A“Cogito ergo sum,” I think, therefore I exist
-Rene Descartes the France philosopher said
Long before that the seers in The Rig-Veda, said- I don’t know,
who I am, and where did I came from, I carry this burden on my
head and roam around.
When Man thinks, he thinks for everyone, his surroundings, his
society, his nature, and all living or nonliving things,
But when the Man starts thinking only for himself, for his own
comfort, for his own belief, without showing respect to others,
the identity of man and the usefulness of his existence in this
earth gets limited.
Unfortunately, we live in a time, when man is thinking a lot,
but not for nature, earth, or Universe, but for his own
benefits, his own believes and of his own needs and many things
We are living in the time when the boundaries or human hearts
are getting shrunken,
Our beliefs are struggling with others believes, This happens
when we forget the oldest human language, which is called
poetry. Poetry was the language, which introduced man to nature,
which gave him the strength to talk to the creator of the
universe and which give him the power to create his own deities,
beliefs, and ideologies...............
You’re far away from your country where I am
day by day my poems
begin to resemble letters lost in the post:
You’ve fallen asleep on your long, banana-coloured couch,
your bun is undone, your glasses are about to fall from your
Off in the distance the rain
stains the clouds.
This map is true for balladeers.
I can’t wait to go and my car is a good soldier,
can you hear its sweet cargo whistle?
The old roads open up
like a ruled notebook,
how I’d love to score the mountains like a sales
rep my case full of poems
I want to erase
My fingerprints from the moon
Tea-stains on the sun
The lines on the hand
From my joystick
The unascertainable look
In the eyes of a hunchback computer
And other such traces of my being
because under normal circumstances
I have grown up
and I became an adult during the crisis years
my poetry is a poetry
of the crisis
in which I have burst open and write
with what remains
the mess I don’t clean up
letting it grow warm
in my hands, my innards
and the network
that gets overheated
showing the not exactly subtle reality
who is twenty-seven in 2015
and doesn’t add up to the description of his reality
Reasons to be Cheerful
You can’t eat poetry. Rain goes right through it, and it doesn’t
burn for long enough to really keep you warm. Poetry doesn’t
provide a roof above your head, doesn’t give you a bed, bath or
bread; it doesn’t save you from traffic jams, and you can’t
smear it over your legs when you go to the beach.
Poetry doesn’t occupy any hotel rooms. Poetry doesn’t fill
restaurants, and neither does it help the growth of the middle
class in the city centre. Poetry doesn’t care about the
North/South divide, nor the one between East and West, and it
can’t stop continental drift, the rise in sea levels or
In a school class of 30 children, only 0.2are touched by poetry.
This translates to 1.3 children in an average residential area,
and 12.4 in a city with a population of 200,000. Poetry barely
touches urban illiteracy rates. It’s not on television, doesn’t
influence viewing or listening figures, and doesn’t keep a
single person from alcohol, drugs, smoking or a fatty diet.
Poetry doesn’t ban wheely suitcases. It pays no role in
collective bargaining, doesn’t urge stakeholders towards
horizontal clustering or lure people to the polls. Poetry
doesn’t attract major sponsors, it holds no sway over public
debate, and it doesn’t level out top salaries. Poetry doesn’t
fill the gap left by withdrawing government and is not armed
against the flipsides of the digital revolution. Poetry doesn’t
warn about gas leaks or excessively high levels of particulate
matter;it doesn’t stop a single militant traveling to Syria or
help you journey safely from Africa to Italy. Poetry doesn’t
keep a single boat afloat...Bas Kwakman
On this endless journey
I often see lights
appearing through the mist in the mountains or in the wilderness
sometimes they vanish after a moment
sometimes they stay with us a long time
like a pair of eyes radiating tenderness and love
they pass through forests and jump over lakes
then reappear from distant mists between the hills
these tiny yellow stars
give the dark earth
a warm and friendly face
I want to stop the train
and run towards them
because I am convinced that any lamplight what so ever
can change my fate
that from that moment my life
becomes a different landscape
but all I do is stare at the lights
stare as they flash by flash by
across the darkened earth
our carriage silently speeds on
in the pitch-dark compartment
someone sleeps soundly by my side
The last summer storm
sticks out its black tongue,
its edged gleam hidden,
a tongue that pecks the whole sea
and neatly chops mosquitoes’ legs,
those blood suckers of the world,
which used to make all animals shake their limbs
and drop down one by one
like mimes palming imaginary glass.
The skin then goes calm as water
with nothing to do all night.
Like a strip of blue flannel,
a cool breeze
wipes clean one star after another,
as if they’re used wine glasses.
Life has no story,
life is unfolding.
Is it true that we get
all that we wish?
Is it true that we get
all as we deserve?
Is it true that we are caught
by all we evaded?
Time, you fleeting
and far-fetching thing –
life is no story,
but hope and honing.
You are no better than anyone.
You are no worse than anyone.
You have been given the world.
Look what there is to see.
Nurture what is around you,
nurture who is beside you.
All creatures in their own way
All are fragile.
On behalf of all
who have been lost at sea,
on behalf of all
who have lost hold of the day,
I pray this day
in the shrinking light of tapers
from a tired heart’s last
pain and passion.
tramps, crooks, cripples,
vagabonds and courtesans,
pimps and palmists,
loafers, liars, junkies,
scabs, spendthrifts, boozers;
you who are frightened, famished, frozen,
who are born fatherless,
whom the world has shunned,
who are lost and long distraught –
you shall rest in the softest beds