Sunday, 27 September 2009

it is a lie?

Here I am an old
and young person looking
for some (what do they call it?)
children have a word for
it. Or maybe not? What indeed
she says, what indeed is that
is that
is
that.

On nights of many
yesteryears when the nights
full of fumes and smoke and pulsating
dreams, I danced insanely
These have waned, we were
pained, I am drained. And now
and now, and now
ashes are all that are left, and sometimes
the embers stir, but leave me
unmoved. But some beats
some melodies some dreams
seem
vaguely familiar.

With age love withers.
A strange senescent senility has set
in, and the heart never skips a beat
for anything. And yet one (what
do you call it?)...
Hope? Maybe that-
and I do it, an old and young person
who detests and yet savours
what is that cruel thing they call?
Error? Hatred? Weakness?
Savoir faire? Don't nod, don't say, don't whisper
that it's... experience?

With age the mind wanders.
Into and through strange alleys
and by-lanes. Then a strange cul-de-sac wherein
no truth whaddyacallit resides. Hides a lost
whisper, hides a strange dream. The heavy, rather
unpleasant hangover. After drinking, in the
Dark. For; do we know? Who is it, I ask?
Or perhaps, it only wanders and never
questions. That is the sign.
Of age.

With youth, however, is associated that callousness
I talk of. It is a strange coldness. Another
hangover, from childhood.
I daresay children can be nice, it is a cliche
that they are cruel. Different from adults
inasmuch they do not pretend.
Youth; inevitable pretentious
(now impostor!)
In the afternoons
I feel youthful and cruel.

At night old cold
I stay awake
and break
my heart, thinking
of what never was
and could not be.

It is a lie if I say that ashes are all that are
left, with an occasional ember. For with
age, when the passion dies out
a new sense emerges. It is not that
dreams are our only company.
It is an understanding.

(Of the birth that was death
and the death that was birth.
And the life that was breath
And the reconciliatory mirth.)

And an understanding.
So much understanding.

It is a lie.

3 comments:

Baudolino said...

Some poems are read, enjoyed and forgotten. Some we remember. And some turn into prayers, lines that we murmur when we pray for things we lack the most. This is one of those poems. Perhaps the best that you have written.

Bhooter Raja said...

I agree with Baudolino. This is excellent!

Post Script said...

That was...just...wow.

Following.