The smell of coffee,
Birds chirping along to school,
Sound of the day’s buzz.
The smell of coffee,
Birds chirping along to school,
Sound of the day’s buzz.
Eye-to-eye, we lock,
Heartbeats rise, breaths disappear,
Love’s sweet seed, planted.
I feel you widen,
That morning stretch when you rise,
Our love blooms open.
Kissing your forehead,
My torrential love showers,
Spreading over you.
Don’t contain my love,
Flowers die without sunlight,
Heat blows off the lid.
I look into your eyes,
Lion fixates on its prey,
I want your love-spark.
What is love to you?
Dirty or clean fuel for life?
I’ll take either from you.
There are important reasons for not using language correctly, that is, in accordance with a strict grammatical rule. The historical truth that languages change over time — not just in the meaning of certain words or introduction of new words, but in grammar — supports those reasons objectively.
However, we should avoid the temptation of assuming that changes in grammar over time imply some clear evaluative backdrop, i.e., improvement or degeneration. It is impossible to tell objectively, i.e., without assuming a particular subjective or inter-subjective standpoint, where improvement or degeneration has occurred. All that these changes tell us is that they were (or were seen as) necessary. A similar argument works for understanding the evolution of a species not yet extinct: We cannot objectively state that some branch in its evolution constitutes an improvement or degeneration, only that it was necessity and that a trade-off with its environment took place.
Nevertheless, the reasons for grammatical changes over time are multifarious: moral, political, aesthetic, physical, and maybe a combination such as social and-or economic. They stem from the complex interrelations between people within a linguistic context, which may be broad enough to span the entire international scene or as narrow as a household.
There is, however, one interesting aesthetic reason for changing grammar, which is to direct attention not to the meaning of words, but:
These two reasons are understood best by artists and mystics.
They are especially understood by poets: the sensitive, rare and beautifully endangered creatures without whom we would more quickly descend into automation — in deed as in spirit.
Thoughts growing bitter,
Birds fleeing dangerous winds,
Carrying our grief.
Icy morning kisses,
Trees whisper secrets at dawn,
Spreading naked lies.
Gardens of pink-blue roses,
Crimson blushes, lies,
Pitch black forest of longing,
Love shrouded by fear.
Memories of pain,
My heart: wondrous Arctic tern,
Enduring the worst.
Piercing hateful eyes,
Tiger’s claws sink into flesh,
Heart dies of regret.
Missing an idea,
Nature’s cruelest mimicry,
Chasing my own tail.
(A reworked poem from a decade ago.)
Loosens the harsh buttons on his tight collar,
Preparing himself for the night’s woeful whim.
Hopes lie on the ‘yes’ that’s audacity’s bother,
Arming himself with his ego’s loving soft limb.
Left hand occupies the plastic currency’s fatigue,
The right clenches firm the distant communicator.
Mind rushes through phrases that might intrigue,
Heart screams silently, that muzzled devastator.
He awaits the bus, the salient car indoors remains,
To the common man, for her sake, he pertains.
He wishes not to buy with his flashy possessions,
The deal must be sealed with amiable, trite expressions.
Romance for is a game he plays through exchange,
‘I give you this, you give me that’, nothing strange.
A double transaction, of crotch and money,
Like a bear, with the bee he negotiates for honey.
She is an exemplar of the luxurious female,
Legs, hips, hair, a delirious asset to behold.
Standing there before her, all else looks stale,
A jubilant gait; a Maenad of Bacchus’ own mould.
An emblem of true prestige, worthy of possession,
But, sealing this deals needs wholesome indifference.
She strikes his imagination, he gives in to retraction,
The deal ready to be lost, bathed in serene ignorance.
The bee conceals the sting in its luscious blonde hair,
She waits for him to lay his honey intentions bare.
‘To the diner’, he proclaims, ‘we’ll nourish and feast’,
His eyes undress her — north, south, west and east.
She notices, but ignores his frivolous dimensions,
Hoping his pockets will shelter such petty defections.
She has given up in the tale, with many droplets of tear.
The feeling love once brought, subdued by a persistent fear.
‘Be gone!’ To the tale she once yelled in sobbing ecstasy,
Security, safety and peace of mind she chose.
Nothing in this moment, only a gloomy fantasy.
Her fruitful love has decayed, saluting the morose.
Under the veil of illusion that”s become of her heart,
She bitterly abstains from all and gives up to none.
An emotional dreg she chooses to be, a gloomy art.
Silly hopes and delicious wonder — to her, no fun.
The dinner is pleasant; the table, tenderly candlelit,
He speaks of himself; she listens to the dreary pit.
He asks not much, but expects an abundant lot,
To get what he has given and more is his plot.
‘What’s in it for me’, is his primary concern,
Her awareness thickens from his expectation’s burn.
She knows the deal and has more to lose than gain,
To reconcile the costs, his advances she abstains.
With frustration his eyes blaze with quid pro quo,
His mind: ‘I gave her dinner, where is the return?’
The ‘yes’ he anticipated, shrivels into a ‘no’.
Her mind: ‘another boy with a plethora to learn’.
The date is over; his wallet conquered her attention,
Her blonde hair dazzled him into steady madness.
Her past seduces her into a future occasion,
‘There is no better’ she thinks; to her fear’s gladness.
The second date’s frailty promises despair,
The end of the night; lewd eyes infect the air.
She wants to, but his attempt at indifference appals,
To his ignorant dismay she stops and stalls.
He huffs and puffs with the contract in mind,
‘I bought you this, you give me that’, he’s completely blind.
Her own sightless naive self, blames him accordingly,
To the messy contract they abide ironically.
Three dates later, they are in standard relation,
Three years later, she tosses the bloody bouquet.
Thirteen years later, two kids and mortgage automation,
She wishes she never threw the fairy tale away.
His plumbing beyond function in her presence,
Her heart shrivelled into a raisin, her life drained.
The secretary’s bosom, he prefers a younger essence.
Her pillow in his absence, with tears is stained.
She’s had enough: to a tryst or to death is her plea,
She values herself too much, from life she won’t flee.
She searches for one with whom to humbly negotiate,
Her honey has no value; the Maenad can’t agitate.
Her exuberant stride no longer seduces in its wake,
A scornful abyss, where once hid love for love’s sake.
Selfish intentions shine through her lascivious style,
The bee’s charm repel those who sought her guile.
She’s nothing, nobody, even to herself all-but dead,
Her tears futilely cleanse the emptiness of her soul.
Betrayed herself the moment she surrendered to her head,
She craves salvation, for a little repose she would give it all.
He is saved from such pain, but lost to himself forever,
His pride, the pillar holding him upright blocks his sight.
His liaisons offer a release from emotional weather,
Each one kills a bit of his spirit, leading him further from might.
The spoils of modern Romance, these two are but a depiction,
The world we’ve built leaves debris absent from benediction.
Tears and our lives we pay for some security in currency,
In hope for repose we find nothing but deceptive parity.
A business it has become, with a life of its own agreement,
‘What’s in it for me’, the motto of its petty arrangement.
Turns beauty into ugliness with single revealing look,
To arrive at where we are, a simple ‘yes or no’ it took.
(A reworked poem from nearly a decade ago.)
The clothes of life’s sweetened surety,
Do beckon forth promises of health.
While tenderly we nod at the obscurity,
Cries of despair mingle with our smile.
The sweat on the brow wishes release;
The world spins on its head, closes the file.
Praises, one proclaims, from deep within;
For you, for me and for all.
Stop, allow our life to begin.
Take us into your bosom, for,
Surrender is our divine call.
We await your reply, in fervour we stall.
Sheep with no shepherd, an Abraham we yearn.
Pluck one from your heart, teach us to learn.
Words we entangle from left to right.
Meaning we add, yet meaning we seek,
Our living in circles makes us bleak, but,
Our senses diminish, with them our plight.
We march on senseless to the road’s end.
Too numb to feel our heart’s tearful blend.
Full stops, comas and colons we carry,
Cruelty, ignorance and death we parry.
We take the flower which blossoms with a wither,
Tonight, life, you belong to us — come hither.
Round and round, in senseless verses we go,
Backwards and forwards our will we throw.
Life smiles at her decision before the embrace,
Her curtains are shut by us, her lover’s mace.
We watch carefully at her pleas for feeling,
This one’s heart was definitely worth stealing.
Innocence becomes a whisper in the crowd,
Her words we do not hear, no matter how loud.
A step is taken, closer into the abyss of tomorrow,
Where face and groin become items we borrow.
Modernity brings auctions for all the lost or found,
Here anything you can buy; opening bid — a pound.
I live for your gift of light,
For those whispers in the wind,
You gave me before my time.
But, youth is narrow-minded,
Deaf, dumb and blind.
Carried away by your grace,
Drunk in your life-wine,
Before I knew what to do,
I squandered and spent,
Smote you with delicious waste,
With pointless feelings, empty words,
Meaningless gestures, false promises.
Ashamed, I bowed my head and moved on.
I walked the tight rope of time,
Dragging my heavy bag of regrets,
My wretched soul and broken reason,
Hoping not to keel over into oblivion.
Then, age caught up with me,
Accompanied by your divine light.
I squandered you a little less,
Spent you economically,
Used you up slowly.
My mind, opened; my ears, perked;
My voice, emerged; my eyes, receptive.
But, squandered, spent and used,
You did not turn to darkness,
You shone for this wasteful fool,
Unworthy of your divine grace, your love-light.
Now, you’re still and always here,
I am not, and I am glad.
For my mind is wide for you,
My ears, attentive to your lips,
My voice, resounding your name,
My eyes, soaking you up.
For so I wish to live,
In bitter-sweet longing for your light,
I am the stray dog on your doorstep,
Who brings you news of your glory.
For my soul is clean;
My regrets, lessons;
My reason, your weapon.
For I claim you not,
Own and possess you not,
I live off your light,
Your light lives in me,
Together we move the world.
Who is responsible for this mystery — life?
Who is it that lets us use them up?
Who allows us fools to make a fool of them,
To toss them about and turn them to waste?
Then, as we come back, bloodied and bruised,
They open up and receive us wider than before,
The fool lets fools use them up some more.
Is it you — God?
Is it you — love?
Is it you — nature?
Is it you —
We are unworthy of you.
Your gift of light,
I am gladly your slave,
With the clearest conscience.