Wristing Art is an exclusive feature of The Literartist which exhibits Nazran Baba’s own creative works.
‘Sonnet I‘*
December 01st, 2012
Rejected truth, sunk deep within one’s soul,
Submerged in folds electric blue in glow
Batters encased. Clasped cold, sealed in sea-coal,
The virtuous pearl is poisoned pink. And know,
She lies protected from insidious truths 5
Erected. Sipping illusions; slipping
Uncoiled sea snakes, slithering, swim to blind youths
Whose souls’ venom snap selves for Mind’s toiling.
But gaze unflinching causes to unshield
The armors false, when stricken forging true. 10
Embers burn amber. Cold on anvil, yields
To Hammering: soul, body and pearl renewed.
Sanitized parasite melts like rust molten,
For burnished peace is acceptance golden.
*Note: Shakespearean sonnet form. Thereby, the poem consists of 14 lines written in iambic pentameter with an ABABCDCDEFEFGG rhyme scheme which follows the traditional structure: the first quatrain introduces the main theme (denial of a truth) with a metaphor (the sinking pearl); the second quatrain provides an extension of that theme (the result of the festering internal denial) and metaphor (internal battles presented as untangling poisonous inner demons); the third quatrain introduces the famous “but” which ushers in the twist of the poem (that there is hope through confrontation of the inner rejection) metaphorically represented as proactively reshaping the inner demon. Doing so involves smashing, purifying, molding, and reshaping prior denials, figuratively displayed as the work of any common blacksmith. The “volta” is then followed by the resolution: the antithesis to rejection is acceptance. In paying homage to Shakespeare, particular attention was also taken to equip the poem with an arsenal of literary devices to accentuate further the evocative power of the poem. Whether it be the use of specific devices such as sibilance in line 7, or the optical illusion of misreading “sipping” and “slipping” interchangeably (mimicking the hallucinatory content in the quatrain) is crucial to the overall poetic effect on the reader. Unlike prose, the exercise led to a greater appreciation of poetic composition, that words cannot be wasted and that poetry is affective content compressed into concision.
‘Island Soul’
August 02nd, 2012
Shimmering sea sheets of silver reveal
Slivers of iced secrets, to naked eyes concealed.
Baked open by the tropical sun
The sneezing glance penetrates
What liquid sea encapsulates.
Bending through the flowing coolness of the sea
One sees burnt crumbs of drenched sand sticking free.
There, in crystal clarity, under the kingcococnut sun, do I lay on top of mine own pearl.
But rise, air drying her salty tear drops and
Tread backward, to ascend forward.
Hence will you snake, higher through luminous flora
Meeting raw servings of even greener fauna;
Greener than envy will eyesight behold,
The sight your minds eye blinked when first told.
At glimpse the soul’s breast caves in,
Gasps from within,
Experiencing through blindness
The breadth of her kin.
Cleft asunder for much more than wonder,
Its vine rippled humps keep tossing in-between
Folding and melting, in varying shades of green.
Dark faces glow bright with smiles of delight
As light faces grow dim with frowns of despite.
The former lay in abundance scattered in multitude
Whilst the latter are equally found, immune to altitude.
Slipping down her terrain and unable to refrain
Do we tear through the stitched patchwork of human domain.
‘It’
June 30th, 2012
 |
| Howl at the Moon |
I am where I am, watching.
The possibility of it beyond the erect peak of the mountain is still still, curtained from me by swaying folds of invisibility. Untrodden and snakelike, the querying pathway to it, narrow like a man, meanders, ascends, winds, and descends into a distant navy blue darkness. I fear to look. Above me the fluorescent moon glows for its own orbit, switched on like a neon pearl sewed seamlessly into the night. Stubbornly, I continue to stare down at my toe tips as they roll and trample the limp cool grass. Unwilling to step I am pin strung by the stretched strings of an unconfirmed divinity. Silky air slips along my naked skin tingling with the electric buzz of awakened pores. The wind swirls in twirls, drowning stagnant air and swimming in waves through the landscape. I hear its forced force in the rustle of distant mountain leaves crisping like foil to mimic the natural ebb and flow of it all, telling me nothing. Carelessly callous sprays of stars wink. Whether at me or at one another, I know not. I look upward and start to blink furiously—for the wind. There is a chill in pursuing it. Not icy, it is invitingly cool, almost uninviting.
Moist lashes bond. My mind’s eye sees beckoning Truth shimmering magnificently behind the mountains in all its unexplored virgin glory, and for a moment I envision the other side. Warmth? The breeze expands, soothing and rooting. To leave this shelf would be to venture on to a chapter where my soul and heart might never know the language. It involves threading through an untested dark bluish coolness, like the depths of the ocean when baked in August.
I am where I am, reading*.
*Not literal
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The Literartist 
Nice Blog!!!!! I love your writing!!!!:-)
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