Another one by Dylan (Do Not Go Gentle Into the Good Night).

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

— Dylan Thomas

That is sublime. Dylan with an interesting background reminds me yet again that writing is an outlet powerful enough to sap excess emotions. Stronger the emotions, often sweeter the poetry, respite imminent…

Heavenly downpour, an elixir sustains,
Living and recycling all that stands;
Serene function, forgotten, seemingly mundane,
To observe and grasp intricacies.

From my mother, balanced on her crown,
Water, taken and reclaimed, visually stunning,
Fire, emanated breathing, an incense perfect,
Tempest, carried, touching force magnificent,
Constant beat, bringing down, rhythm supreme,
At heart, tasted, understood, finally.

Five senses and elements, brought together,
One divine event, unnoticed, never again.

Quiet the times, wafting on a river,
Torrid the waves, unrelenting;
Yet intangible the entropy, seemingly normal
till I found a shade fond.

Fresh the perspective, vibrant
Engaging verbosely, respected.
A reminiscent feeling dug deep
Revives a bond, once beloved.

Transient the touch, still affected
Involuntary a kid chimed and dreamed;
Unlikely snow flake discovered anew,
matured, unique, intricate, my precious cherished.

Somehow short yet impact sustained,
A radiant consciousness shall linger everlasting.
Another time, different setting, alternate universe,
Particles perhaps do converge cardinally.

More often than I care, queried, the reasons endured,
Injury and therapy, without weary, managed, amidst muscles sore.
Two screws, titanium strong, sustain movement, each knees tried,
Unprofessional weakling forlorn, strengths born, in stride.

After conquering tasks, men abhorred,
I remember once again, reasons I run for;
It nourishes movement, a sloth died,
Pumps through my veins, makes me feel pride,
Slowly but surely, winds of change, pure,
A feeling lucidly reassured.

It moves me forward, to a future I see,
Teaches no regret for the expired,
I’ve left behind, retired,
And ahead the beautiful seasons before me.
Hope provided, life we think is sure,
It is yet more brittle and pure.

She wages, provides meaning once more
Subtler than words from a mind obscure.
Blatant the health revived, with sweat,
Sublime still the reasons, yet.
A final thought thus evolves,
Run thyself and realize my resolve.

For my writing, shy and barren,
do injustice to the feeling matured;
For the mind’ eye perceives,
an infinite unique possibilities.
Far more to be said, miles to be conquered,
races to be defeated, running life to be fulfilled.

Came across this gem from Kipling and had to write about it. It concisely lays out the virtues of a great man. Just another stark reminder to all of us on how hard we need to strive to become a ‘Man’. And that too in plain simple words. Striking.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!

I had an argument, in an elated state
Few years back, with someone who understood
The idea, but not through my eyes, a distorted palate,
Here I am again, watching, standing on what I believe.

This movie, a rebellion from mundane existence,
Far moved thoughts, than Matrix ever has.
Absolute resignation the key, to rise, to see,
An aghori created within,
To know, to discern Liberation.
Here’s another master piece, misunderstood.

This is another reason why I watch as many movies as I do and read as many fiction/poetry as I can get my hands on. May be I’m still searching for that affirmation for what I think I know…

Just taking a walk on a beautiful morning,
Watching fall colours waving in a dance,
Blending with rustling symphony of leaves,
Breaking the trance, cool, serene, gusts wafting
A remote breakfast, delicious flavor, stimulating
Higher senses without effort.

Another day, mundane incident.
Beauty immeasurable. Senses fulfilled.
A life enriched.

Being hungry a minute and devoid of it the next,
The sated feeling fills body and mind;
If only food and everything else tasted heavenly
Like this, every moment, beyond deliverance.

One thought opposes, another cheers on,
In difference, another sense of satisfaction.
All transient pleasures short lived in eternal time,
May be only the final sleep will quench this thirst.

It came by, it passed,
Like every other day, the past year has;
Memories past, of fun and frolic, linger,
Every night with friends, included.

With buddies and wine missing here
I sit solemn working on my code;
Come far I have, the past 15 years
To reach the end of another episode.

One day past, the fun does it last ?
Here comes a new day with aspirations aloft.
One more year. One more day.
and I still really don’t feel that old…

Dammit I’m mad.
Evil is a deed as I live.
God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.
To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.
Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?
Man, it is hot. I’m in it. I tell.
I am not a devil. I level “Mad Dog”.
Ah, say burning is, as a deified gulp,
In my halo of a mired rum tin.
I erase many men. Oh, to be man, a sin.
Is evil in a clam? In a trap?
No. It is open. On it I was stuck.
Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.
Be still if I fill its ebb.
Ew, a spider… eh?
We sleep. Oh no!
Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.
Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name.
Both, one… my names are in it.
Murder? I’m a fool.
A hymn I plug, deified as a sign in ruby ash,
A Goddam level I lived at.
On mail let it in. I’m it.
Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!
A loss it is alas (sip). I’d assign it a name.
Name not one bottle minus an ode by me:
“Sir, I deliver. I’m a dog”
Evil is a deed as I live.
Dammit I’m mad.

Poetry ? Well, it is a little hard to comprehend the meaning behind it but Palindrome you say ?! Yes. This is a 224 word Palindrome Poetry written by “Demetri Martin”.

via Neatorama and read from the original link at Slate Magazine.