The admonitory sage called ‘Afterthought’

It is quite often, lately, that I find myself fettered in perplexity, to be a respectful and silent listener to the beautiful unmusicality of bewildering sounds trying to reach some sort of a consensus in my head. I am lost on the cause of the debate since they happen to make sounds that haven’t found their way into any living language. It’s like Morse fuckin’ code, every time I begin to follow a little of the dialogue, it changes pattern! It’s just noise to me! Loud, impetuous noise! Multiple speakers and not a word that makes sense, and I am just sitting there rolling my eyes, waiting for them to unite or tire! It’s like being in a colony of puffins’ right around the time of hatching!

Soon I come to realize the number of debaters are only two. Carl Jung from my college days, says, they go by the name of anima and animus. She tries to be the woman, encumbered by all the virtue she has learnt from centuries past, graveled in her characteristic form and, he, the uncouth bawdy man with his anguish of being all that comes with the territory of being defined since the beginning of time and associated with his form (the duality of existence manifested and symbolized in gender; or genitals, is it?!) All of this discombobulation playing out in the top shelf I used to, very mistakenly, address to as ‘my sacred house of blissful sanity’.

It would explain so much to think that all of my relationships have been a projection of the interplay between my anima and animus; no wonder they follow the same trail and end at the same place! It’s like it is a show in real time of all those explosions in the unconscious at the time. The cord or discord between my archetypes defines my interactions with any significant person; the actual conversation between the two parts of me.

This poem is about more things than I can hope to elucidate. Its hero, though, is smoke (which is obscurely clear); the smoke that wavered around and molded the imagery, words and colors! This poem could be about my relationships or about the anguish of duality or a description of me making love. Or it could be all of it, or nothing entirely!

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Swathed

Cream
As the color
Of old,
Shriveled
Bones…
Seated on the cold
Rhinestone,
Singing in a
Baritone,
The cornerstone
Of eventual
Bemoan,
The gnome
Guarding
The crossbones
At the entrance
Of the crypts
Where lay
His chivalry…

His chivalry,
Cream
As the color
Of old,
Shriveled
Bones…

White
Of the floating
Smoke
Afoot
The clandestine
Ceiling…
Its furtive sway
Quite revealing,
Or concealing,
Flicker
In and out,
The mummer’s dismay,
Aithalos
Was healing
Quite appealing…
Wings her Eris,
Strict annealing,
For her innocence…

Her innocence,
White
Of the floating
Smoke
Afoot
The clandestine
Ceiling…

Quiet
As the
Long drawn
Silence
Between me and me…
Gee! It felt
Kinda feathery,
A little cold,
A little thick,
And a little tickely…
Against a stone face
And an
Indiscernible smile…
Acquiescent to my
Plea,
To flee
Into the corner
Of the edge
Of my world,
And look down into
The quiet…

Quiet
As the
Long drawn
Silence
Between him and me…

 

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Published: ‘Six by Eight Feet’

Published

Recumbent…asthenic…
Still as beauteous as vernal willow,

In the kaleidoscopic gossamers of light
Streaming from her corner
Winded by the contiguous timber
That had been her comrade
For half a century past…

She looked as young as the day she had come in,
As blazing as the skies
As sweltering as the aureole
As fervent as the storms
As fiery as the orange she donned…

As unwonted, as vehement, unequalled, an intrepid
As… as
Still, tranquil…
As pleasant as she was ole…

Impetuousness…brawn
And the strength of a stalwart equine,

Dwarfed by the inflexible darkness
Screaming from right down the core
Of the unceasing march of stone walls
Silent in progression
But spry to house her soul…

First day in, she had looked as stripped as a newborn
As harried as the dusty lands
As ravaged as carrion
As broken as a dream
As lost as a letter on silent grounds…

As stark, as scourge, bleak, astray
As…as
Disrobed, barren
As fragmented as her impending dawn…

The rambunctious shrieks
And the unruly brawls

Blatant rape of her space
And being
Raucous ordains and
The arduous inane labor
Reeking of the melancholy of trapped demons

At the end of their game.
The black bile
Consuming the hallways,
Each solitary cell,
Their sanity and resolve…

Vacuous words
From people who had once been
But now were as lost
As they were around…
Reposed…sang-froid…
As empty as the night

Spilt of all juices, thoughts, dreams
Poured out like black blood
From a wound;
She felt whole
Her being now hard bound and delivered…

It lay on the rack as sacred as her first words
As hallow as her fatuous sins
Filled with tales of purple trees
And talking breeze
And ALL the splendor her life had not seen…

Her beautifully unveiled imagination
As bound as she had been
Inside these walls for 56 years
Back at 18, she finally felt free…

Recumbent…asthenic…
Still as beauteous as vernal willow,

In the kaleidoscopic gossamers of light
Streaming from her corner
Winded by the contiguous timber
Of the dark forest
Outside her prison walls…

As she lay breathing her last,
The guards queried
What kept her going that long
She lifted her eyes
And looked one last time

Across the dark room
And the cold stone walls
Out her crooked little window
She was at peace

Six by eight feet
That was her swansong.

Lines!

Black and white or brightly colored,
We are but random chalk marks on a weary chalkboard,
Screeching sounds, traveling directionless,
Distressing poignancy in all pathos showed!

The jagged lines and the ones those are broken,
Each making a statement of their own,
Stirring sensation, these meaningless lines,
With each infinitesimal motion, a new character is born!!!

Find your space, Oh! Find your space,
Before he gets the vile rag out,
Helter skelter, to wave your paltry existence away,
Be lost or stand out of the crowd!!!

Stay on board or move on ahead,
No matter how darker you are than the rest,
Getting crammed, running out of space,
You can only stay on for a bit at best!!!