Lesser

Did we let ourselves
Fall into old patterns
That seemed alien to us
Once
Once, very long ago?

Did you stop to think
Before you leaped into the wilderness
That disillusionment
Guaranteed?
Or did you tilt that teacup
A little more to yourself
Than a younger self's
Younger mother
Would consider
Appropriate? 

Did you even wait
Until time could soften
That firm resolve
Like a chicken
Marinated in its own fluids
Or did you choose to offer
Your legs, thighs, breast
To make an identity of
Yourself?

Did you want an expected 
Penny under your pillow
Or maybe ten
But had no teeth to give
So you gave up your soul
In exchange?

Were you more
Were you lesser
Were you half a pint
Fitting into a thimble
Test tube baby of
Generation This.

Were you more
Were you lesser
Were you made-in-China
With a sticker to make you
Authentic?

Were you more
Were you lesser
In the past tense
Secretly making big plans
For a future self?

You were nothing,
Insignificant,
Nothing, then.
But at least you were
Firecracker
Maybe you were defective,
But now you're 
Lesser
And you can't live again. 

River

(This is a really old poem, which I'd forgotten about, but was reminded of by a co-conspirator, and my constant crisis situation supporter. Thought I might put it up. Cheers! :) )

A river of the shade of azure
Flows near by, near the dark moor.
Long have I known this engaging beast 
And seen it change for men of sparring histories. 

A tuneless timpani in the backdrop.
A raging savage descending from the hilltop. 
An ascetic's unravelling epiphany.
A necklace beneath the crepuscular moonbeam. 

The river whispers its thoughts of clandestine, 
To the epimorphic rays born of the divine. 
But I have seen it sell its true enigma
To a soulless, world less traveller. 

A sinless, singular stretch of blue.
A captivating nymph, dancing beneath the moon. 
A devious, scheming train of thought.
A safe haven for the enactment of a fatal plot. 

On the bank of the river which flows beyond the Viridian creek, 
Is where I saw her, tied tight and incapable of speech. 
Torn and broken, two specks of nothingness held my gaze 
As I watched, silently, from the encumbering wilderness. 

A shallow and screeching piece of music.
A soul stripped and scarred of everything abusive. 
A violated shade of red, spilling on a canvas, 
A darkening river, washing away a cask of ashes. 

The river had been my home of absolute solace
For eight and a half pairs of solstices
And when I become a witness to the charade of violation, 
I was bound to return to perform the encore of silent ovation. 

A scar in the lusty summer.
A playful and gushing river.
A record playing the last strains of Spring
And the colour of dark crimson slowly mixing.

Spiral patterns formed unrestrained before my stilled sight
And I watched the giant leviathan throttle underneath the sky. 
It drowned the sound of two souls copulating, 
One breathless, the other never breathing. 

A turn of the wind.
A naked offering.
A frozen body, covered in mud,
Another gyrating, then a deadened thud. 

I watched as he cleansed his hands
And looked at the heavens, for a shower of reprimands. 
All that remained was death frozen in her eyes, 
And the sound of birds chirping titillating lies. 

A perfect body, born of mud and clay. 
A hate song of the heavens, to mark the death of another day. 
A desperate attempt to move, a plea, a pray. 
Another killer returning, in a future of directionless gray. 

Long after, I saw the contours of the eternal river 
Turn black and cobalt with shades of silver 
As I witnessed the death of another dying face, 
Raped and killed near the river, near the wilderness.

A repeat of a lost record. 
A shattered applause, for the encore. 
A lost childhood, a broken man.
Another witness and a second washing of hands. 

... A trade of souls, a binding thread. 
A place beckoning the witness of the dead. 
A retelling of a story, a photograph from before. 
A rapist found dead, drowned to the river floor. 

(2012)

The Nostalgia (prequel to 'Vintage')

I don't know if you've ever stepped back
Instead of striding purposefully forward
And stood, in a shadow
Of Insignificances
Before a black or white road.

But if you have,
You would know
Nothing on the canvas is as
Brilliant as the stationary dot
That you wouldn't have seen
Had you not known.

And the perspective omniscience grsnts you
Is more purposeful that the purposeful people

Before you.

*
Before you fell for me
You said you fell for
What you saw of me
In that
Painting of mine:

You could almost discern my figure, you said
Leaning over
Making the watery clouds
Evaporate with a smile.

I denied it
Because a smile
Was not the picture in my head
When I put my first coat of water
On the canvas.

And because the waether forecast
My professor made
Was 'melancholic',
I decided to dance along to it.

But you said
'Melancholic' has some
Sense of transparent
Nostalgia to it
And though you had never
Seen me before
You knew 'Nostalgia'
Was the 'Open Sesame'
To my soul.

*

Names are secrets
That are fashioned out of
The deepest abysses of your mind.
When you give a name
You make a transient thought
Settle permanently into
The recesses of an impermanent sky.

Think of a name as a star
That your soul found
Without any intention of
Star gazing.

Think of a name like Nostalgia
Which you attach to things
Long after they stopped remaining.

*

I named you nothing.

Because nothing moved me in that moment.
I thought of nothing whenever I would paint.
And when they asked me where my inspiration lay,
I said, "Nothing."

*

Some colours stand out
More vividly that others.
Some colours last longer
Than a few forevers.
It's a matter of perspective, they say
But I know all perspective requires
Is a bit of love and blood.

So when I made my soul
With colours that refused to be sold
I knew it was predestined
Because the only thing
Worth your soul and blood,
Is Nothing.

*

When you fell for me
You fell for melancholy
But melancholy is a
Name
Half- part bitter
And half-part sweet.
And when my professor declared it
"Melancholic:
I drew only one half,
But you fell for the half
That did not exist.

I don't know if you've ever stepped back
Instead of striding purposefully forward
And stood in a shadow
Of insignificances
Before a black or white road.

But if you have
You would have known
Sometimes it's a part
And not the whole
That is beautiful in a soul;
And if only, you had known.

And the perspective retrospection grants you
Is more nostalgic that The Nostalgia
You thought I drew.

(Here is the sequel, 'Vintage' : http://betweentheparenthesis.blogspot.in/2015/04/vintage.html )

Vintage

You've been staring at that wall

For quite some time now.

I know that that painting evokes some reaction in you.

You may not be able to put your finger at it

But the brushstrokes remind me of the gentleness

With which I touched your spirit.

That, there, may remind you of when I ran my fingers

In zigzag patterns over your skin

And I know, over there, is the same detachment

You claimed my eyes had

When we sat after some

Detached love making.

We had coffee then.

The brown and black at the edge of that painting is

Not reminiscent of that moment, and I know you

Didn't think of it at all

But I hope it touched you somewhere,

Right in your spirit

Because I remembered that conversation we had

And that unnecessary splotch is an ode to it.

I told you then; I wanted fame.

I was sick of throwing paint on the ground and

Watching it wash away with my tears

Because when I created, it was not

My hands at the job

But some inner phantasm that

Took control of me and

That phantasm spirited itself away

Through my fingers

Through my eyes

And through your voice

When you never asked me not to cry.

You understood it was necessary

For someone whose lips chewed the end of a joint

But whose fingers could never fashion the energy

Necessary to light it up

To not want to explain her tears

But to watch them create their own

Patterns, mingling with the color

She saw like she saw the diffused rays of sunlight

Every dawn after the nightmare of

Endless, ineffective sleeping pills got over:

Liberation.

I loved how you regarded me as some stray dog.

You wanted to come close to me

But you were afraid I'd bite if you came too close

Secretly, I'd laugh at the wary expression your eyes wore

When you would ask a question

And I wouldn't answer

Just stare at you, blank faced

Because I guess, I guess you really didn't get my

Bohemian ways.

That little burnt sienna at the edge is an ode to that expression

I swear I've spent hours before a mirror trying to recreate

You do not know this, but I would have taken that fatal step

When someone I admired told me I was worthless

If that expression was not in my memory;

Affixed and vintage.

Imagine, if you can,

Me; standing at the very edge

Of that diffused sunlight,

My paintbrush in hand,

Ready to give in to what you knew I couldn't control

But hysterically laughing because that expression that 

Could never be mine

Made me whole.

"I want to be famous."

That's the last sentence I said,

When you found me out of bed,

4:30 AM, in front of another day break.

That was the only time I saw you angry,

And you held my wrist too damn tightly

Because you were afraid of letting go

Of what you never possessed

And your spirit knew what your practical

Starched collar shirt and crispy buttered toast mind

Didn't.

I was never yours to begin with.

You left that day, suitcase in hand 

And as you packed, 

You threw a palette through the center of the canvas

I cried most before, because

I knew it demanded something of me,

And I could never complete it.

And that little heart, right at the center

Is my memory of it.

I think the lady next to you is your wife

And she loves what you've seen and wonders if you'd buy it.

When you look at her, it isn't the vintage confusion with which you

Looked at me.

It almost looks like something I could never feel.

I think it looks like love, something

Starched collar shirt, crispy buttered toast real.

And I can hear you say,

"I think I used to know this painter..."

And I can hear your spirit say,

"In the diffused sunlight, I can still see her."

(This is a three part series about an artist's failed relationships. 

Here is the prequel: http://betweentheparenthesis.blogspot.in/2015/04/the-nostalgia-prequel-to-vintage.html?m=1) 

Poetry That Was Never Published And Songs That Were Better Off Unsung

A millenium is made up of a thousand years, Each of which possess 10 hundreds. Of thise ten hundreds, you can brokerage one each and divide it into 365 days. Mathematics was never ny strong point, But I'm trying to calculate the seconds in a millenium to see If I have those many cells in my body. My mother and brother are storytellers Who can describe the empty depths of ravines And the jagged rise of the mountains In detail so excruciating, That you would feel they were speaking Of the lines on your hands. I am the little one, the runt of the pack, Who summarises massive epics into Pocket sized diary entries Because as the runt of the pack, My stories have never seemed interesting enough, or important enough To expand and stretch out into An openness of plains. My punch lines skedaddle and maneuver right out of control And my stories are as dry as an empty shore, But I'm trying to lift the ocean And drag it by its wrists Until it undoes its hair For the shoreline to kiss. They may be story tellers; but my stories Have emotion bled into them through More permanent ink And have magicked themselves into music My lips could never sing. And I am trying to calculate the seconds in a millenium to see If I have those many cells in my body Because I want each cell I have spent into Making myself feel, To be immortalized, in a tombstone- shaped second So that long after they no longer remain, Even time will be obligated to honour them.

Bad Poetry

I wanted you to know that

I learnt a few words last year

That I can bet you haven't heard of.

Before you laugh outright,

Notice how I've also learnt to smile

In the face of flashing light.

It's no big accomplishment, I know

But in some far-off bubble shaped

Microcosm

That we built with things greater than wind and soap,

It was an Atlas shaped Accomplishment

Balanced on the axis of hope.

I told you I hated poetry for heartbreaks.

There is something so inanely idiotic

In singing about something that probably never took place

Because half the time, it wasn't the Heart, but a Head

That lost the sight/taste/smell/feel/sound

Of better sense.

You laughed outright in my face.

And reminded me that my favourite poet was Yeats.

I didn't have to say it,

But you said it for me anyway:

'Touché.'

I told you then that it was different.

For one, his poetry was not

Generic

For the other

You could see that he loved her

And finally

It was unbearably lovely.

Just like the wind that had a way of

Sifting through your hair to remind us

Where percussionists make magic from.

Just like the light that didn't remember

That twilight meant it had to disappear

Because it had found sanctum in the lacquer

Of your eyes.

Just like the lines that twisted themselves

Into puzzles that only a logicless maneuver

Could dismantle into a smile.

You broke into one of those sudden smiles

That have no history, no logic, no

Sense to them and said,

'Your problem isn't with heartbreaks.

It's with bad poetry.'

I made you read my favourite poem.

It was a Neruda- fire and earth to counter

Our bubble microcosm.

I quoted it often, back then,

In the intangible hope

That the fire and the earth would let themselves be

Pulled apart by the wind and the air

And travel the distances between

A person and her naked dream

To return and reclaim

Me.

'I love you, love. In fire and blood.'

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The taste of fire, the taste of blood

Microcosmic natural disasters in a microcosmic world.

The funny thing is,

You only need to touch a bubble deep enough to

Watch it burst.

This time, I said it first.

'Touché.'

It's easy to forget that a sky can fall from heaven

And innocently call itself rain.

It's easy to forget that a poem dedicated

Is a poem given away.

And dedication means what was fully yours

Will never be the same.

And Atlas,

Atlas himself will tell you

That it's easy to balance something so steady and

Something so permanent and so

There

As the earth

But a bubble

A bubble won't topple

As much as burst.

Touché?

I didn't tell you, but you'd

Laugh outright

If I told you that there was a lot of

Bad poetry

After that time.

And then, I wouldn't have to say it,

The next bit,

Because you'd say it for me anyway.

And just like Neruda,

There's no good translation for it;

Except probably

'Hypocrite'.

And of all the words I learnt this year,

My favourite one is happens to be another one

You can't translate:

Sillage.

And I won't be surprised

When you look it up and laugh outright

Because like the Head, and the Heart

It lacks

Better sense.

To Toast.

I took a hiatus. Not that it was an intentional hiatus, it was just one-of -those-things-that-are-determined-by-external-circumstances-but-you-have-halting-control-over.

AKA, boarding school. 

Not that I have any regrets, I love boarding school, despite the fact that some of it is tough. Eventually, your system learns to accept it. 

It would be fairly uncharitable of me if I didn't elaborate upon its various perks, but I was told that an introduction should comprise only seven lines (the Man can bring you down) and I just realized that I'm clearly overstepping the boundaries of written literature as has been mandated by the species that swore fidelity to neanderthals. 

Long sentence. Ambiguous. Wrong Grammar, all over again. 

To compensate, I'll make the next sentence crisp and starchy. 

Toast. 

Bet you didn't see that one coming. 

I miss toast. Somehow, a school providing six hundred girls with twelve hundred slices of toast, only generates a half-baked effort which isn't the crisp, brown phenomenon, lathered in salty, golden ambrosia that you pictured. Toast in boarding school is like boarding school. And like good literature. And like your perception of good grammar. 

There's too much expectation and experience involved in all four to accept that there just might be a sense of unwelcome novelty. 

Boarding school started off as a fantasy brought on by excessively fantastical children's literature and ended as something vaguely reminiscent of Stalin's Russia. Thanks, Enid Blyton. For presenting a world view as warped as the unchewable mess we get in the name of toast. 

For godssake. Enid Blyton is held as the paragon of children's literature. Bite into one of her books as an adult with the surface ability too critically analyze a novel and you'll realize that you were being served a pile of LSD induced utopian horse shit that you devoured like M n Ms. 

Good Golly. 

As for Grammar. For goddsake, you TAKE an exam, you only GIVE an exam when you are the examinER. Unless you are an old man with a bald patch you desperately comb over with a few stray strands of hair and let your life be governed by the bells that haunted your schooldays, I don't see how you can GIVE an exam. 

Incidentally, it's an error to say 'its an error'. You'd be wrong THERE if you said 'its THEY'RE' because it's THEIRS.

Fun fact. The internet began, around the time Neanderthals did, as a medium to access information. Also, the internet began, around the time Neanderthals decided to skip a few stages of evolution and jump right into Hipster, and to disintegrate into a form depicting lower intelligence.

Getting back to boarding school. 

I really miss toast. 

Incidentally, toast was just an accessory to a rant against human civilization, and the breadcrumbs they leave all over the internet. 

They're soggy.