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Poems On / About IDENTITY  10/31/2014 3:39:13 PM
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Best Poems About / On IDENTITY
 
 
 
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  145.     

My identity

What defines my identity?
Being the son of my father and the torchbearer of familial legacy; possibly...
And what does my identity task me with?
To indistinguishably seed the next generation of the genealogy chain; perhaps...

Life is life’s longing for itself,
It may conform not to any preset moulds of traditions and definitions,
In the endgame, my epitaph would only bear testimony to where I ended – not where I started,
And my progeny, when it arrives, may not even tarry with my today; forget my parents’ yesterday...

So, it may be then – no one belongs to any one,
Identities get chiselled by one’s own voluntary doing,
Yet my soul dwells in that house I grew, the hearth and my family,
Publicly – I may be what I am; but privately – I am still my father’s son....
 
Ram Josyula

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  146.     

Silent Screams

Soul dressed in decrepit robe
Of flesh, all tattered, hanging, loose;
Spirits torn, identities denied,
Disowned progeny,
Living on the margins of community;
‘Being’ split into two parts moves
To the beats of drums, tears are shed within,
Silent screams submerged by jingles of anklets
Grotesqueness dances and claps in candy-colours;
Painted smiles, crude laughter lips sing course songs
On broken strings of life,
Begging for ipse, coins burn palms,
Soul scratched by mockery-
Soul that is above any identity,
Equally comes from divinity,
Left suffering silently
In the wilderness of hermophrodity,
searching violently in the jungle of identity.
 
Yasmeen Khan

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  147.     

Exeter Hotel

In the mid of shoe stores and dimly lid bars
It's the whiskey cocktail as attractive as a jar
Moth velvet as potted palm gifts
Who would not be stunned if the front desk insists

Check in (over the years) , to commit suicide on squire
In Exeter Hotel, no signature or proof of identity required

Climb the four flight stair
Lock the door and fall into a softer chair
That the bed's made, that the white robe's fade
Just a man, who stays on his own

Check in (over the years) , to commit suicide on squire
In Exeter Hotel no signature or proof of identity required

Smothered, the reports straight and set
Thistle as even as omelet
The pallet scoop to favor
Just a blanket shaving at end

Check in (over the years) , to commit suicide on squire
In Exeter Hotel no signature or proof of identity requires
 
Pierre Rausch

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  148.     

Fufu Momo and Kottu

Noises of different tongues
Occupying stoves in the kitchen
It is not belonged to any one
But belonged to a time

Spreading smells of continents
It is the global identity of art
Every one washes in same sink
Using the water in common

Asia Africa Arabia and Eastern Europe
People in the kitchen being refugees
Using material in same some extent
Make and cook the identity of own

Using flour and flour made
Decorate in an exhibition hall
Like amateur painters pain
Create noises and silence in mixture

Identity of meat flour and leaves
Transformed into their own
On and in the cooking pots
Steam becomes smells


Fufu in the vessel
Pasta in very common
To be well cooked
An African guy in a struggle

Momo like oysters
Made in art by a Tibetan woman
A Nepali prepares Chapatti
Burnt culture of secularity

Leeks, Carrots and green chilly
Cutting into pieces Rotti
In a war like their home
Making Kottu in loud
Everyone looking in surprise
Occupied Sri Lankans noise in kitchen

In two three hours war of kitchen
Gradually becomes calm
One of the oldest in the camp
In midnight begins to cook

Washing everything in psychiatric clean
Cooks Halal singing a song
He is called ex- mayor in his land
Midnight ghost of different rhythm
 
Udaya R. Tennakoon

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