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Nirvan Wali

@nirvanwali

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I'm a pagan of good times.

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I swear it's unedited by @nirvanwali

47

15

16 hours ago

When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
    Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love!—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

~ John Keats by @nirvanwali

54

6

17 days ago

"Moving, and being himself,
Slow, and unquestioned,
And inordinately there, O stoic!
Wandering in the slow triumph of his own existence,
Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in chaos,
And biting the frail grass arrogantly,
Decidedly arrogantly." by @nirvanwali

51

3

20 days ago

I'd rather take my whiskey neat
My coffee black and my bed at three by @nirvanwali

76

3

a month ago

I dreamed you.
I waited 45 years for you
to find me.
I have nothing to give you
But these places
I have been.
I own no home.
I carry my life with me
In boxes
on my back.
Sometimes when you look
at me
I want to show you
Everything.

~ Willyce Kim (Places) by @nirvanwali

61

4

a month ago

by @nirvanwali

71

11

4 months ago

waiting for bedtime by @nirvanwali

57

9

5 months ago

I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

~Charles Bukowski (Consummation Of Grief) by @nirvanwali

28

0

6 months ago

Over your dear, dead heart I’ll lift,
As lightly as a bough,
Saying, “Here lies the false, high song,
Cruelly quiet now.”

I’ll say, “Here lies the lying sword,
Still dripping with my truth;
Here lies the lovely sheath I made,
Embroidered with my youth.”

I’ll sing, “Here lies, here lies, here lies!”
— Ah, rust in peace below! —
Passers will wonder at my words,
But your dark dust will know.

~ Leonora Speyer (I'll Be Your Epitaph) by @nirvanwali

78

2

6 months ago

شوق بے کار سہی سعئ غم انجام نہیں by @nirvanwali

73

6

a year ago

The only poem I can write
is the one in which she devours an egg sandwich on the overcast train ride to Montauk. Both of us desperate to quit the city, even just for one day, so foolishly we underdressed for the sea. How far a few bucks take us: to the top of a lighthouse, a tote bag full of ceramic souvenirs, a single lobster roll. She poses for photos along the bluffs. I dip my feet into the cold ocean. We talk about our parents, their failures, our own. As she naps on the sand, wrapped in a gauzy scarf, I shiver and watch the clouds move fast across the horizon to reveal sunset’s approach. It is just a sunset. It’s beautiful, and means nothing more than the end of a long day. At dinner, we bicker about the bacon in our pasta. The argument is more about exhaustion than it is about pork. We spend what feels like hours in silence drinking water from a patient bartender. We don’t speak again till we board the last train back to the city when she offers me gummy candy from the depths of her bag. She is alive, and our bodies recline on the train’s seats and thrash with laughter from a joke only we know.

~Helene Achanzar by @nirvanwali

50

5

a year ago

When I was about to die
my body lit up
like when I leave my house
without my wallet.

What am I missing? I ask
patting my chest
pocket.
and I am missing everything living
that won’t come with me
into this sunny afternoon

—my body lights up for life
like all the wishes being granted in a fountain
at the same instant—
all the coins burning the fountain dry—

and I give my breath
to a small bird-shaped pipe.

In the distance, behind several voices
haggling, I hear a sound like heads
clicking together. Like a game of pool,

played with people by machines.

~ Max Ritvo (Afternoon) by @nirvanwali

45

0

a year ago