I Can Not

I Can Not long poem

Photo by remmerysilke

I can not move, so my inane soul
Lumbering on grass bed, wonderfully separated.
Above me the scorching June afternoon
Tearing apart my very self, baking my budding marigolds.
Mine fettered hands with numerous wants
On vain quest of fetching better heart
Are clutching clay with frustrating fingers.
Oh my dear soul, closet of shut up goals
How painfully languishing on rocky cupboard
Beside the thirsty river on sand soar.
I know it is lost, lost forever,
Never to be attached on my earth
Or if sowed in my inarable zone
Never to flower any marigold
Because I am dry, hopelessly dry.

I can not dream in such fine night,
Gentle moon on cautious heavenly treading
Although is calling me to vision another world
Because I am old, hopelessly old.
The riverside now almost heaven
Beauty immortal looking crimson gold
Whipping her galloped chariot unbridled
Through the gold plated sandy bed.
Earth is no more, appears blazing apostle
Nor the bower trill volcanic sunbeam
But mine self have little effect
Because I am earth, a hopeless rocky self,
A custard with no milky dream
Watching moonlight from prison brink,
Blind prisoner on towering guilt.

I can not, I can not,
Because I am naught, a perpetual not.
Trembling grasses of fresh air of dawn
Are eternal watchmen of my lonely soul
So far from my well kept self
My languishing laid out soul.
I can see how it mirrors all morning dreams
How craftily doling out all vain primroses,
Even glimmering with first sun with dusty finery
Ravishing beloved with mounting passion,
Still I know it is dead, it is dead.
How clever may be, how clever may itself.
Adieu the gentle queen of western descent
Adieu thy midas company, panoramic hours,
They are no use of mine mantled self
Because I am crushing, crushing rocky
To be spread apart on tried river bed,
Water or no water, only to chatter with all murmuring fashion,
An interval face of several births.
Let me the hopeless loser
Of my leftover soul, a useless species
Of all crucial hours of stampless birth,
It is all going to be sand
It is crushing, tumbling, capsizing over quicksand.
Still I live and am praying let me float, let me float
Even in waterless sand bed.
Why water? Why sad inundation?
Why any more temptation of gradual life
With compact ruthless sun and more clever planning?
What differs if mine self sniffing sand zone?
A shameless braggart with greedy bowl,
In fact I am sand, I am sand.

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Shuvo Chakraborty

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lecturer and advocate in university and incometax tribunal. an english poet and diehard follower of john keats
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