A Tribute to Baudelaire

Can I survive in this damned coldness?
That writhes inside of me
Choking and stuffing Remorse,
Which with its every step
Blows out the shimmering light of hope,
In my heart, I once saw a portrait
Of a fair one, and a damned witch.
Loving each other.

There was a blithe Inn,
It was razed down by Satan.
Where can the travelers of the dark forest rest?
In the dark, muddy lake where a werewolf runs unrest,
The cursed tooth gnaws into our soul
The irreparable wound eats through edifice of our being.

Or in His summer palace,
Where the vampires drinks our blood
The cursed tooth gnaws into our soul
The irreparable wound eats through edifice of our being.

Does your morbid fascination
Want to watch me rot?
Oh! The everlasting Remorse.
Burns like the fires of Hell
And eats through like a termite
My empty soul is drained like the water in Sahara

I once saw an angel fighting a thousand demons
With the Sword of Hope.
The battle had a victor
The Angel slew all demons
Satan shattered his head with the dark, heavy mace.
I know not of any angels in my heart.
It is becoming filthy and evil like Satan’s love.

And so you are invited to the alchemy of my sorrow.
Where Midas is buried in a pauper’s graveyard,
Children bathe with Flamel’s blood,
And Debauchery and Death are two good sisters
Cupid is eating the spleen of his victims,
And the blood flows through the Fountain of Joy,
Circumventing each one of you in your thought.

Ramble Through Nothingness

Roll with sound
Sleep with rain
Drink with sun
Kiss the smoothly dressed girl

Moment of pain with pleasure
Forgotten flies of the rotten Apple
I dreamt of being a King at a castle
Poisoned soul mate dies in the dungeon

Black swans drinks the wine
Vampires of lost cities
He says love is so sour
Burn the witch

Gallows made of stardust
Secret garden is lost
Somewhere a man remembers
Someone kills her in vain

I got a bad disease
From my brain I bleed
For a certain goodness
I will not lie in peace

The days are sweet
Take me to the river
Where destruction is ubiquitous
Drink up my soul

Slowly she rises up
And moves toward her grave
I don’t need to be forgiven
Don’t cry, don’t waste your eyes

The exodus is here
Give me, my soul back
Hide the kindness
Your eyes are full of pain

When you find love
Wicked dreams follow
This will comfort you
When there is no hope inside

Sing the song, I sung
Words you wrote
Remember the photographs
For all that is lost, a few return.

Statutory Warning

Poetry

"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." ~ Carl Sandburg

"Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words." ~ Edgar Allan Poe

These two quotes exemplify the meaning of poetry to me, more than any. Poetry is the activity that defines me. I believe poetry is a journey of a poet in his quest for the Truth. Poetry is not only about the thought or the thought it provokes, it is also about the essential emotions embedded in it. Emotions of joy, sadness, pain, anger combine themselves in a poet’s dream. Its outcome is the most beautiful form of literary art. It was the summer of 2006, when I first took up my pen to create in this aesthetically arousing art form. From then on, I have received accolades for my skill, from my teachers, friends, elders and my poems have been a regular feature of the school and some local magazines.

'This is the short answer essay in Commonapplication and it states to describe one of our activities'

Those Streets, These Times

Cinderella is dead.
Her coffin is laid out on the streets.
A hundred men mourn her.
They call themselves her lovers
her coffin is to be carried by them.
Snow White has come to pay her respects.
She has grown blind with pain.
Sleeping beauty with all her prettiness
sleeps an induced sleep of morphine
Overdozed last night to mourn the living.

And Charming walks around the streets
With his masked escorts.
The escorts brings him pleasure,
Cinderella never meant much to him.

A car is coming in through the crowd.
The headlights are burning bright.
An unhealthy girl is laid out from inside.
She is pale and thin, without the signs of life.
Rapunzel has lost all her hair now.
She has the cancer of heart.
Is in therapy of love to remind her of the pains .

A drunk is running around with his special antics.
He says, he was the King, reciting Shakespeare.
Runs around in circles.
and collapses in his dizziness.

The Evil Queen is crying away.
Rummaging through her books.
She wants to bring Cinderella back to life.
Working on a spell.


Suddenly a few paramedics comes out of the ambulances.
Begins to pack Cinderella up.
Everybody calls out,''She is dead".
They say,' Dr.Frankenstein will decide about that,
we are taking her to him".
They ambulances leaves with Cindrealla.
The centre of attarction has left, no need to stay.
Eveybody leaves the row with a grump and growl.


It's empty now.
A peasant with a violin comes.
sits down to play the Moonlight Sonata.
A man enters the row with a limp,
Romeo has come to look for Juliet,
In the emptiness of the street.
Casanova has eloped with his lover.
But the news has spread that Casanova has passed away.

Alexander will be coming with is army soon.
But the army wants a new leader.
Someone who kills for blood.
Hearing the name of Alexander,
the peasant escapes down the alley.
Romeo, alone, is dreaming upon the streets.
With The Seven Dwarfs, who are searching
for Snow White's Diamond Necklace.

Then the huge army enters the streets.
For the night's refuge.
they put up their tents and eats supper.
Alexander goes up to Romeo.
the Great says to Romeo, the army is low on provision.
Romeo wants to know about Juliet.
Alexander sighs and tells him.
Juliet has been lost by him to a man called Hercules
During two rounds of drunken gambling.
The Piper is seen with his pipe strolling down to them.
Sits down and talks about war and games.
The three men of renowned fame,
sits together and frowns at the ambulance.

The paramedics return with Cinderella.
they find trouble moving in through the army.
The army sling curses!
The crowd gathers back in.
Cinderella is back!
From the chambers of Dr. Frankenstein.
She has been finally declared dead by him.
Oh! What a dismay!
She is all torn up and stitched again,
by the good-samaritian Doctor.
pity flows through the streets for her.
She is going to be buried tonight.
The Evil queen comes running
When the coffin is about to be lifted.
She said she found the cure to mortal sickness.
She casts her spell on Cinderella.
She rises from among the dead.
The queen roars with laughter in all her magnificence

But Cinderella is in a state of pity.
Her skin is stitched upon in everyplace.
Who would possibly marry her now?
The problem is thought out by Einstein and Freud.
They quarrel among themselves,
but do come to the decision at last.
Cinderella is going to be married to Jack.
" Jack always had a fascination for tearing girls apart".
says Freud, blowing smoke from a Cuban.
The bassoons are sounded.
Jack has come to marry Cinderella.
Cinderella smiles upon the look of him.
It's love at first sight for them.

Confusion, Indecision, tears, laughter and magic.
All make the streets complete.
If You ever want to visit
Just give me a call.
I will guide you through the path.
Where every stone is laid out in perfection.
You will meet people you thought you knew.
Here their maskes would be open.
You can take peek if you want.
But if you are disappointed.
Don't blame me.
Because they were always lame.
and will always be.
I just Gave them some flavor.
And You will like it.

The River Side

Bewildered by the voices in my head.
I sit by the river side.
Contemplating about the edges, now in my life.
Looking forward for fool's gold's bright.

It is the dusk, and the darkness has spread out its wings.
It flutters in my mind, heart and the brink.
Though what art I sought?
Love is only an instrument for loss.

Be it on a sunny morning or a gloomy evening.
I wonder, if I wandered there ever alone in sight.
But dusk, they say, bring us to a new night.
A night of darkness, unnoticed by the philosophy of light.

The river water is all dark now.
A reflection is no more a possibility.
But why should I want to see my wretched face once again?
Only to dream and walk the barbed wire of hope again.

My heart has been punctured by a thousand wounds.
It oozes out blood, in your dying fumes.
Celebrating the ashes of ruins of beautiful worlds.
Shaken up by the mighty thunder and cremated by the river water.

The world around me has come to a standstill.
No birds do sing nor any animal is seen serving its whim.
And here all alone, my thoughts too reflect them.
It is static as the mountains on the earth's bosom.

There, now, I see a light shinning on the water.
My mind moves to grasp it, beyond my powers.
And It is soon swallowed by the darkness.
The light sinks like lead in the night's emptiness.

Neither do I think nor do I believe.
My heart is not broken by you.
It is burnt as the soot, blackness with its deadly mark.
Taking me to a palace of shattered dreams.

I still sit by the river side.
Contemplating the edges, now in my life.
Though, if you may wander around here sometime.
I shall leave my mark around on this side.

But, if the dogs of the day eat it up.
Blame me not because I loved you first.
Blame me because I will love you till the Last.
And believe in something, this is the Last.

The Preface( The Picture of Dorian Gray)

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.This is a fault.Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.That is all.The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.No artist has ethical sympathies.An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.All art is at once surface and symbol.Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.