ARTISAN OF WORDS


I am an artisan of words
Which I sculpt, chisel and fashion the way I can;
I am a creator of worlds;
I pour my emotion into the poems I write.
I breathe life into them, blow them skywards
And finish them only when they sound right.

These remnants of thought without reason
Will remain on pages season after season
Long after I'm gone; when my task is done
The love, the longing, the pain
Will be evoked then by somebody else
Who in turn will remember and write again
To create another slow soft song
That people can read and draw into their hearts
Then pillowed by words, cushioned by dreams
My poems will ride high the moonbeams.



Copyright: Rani Turton 2007


Saturday, March 12, 2011

Mysteries: Poem


Mysteries

There is a mystery in living
When, how, for how long and why
No need to use complicated rhetorical arguments
The devil's advocate I can play indeed
But the end is always the same
Its almost as if our lifespans are a timed game.

We can hop from land to land
For reasons only we can understand
We can lament and weep
Until at the end we finally sleep

To sleep perchance to dream
As a great poet once wrote
In lifespans, life's cycles, in moments of oblivion
I even forgot all that I wrote
The great mystery was not action or living
The great question was extinction and annihilation.

To come back to the essential
I, Me and Myself
My small insignificant life
Could I even presume to be remembered
After the third generation, the fourth maybe?
And what was it's essentiality?
Wicks flame, flicker and glow
That is finally the way I will go.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Friday, March 11, 2011

Through Those Lanes, Lost, I Wander: Poem


Through Those Lanes, Lost,  I Wander

The night resembles the day: endless and refractive.
I wander, in dyslexic mode, unable to formulate
One thought into another. I have left
Analytic reasoning far, far behind. Emotions
That ebb and flow like the tide.

Through those lanes, lost, I wander.
Is it this land that is foreign or is it I?
Is it me the stranger, weary and shy?
I have tried to reason, but now there is no reason
Even to wonder why.

Through those lanes, lost, I wander.
Was I the substance or the shadow, or was it
Just reality that eluded clouded reason??
I wander, wander, and now as time
Walks by my side
Shadows lengthen; though those lanes
Life, love, pain and all that remains.

Copyright/ Rani Turton

Thursday, March 3, 2011

The Eiffel Tower, Paris

Much has been written about the beauty of Paris. The Eiffel Tower's
illuminations are spell-binding in the darkness of the night.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

In This Silent Hour: Poem


In This Silent Hour

Roofs, dreaming in the cityscape
In this silent hour when the soft grey sky speaks
When nobody calls me by my name;
The mind, soft in melancholy
Asks why, and then again why.

In this silent hour, moments pass.
There are footsteps behind me
Dreaming, I must be.
Or waking, walking within the dream
I may not be all that I seem.

Flights of imagination once again
The past and  present merge;
Blend into one pristine fancy:
Now, then, before, tenses blend
Is this how the silent hour will end.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Alexandre Dumas, Statue


Statue of French writer Alexandre Dumas at Villers-Cotterêts, his birthplace.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Life in Pastel: Poem


Life In Pastel

I think and often imagine
Even in scorched dreams
Myself and life as it seems;
As it seems, seems, seems.

I have a tenuous grip on reality
A self-made functional mode.
I think I have some aspects of alterity;
I can think in colours unrefined.

Pastel, refined, softspoken,
Colours that were not mine;
I can speak in languages
That are  often tough and fine.

I can think in pastel
Speak in pastel and subdued
My life, often in colours bright
To this  has now been reduced.

I have a life in pastel but inside
I have emotion bright and strong
I can think in pastel but emotion
Remains vivid and lifelong.

Life, filaments of life, in muted hues,
Is thus what it amounts to:
Live softly, there is yet a vivid dream
That I am driven to pursue.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Monday, January 10, 2011

A Thought, A Line, A Rhyme: Poem


A Thought, A Line, A Rhyme

If only, clothed in mystery and technical delight
Lines would write themselves down word perfect and bright
Instead of a kind of imperfect poetic sonism
Ah! writing a poem is more than hedonism

It started  with a thought, straying wildly and then
Inspired a line, and all the while; stay the thought even when
My fingers tried to write a single line
In silence, trying to still this heart of mine.

But even then, it wasn't each and every day;
Writing verse isn't as easy as they say.
Words followed neither rhythm nor time:
Slowly came a thought, a line, a rhyme.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Unbearable Sorrow: Poem


UNBEARABLE SORROW

 Deep within the snowbound reaches
Of my mind, never speak it out so loud, sorrow
Unbearable; waiting to reach out;
Oh, what it can do to you.

Imprisoned in frost, emotional hiatus
Emotion, feeling, possession
Sofly, sound-dampened sorrow
Waiting to be let out
Unbearable, borne for too long

The reality of waiting, wanting, thirsting
Falling, falling, falling as feelings get snow-bound.

Borne through fire, borne through the years
Sorrow, burning, burning white and bright
All through these years, these tears
All these years, these tears.

Copyright: Rani Turton

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The Kiskiralylany Szobor (The Little Princess), Budapest










This wonderful sculpture is actually a little girl, though at first sight it looks like a little boy. It is quite small, and actually looks like a child sitting on the fence near the Vigado tram stop. The artist is Laszlo Marton. Behind her you can see Buda castle.

More about the artist:

http://www.martonlaszlo.hu/eeletr.htm

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Detail of Gate, Palais de Justice Paris



















Beautiful rosettes on the gate of the Palais de Justice, Paris (The Courts).