We live on the wishes of the morrow, collecting fragments like sands,
every picture incomplete, broken from our own hands, and yet the pieces
when they merge crumble in the sands of time, the nature beyond mimics
our desire and stills time for a pause in our breath, like pictures
captured in still camera waiting to tell a story, we merge the sand,
making way for a river to flow....while it is just fragments telling
half a story which is human....
Perhaps a story to be written has to go back in time, or rummage through the shriveled hairs of history, where among the freckled locks some dreams have disappeared...perhaps its time to begin from the river and turn its course, untangle the life which hung between memory and dream, between pain and ecstasy, perhaps the unraveling has already happened somewhere and we are all in search of the place, the future from where we want to return, to the place of our own .....
Perhaps a story to be written has to go back in time, or rummage through the shriveled hairs of history, where among the freckled locks some dreams have disappeared...perhaps its time to begin from the river and turn its course, untangle the life which hung between memory and dream, between pain and ecstasy, perhaps the unraveling has already happened somewhere and we are all in search of the place, the future from where we want to return, to the place of our own .....
Daily
like a prodigal child I dig up holes in memory, removing all the soil
around the dreams and those of everyday happenings, hide them there to
be surprised in the dusk of life, but maybe the dawn never came and the
dusk already started receding in time, i fail to grope it, what if it
never comes and I never uncover the lost secrets which I promised to me?
I covered them in unwritten letters, in words among the trees, in
silence among the wind, in flight among the birds, now I just stare at
them like a lost vagabond, the baggage of recovering the lost is more
and the future dies in the past, and yet they never come.....
Have you seen them somewhere staring out of a cracked mirror, have you seen
them hanging out of the blinds of the window sills, have you seen them on
broken discs of songs, have you seen them in reels of movies which don't
play, have you seen them on the dog who lost a year, the man with the one
arm, the widow standing alone on the dark alley with a bowl in hand
which never fills up, have you seen it in the drunkard who crosses my
street every night, have you seen them in the mother who lost her child
and yet looks for her, in the torn pages of the book, or the lost ink of
pages, or discolored currency notes, or in poets who lost the only poem
which would have brought them to the world, or the girl who lost her
love, or the beds which were never made for themselves, the plants which
dry before they live, the coffee which smells before it is made....give
me some fragments, i am lost in all of them and they in me and both in
me, reconcile me to them, if you can do so, will you do this last for
me? will those gods come down off their cross to give me just a moment
in this being?
You capture and concretize what's lost among the seekers, their groping hands, fingers, eyes, without betraying abstractness, lingering evanescence, liminality, uncapturability, elusiveness...
ReplyDeleteWritten so passionately that reading this feels like my feeling capasity itself is speaking about its failure so successfully. While majority of us are postpodernists/poststructuralists to the point of having given up on some 'presence' or 'meaning', there are a few minority of us who are crazy really and this conceptualize 'insanity' our own sense of being/identity/reality. Crying in a dream wets floods your eyes with real tears and you wake up with a lost feeling which you cannot dissociate from your reality. I always feel or am not quite unfilling about something quite not present and quite not absent--simultaneously. Histories are just the skin of the skin of the skin of the skind of....of our skin. Every life is lost in the act of living and gets lost as soon as it's lived. Memories are fragmented, they cannot make up the life lost. My fragmented memories cannot fill me up with my lost self. I am lost from me. I am searching for me. I quite feel it, don't quite feel it. I don't believe it's quite lost, it just disappeared or just I can't see it because it's behind some absent screen/curtain of time. By why this screen.
While most psychologists and psychiatrists advise us to think about the present, I always find myself in the deep waters of some other moment or momentlessness. I think my sense of reality is different from the standard/sane sense of reality. I am mad, and my madness has its own faculties that really make me fell in a physically/biologically verifiable way, and more. I find it difficult to find my own boundaries, as if I am quite amorphous, quite breezing like the wind, flowing like water, fickle like gas molecules, expansive like though waves. I am more in these 'lost' than in this me here in flesh and blood. My minority self wants to join the majority self of me. I am joining. In the act of joining. I am walking to Union.
You are a poet, Manohar bhai. Let me tell you, as if you do not know this thing about yourself already, and as if I am saying this for the first the in the history of man's civilization--you are a poet. and more than it.
Now write more, man.