Filtering the Chaos

 




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Filtering Chaos...


Filtering the chaos,
distilling words,
till clarity sets.

Moulded emotions,
sculpted lines,
the essence captured.

No clutter but order,
no wool but silk,
clear as water.

Relieving my heart,
finding ease,
in short sharp lines.


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Is this a poem,
am I a poet,
or a labourer with words?

Written after a slightly heated discussion with my husband, who is a recognized poet in Urdu. I feel at least part of my poems can be called just that and I love poetry that is straightforward and clear. Short sharp lines, expressing something in precious little words...that can be poetry for me. For him however, poetry would be poetic, at least to a minimum level; it would pose questions, not answers; and there should be a lot open to interpretation by the reader. If it is not that, he'd rather call it prose.

Blinded?

blinded?

when you've seen destruction
war
blood and limbs scattered all around

when you have seen suffering
famine
slowly eating children alive

can you still see
the soft green light
filtering through the trees?

Cinquiano on Horses

Trying to capture horses when among themselves, and what they mean to me...

Cinquiano on Horses

Horses,
talking through face, ears and motion.
Oft it flares to shouting,
all emotion.
Moving!