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.

Stage Act: Catch 22

“All the worlds’ a stage”

No truer words were ever spoken…Do I have the freedom to make my own choices…at all levels…conscious, subconscious and unconscious? Or am I driven by this mysterious force, the parasite housing some corner of my brain feeding on my memories and thoughts and the undercurrents of history, the collective unconscious, if there ever was such a thing…Sucking out my sanity and individual standing a little bit each passing day…Will I ever be freed from the clutches of history and those rotten piles on piles on piles on piles of methods and being and thinking and existence…Freedom from the roots of decaying masses grabbing at my feet, those old men, their scars and their existences, the fact that they once walked the same lands as I do, dominating my every move…bulge out from their graves, hold tight at the bottom of my feet in the name of gravity and constantly pull me down to Netherlands…Stopping me from growing, reaching higher…thwarting the birth of my distinctiveness…singularity…My universe…the scope of something new…for better or for worse, but scope of change…scope of discovery….self-discovery…No masters, no guides, no Lords, no Gods, no light…Just me and the untouched, unsullied stretch of endless land…No dead men directing me from below, no God’s from above…!!!
It looks so distant now, I think determinism might actually have been crowned the new Idol…King of the lands of zombies who walk the country, walk around in different combination of quirks and qualities all pre-set to proportion carefully calculating each move they will make till the end of time…like programmed chips functioning on orders and scripts…scripts created by an unseen creator…Meet somebody on the street, stop and say with an almost genuine-looking smile, ‘Hello! How you doing” irrespective of whether you give a damn…Say ‘ It’s going to be okay’ when someone’s upset even though you have no goddamn idea why they are so morose…You are better than somebody, feel guilty, worse than somebody feel shame, younger- listen, older-understand, teenager- oh! This one’s the worst, listen AND understand…Years after years, generations after generations, moons after moons, universes after universes…guided by things you OUGHT to do, people you OUGHT to be…
We have different ways of dealing with this absurdity…all of us do…our own way to deal with distress….but is it our own…Maybe not…Some of us withdraw, some of us try extra hard to go with the flow and some of us say, ‘What the fuck, bro! This shit is not for me” and try to defy, rebel and quit…But apparently there are no exits…do you see them…I don’t…it’s a game…a sick game…once you enter it, you can’t get out till you cross the finish line…till the curtains are down, the lights are out and he says, ‘Shows over’…Nothing is in our control…nada…no control, no escape…just a bunch of marionettes dancing around and groping for a pair of scissors to cut loose in the dark, but he was smart…No sharp objects on stage…everything is meticulously planned, diligently organized and calculated and placed…He is quite a chess player, you gotta hand him that…
Catch 22

The Recluse, the Squire and the Junkie!

One gray, one leaden, Marionette,
Monstrous, mellow and grotesque,
Get on stage with lines abreast,
With lanky, crippled, tawny zest…
Wander east and tumble west,
With no valleys, and no crest,
It was a dull and plebeian fest,
No exits; no cracks and no egress…

She walked atop a wooden stilt,
There wasn’t a folk right of her ilk,
And so she abandoned, so she jilt,
Both the masses and her quilt…
Choked her marvel with heavy silt
Veiled her shiny sparkling gilt,
With abashing and with guilt,
Of a bloody, wilt, and puffing hilt…

Out comes leaden in their color,
The heavy metal and shiny armor,
Dazed at the slimmest, slenderest stir,
Fetter the bugger; bind him and mure…
All the edges, they were a blur,
A giant trooping cloud of azure,
No scope for chafing, none for jar,
“Would you die for this grime” “Oh! Why not, Sure!”…

Stringed, in their corners they stood,
Strutting past, along came a brute,
Unkempt, shabby and somewhat crude
With a glitzy colored suit…
Curled up hair like strings of jute,
Smoking weed and dreary moot,
Gray and leaden thought, ‘Oh! Shoot!,
Where be his strings, there be none by his glute. Hoot Hoot Hoot

The strings to honor or to lose,
Reckoned they, is for them to choose,
In a bucket of paint they dip and douse,
To free themselves of the louse…
The roles, the acts and the engineered joust,
They yank and tug and it wouldn’t come out
How then did that carefree lout,
Was freed without a holler, short of a shout…

Self- abandoned, on the fringe,
Fighting fire, water and winds
No cords, no ties, no kilt or kin,
No virtues, vices, or dirty sins,
No peasants, warriors and no kings…
Off to the beautiful land of glen,
Out of bounds; here and then,
Away from the stage and the ugly masks,
He walked to the lush and fertile Grass…
But that too, wasn’t a lonely land,
Not a place where he could stand,
Alone; without all new strings and all that jazz…!!!!!!

They had only watched him, watched him pass!!!

-Neeti

GRAY GAOL

 

As I lay awake with my cigarette last night, at the window sill, like I have done, ummm, never before, I look down into it and realize how apt it is that the burning fire creates a prison of ash around it, keeping itself under bounds…Is that how it goes down inside of us too, a burning fire caged inside to keep it from blazing…Maybe! Who is to say!?!

Well and guess what, the smoke s got a part to play too. The white of the smoke against the dark canvas of the night transforms itself in all the conflicts held inside…Do people smoke because it allows them to watch, watch first hand, like a movie, the battles in the head which after a brief display are carried away by the High Air…Maybe! Who is to Say!?!

As you think that through,heres what happened last night!!! 🙂

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It smoldered and it burnt,
Burnt inside the prison,
The prison of GRAY…
While she sat at the window sill,
Glaring into the bleeding night,
It slowly seared away…

It squalled and it shrieked,
Shrieked of excruciating pain,
The pain of being slain…
While she sat at the window sill,
Eros and Deimos battling in her head,
And Ares with his army of bane…

Vulcan still was seething,
Seething as a chained dragon,
The dragon behind bars of ASH…
While the moon glazed in peaceful silence,
The skirmish brewing inside,
She mindlessly looked through the stash…

She watched against the bleeding dark,
Watched them being laid,
Laid into their graves…
While the moon glared in baleful silence
The soldiers of King Deimos,
Being taken in as slaves…

All this while Vulcan blazed,
Blazed inside his cage,
The cage that he had made…
While she looked against the dead dark,
All the wars being fought and dissipated,
For smoke in high air never could stay…!!!

And now that she was free,
Free from all that lay,
Lay inside her prison of GRAY…
The arrows, knights and horses,
And the black robed man with a scythe,
May rest in peace till another day…

-Neeti