Wednesday, 20 July 2011

I HATE WAKING UP IN THE MORNING.
I have this utter conviction I might get pneumonia.
This will be my end.
I hate getting up so early. 8:30 am? WHY????

*HATE BUTTON* *HATE BUTTON*

And the worst part is, I couldn't even go to sleep again?

Monday, 18 July 2011

an elegy

The eternal life awaits me, in front of me lies the vast desert
of a life in anticipation; my eyes look for you. There is no comfort
in solitude, no comfort in myself, only a sort of trembling in the face
of the infinite and the vast. I would give myself willingly to you
if you had a body. Then my love would have been meaningful, a pure
sort of love. Now, the bonds of kinship are disintegrating, and all
that remains is terror.

I have lauded my imagination, my ability to make meaning when confronted
with incoherence. I have thought understanding is the greatest virtue
that one can have. But is that true, is that the most beautiful ability,
or is it the ability to lie, face down, on the earth, and inhale the smell
of fresh earth, and newly sprung grass?

It is a terrible thing to feel affinity. I have felt affinity with you
when your mind was in motion, but no never turbulent, never turbulent
like the river which springs in cruel motion from the mountain, and challenges
you to witness cruelty. The gushing stream annihilates the flowers on
its banks; the sweet flowers which blossom only to be destroyed
by one more powerful than they.

I have felt affinity with you when your arms have held me like the river
holds the flowers in its crushing grasp.
And I have been afraid.

Why do the bonds of kinship break? Where is the tenderness of a mother's
embrace, I want to hold my father's hand again, and hear my grandmother
sing me to sleep, but all I see is a long and endless stretch of sand,
a sun dazzling in its intensity.
And I have felt a strange thirst
which no river can quench.

In the distance, a child dies
but I cannot see it. It died
without being aware of the limitless,
it did not see the grains of sand
in a sand-clock. It did not
hear the minutes ticking by.
I do not know whether it was a girl
or a boy.

My eyes looked for you,
but found the sea instead.
As they gazed at the sea,
a bird flew from the north
to the south.
And I was astonished.
You would say
it is incoherence.

Friday, 15 July 2011

Farewell




Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

You said; You will not be like them.
You will be different: more profound, more thoughtful,
less glitzy, with depth, with understanding.
With the understanding which comes with the late afternoon sun.
I didn't know I could miss you so much.
Your absence my strength.
Your absence my understanding.
Your absence my love.
Your absence my greatest weakness.

You said: We are like two travellers on
two parallel paths who never meet.
We met.
And now your absence is my
Key to memory.
I don't know how exactly to recall you.
I don't know how to tell you
You said there is no need.
We are young
but we are not free.
I am not free
because I miss you.

Your absence is freedom
in a different way.
And to think nobody will understand.

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Ne me quitte pas

I was clearing out the debris of five years from my room. It hurts me to think that time has passed by so soon, and yet I have not changed. Notebook after notebook of hastily scribbled notes: Kafka, Shakespeare, Milton, Beowulf: my eyes turned misty. The back of each notebook had little conversations-some of them were funny, some were romantic in a silly way, and most were profoundly forgettable.

Ne me quitte pas.

It was Jacques Brel or Edith Piaf, I forget which. It was playing when I discovered my old poetry notebooks of 2004 onward. I marvelled at the way my handwriting has changed, and I was surprised at the way my mind worked- then. I seem to have been a pretty sophisticated thinker even then. And I was definitely more honest and transparent. There was no love poetry. A lot of poems on animals. Allegory. There is something so obvious about allegory. I was obvious, yes. But now, it seems as if I have forgotten allegory and embraced deceit. Deceit i.e., love.

Ne me quitte pas.

Have you seen Jacques Brel's face when he sings this?
Don't leave me now
I'll invent for you
Such senseless words
That you'll understand
I'll speak to you
Of those lovers there
Who have seen two times
their hearts all ablaze
I will recount for you
The story of that king
Dead for not having
the chance to meet you
Don't leave me now...

When I see his tearful, perspiring face, his quivering lips, his devastated eyes, the muscles on his face taut and unrelenting- I think that Brel does not sing it to a woman, I think Brel sings it to himself. And with that horrible realization, my passion spent, I turn to my juvenile notebooks, going back seven years...

Don't leave me now
We must forget
All can be forgotten
It escapes already
Forget the time
The misunderstandings
And the moments lost
We must know how
Forget those hours
Which killed at times
With each thrust of why
The heart of happiness
Don't leave me now...

Who can understand the senseless words we invent for ourselves? To understand would be to love, and like fiction, love too is a lie.
Ahona, ne me quitte pas.