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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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