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“Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor, and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and their freedoms”​

― Robert A. Heinlein, Starship Troopers
 

First Evening (Première Soirée)​

Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.
Perched on my enormous easy chair,
Half nude, she clasped her hands.
Her feet trembled on the floor,
As soft as they could be.
I watched as a ray of pale light,
Trapped in the tree outside,
Danced from her mouth
To her breast, like a fly on a flower.
I kissed her delicate ankles.
She had a soft, brusque laugh
That broke into shining crystals -
A pretty little laugh.
Her feet ducked under her chemise;
"Will you please stop it!…"
But I laughed at her cries -
I knew she really liked it.
Her eye trembled beneath my lips;
They closed at my touch.
Her head went back; she cried:
"Oh, really! That's too much!
"My dear, I'm warning you…"
I stopped her protest with a kiss
And she laughed, low -
A laugh that wanted more than this…
Her clothes were almost off;
Outside, a curious tree
Beat a branch at the window
To see what it could see.

by Arthur Rimbaud​

 
the dark night of the soul
is seen only with your eyes
To record the night in the word
illuminates all the darkness
that so insuffers from the human condition
Nothing can be told humankind
that they don't already know
......the poet merely enlightens
the knowledge is the darkness of us all

There are nemesis surrounding poetry:
Hubris;arrogance;judgement
the mockery of ignorance
sloth;believe in flattery;fame
the poem:a tool to deny God
freedome to say anything shocking
best way to get even with life
with the values of society
a most dangerous art- poetry

Gregory Corso
 
This rotating domino in my cranium. This drooping head. These resigned shoulders. Hung in guilt. In conspiracy with gravity. In unholy alliance with the guillotine.This me. A lonesome palm tree. This I. An isolated sand heap. Ravaged by winds and ghouls.A sad lamp. Gazing yellow sickness. The squeaky glass looks inwards, half veiled by sooty curse.An old lamp, sits in regal solitude. Serious, heavy and solemn like a contemplating monk. An ancient teak chair. Fractured yet dignified. Rests on itself like an old army veteran. Strong and obstinate, sure of its presence in time, sits doubtless. My faded cotton vest, bloating and deflating under my snoring belly.These restless events in this settled lacuna.I am immediately next to me. I am immediately next to isness. I am what immediately follows pure rest.Them useless books. Their hardcovers swallowing jargon and junkyard. Those poor incomplete sods.Who is what when nothing is?I am the mad king who fights happenings. My madness has cost me my sleep. Yet I do not learn.By Akash Sinha.

Written by my Indian friend, Kolkata, West Bengal.
 
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