 25, 2008, 34 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
don't comment on this. it's not obligatory to anyway.
Comments
1 - 14 of 14
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I really loved this. The Buddha Boy name, the images, overall atmosphere of the whole thing. I liked how each stanza was separated, almost like chapters in a story, which was fantastic for me. The ending, I second, is dynamite. I have a habit of playing with my lighter flame
But anyway, beautiful, inspiring piece 
Jeanette*~
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That ending is dynamite. Just the idea of candle-fire creates such an interesting idea in my mind...I get a strong sense of knowledge here...Not because of the images themselves, but the sense of conviction each word carries...Like it is trying to paint, as well as make a connection on more than one level. The second stanza is just good writing. The poem itself is very trimmed and constrained and you use the images as a way to convey a sense of trust and somehow, compassion. I would not kill you if you hadn't entered this into my contest...But I might have been disappointed for sure.
A fine contender.
Thanks so much for entering and good luck.
;
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i never liked blake's tyger. i do like this.
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almost-cry
I love that term
I think I've done that before
and this is beautiful, Esha
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thank you
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I won't even bother to enter this contest. This is just SO good.
I have no more to say that Nicolette and Cat haven't already said...
..just beautiful.
Meg~
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or jp... hehe...
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you better enter
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bleh... thanks though heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy enter my contest
and this one... otherwise james will kill me!!!
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I agree, excellent poetry...nothing more needs to be said!
~ Nicolette
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wow...
this is excellent
wonderful images
and a great cadence- just one of my very favorites by you -
a strong, strong poem.. although i haven't seen the other entries, this will have to be a contender in the contest
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oops
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this made my day!
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