Friday, 4 March 2011

a strange dream

It was an exquisite March evening,
tropical and sad. I think I was mad.
Mad with longing.
I thought of belonging.
I stood outside the harsh gates
of some garden sublime.
I wanted some time.
I wanted to enter
to marvel at colour
and to marvel at range
I wanted that beauty.
I wanted some change.

But the gatekeeper was old
He was an angry old man
saying, "I don't think you can."
And I said, "Please intervene.
I want to go in
It's not really a sin.
Why can't I want beauty?"
He said,
"You're not good enough,
Can you write a poem?
Can you paint a picture?
Can you sing a song?
Just run along."

I begged and I pleaded.
An angel appeared.
He said, "You can go in,
but leave all your memories
behind.
You cannot rewind.
Once you're inside
You'll have nothing to hide."
My memories of mother,
of father, and brother.
Of dog, and of school.
Grandmother, village fool.
Everyone
left behind.

It was a terrible choice.
I made it.
I said, "I shall compromise
I will leave before sunset."
And the angel said,
"Perhaps that is wise.
When the sun is orange
The sands will run dry
You know you must fly."

So I entered,
and I was free.
But
I was not me.
I saw a long stretch of sand
Where castles were built by hand
And once one was complete
a wave came and washed it down.
And that was the end of it.

I moved on,
and I saw little children
cry tears of blood
and they were in terrible pain
and I asked why
They cried "We weep in vain."
And I cried, but my eyes were dry
My punishment; I could not cry.

Where was the garden?
The sun was about to set
I had not found it yet.
But slowly I moved to it.
But the brilliant flowers
had completed their hours
and were wilting.
The roses were turning black from red
The lilies were already dead.
The sky was turning a brilliant pink.
And I who had no memories
Could not think.

The sun was turning into an orange ball
It was time to leave
And I who had given up all memories
I could not grieve.
I had no direction
I could not find my way
Out of that garden
I must perish there today.

And I stood there.
I,
alone,
with dead
and
melting
flowers
against
an
orange
sun.

Then I awoke from this dream.
I could not understand.
I lay there on my bed.
And I think it was my hand
which shook
when it traced
the silhouette
of an orange ball
on an empty page.
I thought I'd call
it- "Rage."
I would have,
but then,
for three immobile hours
No word
no memory
no emotion
entered my head.
I think I was dead.

1 comment:

Strawberry Amma said...

"You can go in,
but leave all your memories
behind.
You cannot rewind.
Once you're inside
You'll have nothing to hide."

1. Do you mean to say Angels don't check on previous background of a person while selecting them?

2. And if the protagonist is reminiscent of the past, s/he would want to hide it always? So that s/he is able to write her story anew and there be no dependency on her past?

3. And why would she want to hide her memories at all? Are they too bad to reveal or something?

4. It doesn't strike a chord with me. If memories are bright (like you say s/he was missing her village), why would she want to hide away unless it's a new beginning altogether?


5. I thought the angel was a Saviour. And if yes, why does she still long for her village crowd?

Please think on the last sentence carefully.

Thanks!