Sunday, 10 April 2011

A Bleeding Poem

Image credit:


Poem bleeding, seeping, trickling
With blood, raw emotions most blunt
Is what I write, parading it to fight

Poem protesting, projecting, most
Frightening, faceless, decapitated
Amputated, crying out in the depths
Of hollowness, sutured, unsecured
Most obscured, uncured is the poem
I write

See, wrote I perfumed palaces
Blind to all its fallacies, furnished
Chandeliers, shrubbery, lawns
Everything the rich could own
But that poem bled still
Steel is not what made it
Twas like a dog’s heart transplanted
To a rhino’s—serenity amidst inferno!

Wrote I everything picturesque
The mountains, the fountains, the landscape
But what for?
Of hypocrisy, heresy, lunacy?
What for?
Of dilly-dallying, molly-coddling?
What for?
Of damage? haemorrage?


So ghastly an image
A bleeding poem, fractured stanzas,
Sprained meter, bloodied rhymes
Sombre, sad like October,
Severed, feared
Air scented with antiseptic
Etherized, pungent
Like an adulterated detergent
Abused agent
Unwashed gent
Formless, soulless, heartless
A bleeding poem, screaming at them
Hollering, venting, not circumventing
Pointing, needs no anointing
If you are allergic to horror
Why then do you put up with terror
Stare at the gnarled form
Electrocuted in the fiery storm
Gaze at the faze, chase the gauze
Keep guessing, it is death amazing


In the circle of death
Mortality spins round and round
Most profound, chaos is the High Priest
Debris is the shrine, bilge is the paraphernalia
Inter alia, mania let loose, fear on noose
Tweedle little human flesh
Perforated, peppered
Served on the altar of human greed
For our cannibal taste buds, we agreed?
Why are you horrified then?
Bon appétit

Why are you horrified?
A bleeding poem, in a bleeding world
With a bleeding inspiration, for a bleeding
Motivation, Peel off the gloves
Unmask yourself, smell the blood
Raw wound wasn’t bad like a rotten one
This is the real thing, some sterner musing
Sorry folks, I forgot to warn
Of cadavers, blood and death
You see, we don’t plan collapsing bridges
Or the spurting blood
Do we?
Forgive me if I am being bold
Bleeding poems haven’t been told
Until they flooded our doorsteps
Or the rancid smell of decompose floated
Sorry, death is not fixture to be slotted

Had I wanted, I would have been blind
Blind to the blight, refuse to look at the paint
Hard enough, enough to notice the dark theme
Had I wanted, I would have painted my own
Canvass, revealing Africa in all its glory
But I keep on seeing elements of its gory
I would have painted the Maasai
The wildebeest and other beasts
But sorry, my creativity bore me to
The Maasai pushed off the cliff
The Wildebeest unmotivated, lives most stiff
C’mon, don’t frown, I am not a clown
If I were posturing, telepathy I would not be conjuring
Had I wanted, I would paint the glory of the African Sun
In all its shades, even when to the West it fades
I would mimic the laugh of the hyena
You would cup your ears


But I ask, why do we bask
In the sun we are most clueless?
Shouldn’t we, rather, grope in the darkness
With a hope of light, even with sadness?
What ray should we illuminate
If we can’t fulminate?
How are dark things illuminated
If before time they are eliminated?
How does blood trickle
If they are with chemicals made fickle?
What is a heart most enduring
If it is shielded from the sun most searing?
How will a bleeding heart clot
If it is hid in the furnace of suppressed emotions unfought?


Poem bleeding, seeping, trickling
With blood, raw emotions most blunt
Is what I write, parading it to fight

All you need is a toolkit
This is no child skit
Hemorrhage is no sleepwalker oddsey
It is no fantasy
C’mon, uncover the jetting blood
Stop the spill, save your stunt
Harangue later, don’t harass
I am also harassed, the pain, the shame
The blame, the game
I could also want to be a spectator,
Or rather be a commentator
But what for? How do we talk of
Swabbed wounds? How do we describe
The pain we don’t ascribe?
Which expertise do we merit
If not what we claim to inherit?
Or isn’t it blood and all
After all, a free for all?


So let the bleeding poem be
Crawling stench of soul’s morgue
Embalmed, uncalmed, uncharmed
Let the bleeding poem be
Let it mix with our artificial colognes
Hypocrisy! The air is thick with death, bloke
If I were you, I would heal the wound
Protect the scar, leap in fright from afar
I would keep my soft spot close with me
Not exposing them to life’s weird talons
But then, go on, peel of the scar
Let it bleed anew, perforate it
Nib it, tuck it, go on…
Let that pain sting
Is it as fresh as the cologne?
Is it more immediate?
More urgent?
How does it stir you?
Because you are bleeding, huh?


That pain is the bleeding poem
Because it bleeds, it heals
Because it heals, it shields
Because it shields, it shrills
Because it shrills, it stills

Bleeding poem is what I write
Bleeding poem is what I parade to fight.

C) Lorot Salem 2011


Sherry Blue Sky said...

Whew! THAT is a poem!!!! It says it all so gloriously - and, best of all, it bleeds across the page and wakes us up from our sleepwalking. Lines I love most:
"dog's heart-serenity amidst inferno" - brilliant!
"if you are allergic to horror, why do you put up with terror?" Wow!
"I would mimic the laugh of a hyena - you would cup your ears"
Fantastic writing!!!!!!

Greyscale Territory said...

O wow! This is like a cycle of seasons re-inventing themselves in blood! Stripped of pretentious beauty, there is just the skeletal, bloodied mystery!

Salem Lorot said...

@ Sherry Blue Sky, as usual, much gladdened.

@ Greyscale Territory, I can't put it better..there! you said it

Thank you for stopping by.

Jingle Poetry said...


Awards for you, thanks for the support!

Bless your talent. Please join Poetry Potluck W31 today!

Happy Sunday!


Salem Lorot said...

Thank you Jingle for that acrostic poem. I will :-D

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