Category Archives: Young Adult

The Song Remains the Same

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The following poem I wrote just earlier tonight. The prose is quite simple and clear, not as kryptic or complex as the other material I usually write.

I took the title name from a great Led Zeppelin song.

The Song Remains the Same
Long ago lived a girl I know
Who was free of care with blondish hair
A wicked body and waist
Her sex never went to waste
With music she had such great taste
She never knew how to let me down
Sexiest girl I ever knew
Her eyes were ocean blue
The more I got the more love grew
She was all I had
Always made me glad
I made her laugh when she was sad
She was sure of herself
Love was a thing she never felt
Until she ran into me
Immaculate; she was the essence of beauty
Blinded by love and passion, my eyes couldn’t see
That life’s treasures don’t arrive without tragedy
Never have l lived a day better in love
Never had there been a brighter day without the sun up above
Had it not been for gravity
My feet would never touch the ground
But I must remain imprisoned in sanity
Till the music plays to the sound –
Good vibrations echoing in my heart
Transcending my soul; flying away to a new start
I was the King of the scene
As she reigned in love as my Queen
The wind blew wildly one hostile day
It left me alone, taking my love away
Lost, I didn’t know what to do
Life went on, steeped in solitude all was but mundane
All I thought I knew was no longer true
So I sought a means of staying sane
Whether I remain alone or gain some fame
At the end of the day the song remains the same

Written by Mensur Gjonbalaj

March 8, 2013

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Melancholy

I’ll never forget writing this poem. It was about 3:30 in the morning and I was sleeping over a friend’s house. I remember not being able to sleep due to the noises I heard from the other room. My friend was reaming his wife. The sex must have been either incredible or violent, because both of them were crying after they finished. I laughed in the beginning, then blasted the music on my iPod, and when that failed started writing poetry to put myself to sleep. If I’m not mistaken this was sometime in the late Spring of 2010, which wasn’t the most best time of life, though it should have been.

A couple of months earlier I ended a relationship with a girl who was in love because I wasn’t really that fond of her, both sexually and emotionally. I got depressed afterwards. First I sought to console my loneliness through religion and prayer, but after that failed to help ease the pains of being a somewhat bi-polar and sex-crazed individual I turned to writing. I have been writing in personal journals on and off since high school. I would also experiment with writing poetry every here and there, but wasn’t that fond of it. Poetry seemed cheesy and an escapist’s way of being open and honest. However, it wasn’t until 2009 that I began to write actual poetry.

Most of the early poems were written on my computer and unfortunately lost due to accidents like accidental deletions or computer damage. 2010 was the year I decided to document all the poems I wrote on paper and, if written on my iPhone or computer, emailed to my private account. Melancholy was one of the first of these poems to be written and saved for future consideration. At the time I did not expect to pursue a career in writing whatsoever, but it didn’t stop me from dong what I love.

Anyway, Melancholy is a short poem that talks about my negative outlook on life as a result of being a loner and single. The fact that my friend and his wife were going at it like monkeys next door most certainly helped me express my emotions. So, yes, this poem was being written while my friends were having sex, and I was literally 10 to 15 feet away from them. Not sure if that’s a significant fact, but I just felt like mentioning it. Sometimes knowing the context of things helps one to understand where the person is coming from.

By the way, I forgot to mention something. I was trying my best to capture that Gothic/depressive yet romantic style of Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. In my opinion I failed, but I’ll leave that for you to decide.

Enjoy.

Sparanoid

Melancholy

As I look into the abyss of life
I see nothing but internal strife
A life without a wife

Full of misery and despair
Without any care
But who am I to dare

To go beyond the bounds given
And enter a life full of sinning
Where there is no winning

As I fall from grace
And into disgrace
I stare at the abyss in front of my face

Laughing at me as if I were blind
As my feeble mind
Tries to cope with the lies that I try to find

There is no hope, only pain
In a world full of nothing to gain
As I lay here on my bed feeling mundane

I do not feel jolly
But more like an empty trolley
This is life without love, this is melancholy

Mensur Gjonbalaj

June 2010

Rumi: Desire and the Importance of Failing

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Desire and the Importance of Failing

A window opens.
A curtain pulls back.

The lamp of lovers connect,
not at their ceramic bases,
but in their lightedness.

No lover wants union with the Beloved
without the Beloved also wanting the lover.

Love makes the lover weak,
while the Beloved gets strong.

Lightning from here strikes there.
When you begin to love God, God
is loving you. A clapping sound
does not come from one hand.

A thirsty man calls out, ‘Delicious water,
where are you?’ while the water moans,
‘Where is the water drinker?’

The thirst in our souls is the attraction
put out by the Water itself.

We belong to It,
and It to us.

God’s wisdom made us lovers of one another.
In fact, all the particles of the world
are in love and looking for lovers.

Pieces of straw tremble
in the presence of amber.

We tremble like iron filings
welcoming the magnet.

Whatever that Presence gives us
we take in. Earth signs feed.
Water signs wash and freshen.
Air signs clear the atmosphere.
Fire signs jiggle the skillet,
so we cook without getting burnt.

And the Holy Spirit helps with everything,
like a young man trying to support a family.
We, like the man’s young wife, stay home,
taking care of the house, nursing the children.

Spirit and matter work together like this,
in a division of labor.

Sweethearts kiss and taste the delight
before they slip into bed and mate.

The desire of each lover is
that the work of the other be perfected.
By this man-and-woman cooperation,
the world gets preserved.
Generation occurs.

Roses and blue arghawan flowers flower.
Night and day meet in a mutual hug.

So different, but they do love each other,
the day and the night, like family.

And without their mutual alternation
we would have no energy.

Every part of the cosmos is draws toward its mate.
The ground keeps talking to the body,
saying, ‘Come back! It’s better for you
down here where you came from.’

The streamwater calls to the moisture in the body.
The fiery aether whispers to the body’s heat,
‘I am your origin. Come with me.’
Seventy-two diseases are caused
by the various elements pulling inside the body.
Disease comes, and the organs
fall out of harmony.

We’re like four different birds,
that each had one leg tied in
with the other birds.

A flopping bouguet of birds!
Death releases the binding, and they fly off,
but before that, their pulling is our pain.

Consider how the soul must be,
in the midst of these tensions,
feeling its own exalted pull.

My longing is more profound.
The birds want sweet green herbs
and the water running by.

I want the infinite! I want wisdom.
These birds want orchards and meadows
and vines with fruit on them.

I want a vast expansion.
They want profit and security
of having enough food.

Remember what the soul wants,
because in that, eternity
is wanting our souls!

Which is the meaning of the text,
They love That, and That loves them.

If I keep on explaining this,
the Mathnawi will run to eighty volumes!

The gist is: whatever anyone seeks,
that is seeking the seeker.

No matter if its animal,
or vegetable, or mineral.

Every bit of the universe
is filled with wanting,
and whatever any bit wants,
wants the wanter!

This subject must dissolve again.

Back to Sadri Jahan and the uneducated peasant
who loved him, so that gradually Sadri Jahan
loved the lowly man. But who really
attracted who, whoom, Huuuu?

Don’t be presumptuous and say one or the other.
Close your lips. The mystery of loving
is God’s sweetest secret.

Keep it. Bury it. Leave it here
where I leave it, drawn as I am
by the pull of the Puller
to something else.

You know how it is. Sometimes
we plan a trip to one place,
but something takes us to another.

When a horse is being broken, the trainer
pulls it in many different directions,
so the horse will come to know
what it is to be ridden.

The most beautiful and alert horse is one
completely attuned to the rider.

God fixes a passionate desire in you,
and then disappoints you.
God does that a hundred times!

God breaks the wings of one intention
and then gives you another,
cuts the rope of contriving,
so you’ll remember your dependence.

But sometimes your plans work out!
You feel fulfilled and in control.

That’s because, if you were always failing,
you might give up. But remember,
it is by failures that lovers
stay aware of how they are loved.

Failure is the key
to the kingdom within.

Your prayer should be, “Break the legs
of what I want to happen. Humiliate
my desire. Eat me like candy.
It’s spring and finally
I have no will.”

Taken from Rumi’s Mathnawi, III, 4391 – 4472

Rumi: Longing for the Birds of Solomon

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Hey everyone,

I’m going to be posting a selection of my favorite poetry from the renowned Persian poet Jalaluddin Rumi. If you are a lover of poetry, then they is no way you haven’t heard the name before. However, for those of you who haven’t he was a 13th century Persian poet, Islamic jurist, and theologian. His works have been translated into dozens of languages and still inspire many readers today. The following poem is called Longing for the Birds of Solomon.

Longing for the Birds of Solomon

Is this stuff poetry? It’s what birds sing in cages.
Where are the words spoken by the birds of Solomon?

How would you know their cries, if you heard them,
When you haven’t seen Solomon even for two seconds?

Solomon’s bird lifts his wings, one tip touches East, one West.
Those who hear the notes feel an intensity in their whole body.

The bird descends from the Holy One’s bedroom door to earth.
And from earth it flies among light back to the Great Seat.

Without Solomon every bird is a bat in love with darkness.
Listen, oh mischievous bat, try to become his friend. Do you want to stay
in your cave forever?

If you go even three feet towards Solomon’s mountain,
Others will use that as a yardstick to measure their lives.

Suppose your leg is gimpy, and you have to hop, what’s the difference?
Going toward Solomon, even by limping, the leg grows whole.

– Jalauddin Muhammad Rumi

 

Mensur Gjonbalaj

February 10, 2013

Crimes of Passion

I’ll never forget one of the first intimate experiences I’ve had with a girl. It was so memorable to me that I wrote about it in one of my journals a couple of years back. The following poem was taken from one of my old journal diaries.

I hope it entertains whosoever reads it!

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Crimes of Passion

Her devilish eyes put me under a spell.
It was so intense I thought I was in hell.
But her beauty reassured me, and made me realize love’s agony.
Damn, her bosom was perfect in size.
Her buttocks a voluptuous prize
For anyone lucky to hit it.
To not do so would certainly cause a fit.
The black hair kept me awake
As she lured her eyes into my soul like a snake.
Her voice mesmerized my ears
As my prized possession starts to face its fears.
My reality’s possibilities were colossal,
Because at this point I’m way past arousal.
It is time for me to tame this she-devil.
Oh, had I known she was past my level
I would’ve ran as fast as I can
Away from her and to my abominable pen.
Her beauty is hell in disguise
For it misleads and misguides.
I was lucky that night,
Because I stayed and had my world rocked.
Thus, ending my loveless plight.
Much was lost,
And my loss came with a tremendous cost – power.

The night was cold,
And the bed was warm.
The bed sheets were old
And the cover was slightly worn.
But lonely it most certainly was not!
The devil had cooked up a plot.
On the bed laid the young maid.
She was most fairly odd, but cool.
My body’s chill began to fade
As quickly as children do from school.
She stared into my eyes
Whilst I fed her lies.
Damn that hellish beast!
The closer she came, the weaker I grew.
Upon us was a carnal feast
And the taming of a shrew.
She could craved my quixotic member
And hoped for a night always to remember.

Mensur Gjonbalaj

2010