My fantasies are sketchy
like the black-and-white outlines
in a colouring book
Were they be too vivid,
they might jump out
of the pages,
the beasts of reality
I caught a sight of you.
The door slightly ajar, I passed by
a glimpse of you
Pangs and twangs
tugging of heartstrings
vibrations too low to be picked up
by human ears
The frequency of emotions
guttural, deep, and low
that which sends blood coursing,
flooding the vessels,
And the vessels are like cracks
on a broken vessel.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Castle in the sand
Today when I sit on that magical borderline
between grains of silicon dioxide and saltwater,
I dig out a little hole,
(kind of like an antlion's sandpit,
though there is a certain perversion that
the sand is the sand, but
the beach is not the desert)
I haven't so much as thought of digging a foundation
for a castle of sand, when
the waves sweep the sand level,
and the castle in the sand only becomes
the castle in the air.
But what struck me most wasn't the extinguished architecture,
but the fact that the waves gently, ferociously slapped everything even.
Castles of sand, houses, cities, happiness, sadness, anger,
well, people.
And the ancient voices doth spake:
Syrus: In the face of death all men are equal;
A Chinese sage: In the face of Truth, all are students.
(Me: In the face of tidal wave, run away.)
between grains of silicon dioxide and saltwater,
I dig out a little hole,
(kind of like an antlion's sandpit,
though there is a certain perversion that
the sand is the sand, but
the beach is not the desert)
I haven't so much as thought of digging a foundation
for a castle of sand, when
the waves sweep the sand level,
and the castle in the sand only becomes
the castle in the air.
But what struck me most wasn't the extinguished architecture,
but the fact that the waves gently, ferociously slapped everything even.
Castles of sand, houses, cities, happiness, sadness, anger,
well, people.
And the ancient voices doth spake:
Syrus: In the face of death all men are equal;
A Chinese sage: In the face of Truth, all are students.
(Me: In the face of tidal wave, run away.)
The Pool is Indifferent to My Mortality:
It occurred to me twice, first when my chest tightened out of nowhere,
second when I was One with the chlorine water,
having waded interminable laps on the way to two hundred,
the Enlightenment.
The pool would utter, if it can think aloud like the lake in Narcissus, with the royal plural pronoun:
You don't have a set of gills, yet you dare treading in our watery realm?
(But then, in retrospect, fishes, or other possessors of gills, would die in chlorinated water)
You could almost hear this voice resonating in the back-and-forth lapping of the surface,
guided by gentle breeze of the rain prelude.
Mind suspended in contemplation, body suspended in this sort of reverse amniotic fluid
(it doesn't give birth; it kills)
I studied my almost still shadow on the pool floor,
tangled in strands of light, enmeshed
with what looks like the very fabric of Nature itself,
Yes, in the beginning was Let there be light, wasn't it?
And I wondered if I was being brought to the beginning or the end,
the amniotic fluid or the formaldehyde,
kindled or extinguished.
second when I was One with the chlorine water,
having waded interminable laps on the way to two hundred,
the Enlightenment.
The pool would utter, if it can think aloud like the lake in Narcissus, with the royal plural pronoun:
You don't have a set of gills, yet you dare treading in our watery realm?
(But then, in retrospect, fishes, or other possessors of gills, would die in chlorinated water)
You could almost hear this voice resonating in the back-and-forth lapping of the surface,
guided by gentle breeze of the rain prelude.
Mind suspended in contemplation, body suspended in this sort of reverse amniotic fluid
(it doesn't give birth; it kills)
I studied my almost still shadow on the pool floor,
tangled in strands of light, enmeshed
with what looks like the very fabric of Nature itself,
Yes, in the beginning was Let there be light, wasn't it?
And I wondered if I was being brought to the beginning or the end,
the amniotic fluid or the formaldehyde,
kindled or extinguished.
When it breaks
When it breaks,
Appropriately in the dead of the night
When things come to a close
Where it breaks,
Appropriately within a similar, much bigger symbolism as itself
Who breaks it,
Appropriately oneself, for whom it represents
Something of glory, a faraway dream-like past;
(A jar pickling the totality of youth, passion, ambitions, aspirations,
Identity -- or prototype thereof)
A bystander, or participant, of the scene -- depends on how you see it --
Appropriately the youth just like oneself was
Before breaking
When it breaks,
Cracks appear on my heart, it too almost breaks
Invisible fragments bursting, a firework of entropy
But when it breaks,
Something was set free
Appropriately in the dead of the night
When things come to a close
Where it breaks,
Appropriately within a similar, much bigger symbolism as itself
Who breaks it,
Appropriately oneself, for whom it represents
Something of glory, a faraway dream-like past;
(A jar pickling the totality of youth, passion, ambitions, aspirations,
Identity -- or prototype thereof)
A bystander, or participant, of the scene -- depends on how you see it --
Appropriately the youth just like oneself was
Before breaking
When it breaks,
Cracks appear on my heart, it too almost breaks
Invisible fragments bursting, a firework of entropy
But when it breaks,
Something was set free
Sink your head underwater
On a summer's day in the empty pool
Swing your arms and legs and all
Wonder at the sea of sparkling ripples
beneath and above
Sink your head underwater
Cast aside those goggles
Close your eyes, your eyelids little dams of tears,
Hear the whispers of the waves beckoning:
Come, flow with us
Hoist your head up
Look at the sky
Sink your head in the blue expanse
below, above;
in the blue expanse that is
yourself.
Swing your arms and legs and all
Wonder at the sea of sparkling ripples
beneath and above
Sink your head underwater
Cast aside those goggles
Close your eyes, your eyelids little dams of tears,
Hear the whispers of the waves beckoning:
Come, flow with us
Hoist your head up
Look at the sky
Sink your head in the blue expanse
below, above;
in the blue expanse that is
yourself.
Dear the Personification of Exams
You have finally come around
Should I treat you like best friend or archenemy?
Your arrival is always accompanied by ambivalence.
Perhaps an elderly, fatherly figure?
The mischievous author putting his protagonist
into yet another rite of passage,
to colour the whole bildungsroman
blacker, redder, whiter?
Or a warden.
You lurk in my calendar grid
Imprison me behind the bolded bars
Will I ever see again the light of day?
Well, yes, I know I will
But around you the fabric of Time twists into a loop
A moment with you can be gruellingly interminable:
Eternity in three weeks.
So here I am paying tribute to your existence
When I should be doing something else.
Should I treat you like best friend or archenemy?
Your arrival is always accompanied by ambivalence.
Perhaps an elderly, fatherly figure?
The mischievous author putting his protagonist
into yet another rite of passage,
to colour the whole bildungsroman
blacker, redder, whiter?
Or a warden.
You lurk in my calendar grid
Imprison me behind the bolded bars
Will I ever see again the light of day?
Well, yes, I know I will
But around you the fabric of Time twists into a loop
A moment with you can be gruellingly interminable:
Eternity in three weeks.
So here I am paying tribute to your existence
When I should be doing something else.
You are the very calmness of my soul
No, not You, God, I'm sorry;
Not at the moment.
(But since You are the causa prima,
You also account for it in one way or another,
but I digress)
Notice how
I circumvent the Law of cause and effect
It's not:
"You cause the calmness in my soul."
That's because --
The mechanism, the invisible gears
are unbeknownst to me
The cascade: emotional, physiological, psychological, chemical
-- take your pick --
is too mysterious.
So, laziness, literary effect, or otherwise:
You yourself might as well be the calmness itself personified.
Your face
is not one that can launch a thousand ships
but one that can drown a thousand troubles
Let's transcend the metaphor
or the Law of cause and effect, or whatever:
You are the very calmness of my soul.
Not at the moment.
(But since You are the causa prima,
You also account for it in one way or another,
but I digress)
Notice how
I circumvent the Law of cause and effect
It's not:
"You cause the calmness in my soul."
That's because --
The mechanism, the invisible gears
are unbeknownst to me
The cascade: emotional, physiological, psychological, chemical
-- take your pick --
is too mysterious.
So, laziness, literary effect, or otherwise:
You yourself might as well be the calmness itself personified.
Your face
is not one that can launch a thousand ships
but one that can drown a thousand troubles
Let's transcend the metaphor
or the Law of cause and effect, or whatever:
You are the very calmness of my soul.
Your name
is a mint pastille melting in my mouth.
Stuck right at the tip of the tongue:
flavour diffusing, taste buds tingling.
Uttered repeatedly, voicelessly, scurrying
Like an unfinished mantra,
wishing to conjure you up
right here, right now.
Like you,
your name is illusive,
minty cold, but temperature's the same.
Excuse me, the aftertaste's disappearing;
I'm going to need another helping.
Stuck right at the tip of the tongue:
flavour diffusing, taste buds tingling.
Uttered repeatedly, voicelessly, scurrying
Like an unfinished mantra,
wishing to conjure you up
right here, right now.
Like you,
your name is illusive,
minty cold, but temperature's the same.
Excuse me, the aftertaste's disappearing;
I'm going to need another helping.
Shakespeare: All World's A Stage
So let's see, let's see. To tell this story we need appropriate
actors, plot, prop, script -- Ah! What kind?
I'd pick a musical. Not the tragic, nor the comedy. One too morbid, the other too insouciant.
I'd rather
be stabbed at the back, only to burst out singing about the agony.
The beginning is a little hard.
A moment of silence please -
How about the epic: grand story about royal lineage, the beings before the being
the beings that are background of being, culmination being the being?
No.
It should be in medias res -- in the middle of something --
so that the audience is plunged straight to the middle of something, where the real beginning was over and long gone.
Since, isn't it that way we are plunged into being, cast into the light of existence,
the beginning remains something distant, that should not be pried open, lest the evils leak out and Hope is found never at the bottom all along.
After that, the mundane seven ages of Man; oh, the chorus of sighs!
Let's skip the infant and the school-boy;
Jump to the lover, for love is a source of sorrow, and love is a lot to sing about.
Very simple -- plot is usually about love or the lack of it. Done!
Then comes the soldier and the justice. The ages of paradox.
Look at Justitia and her blindfold.¹
The impartial, yet unaimed swing of a sword; the balanced, but unsighted scales.
It is really no wonder that Man,
torn apart between contradictions of his own making,
shifts to the sixth stage, the pantaloon.
Conflict escalated, climax reached, then running out of steam.
Ready to be catapulted back to the beginning that was not really there?
The seventh stage, the oblivion - wait
(Could we please invoke deus ex machina?)
¹Miller, William. Eye for an Eye, page 1 (Cambridge University Press, 2006)
actors, plot, prop, script -- Ah! What kind?
I'd pick a musical. Not the tragic, nor the comedy. One too morbid, the other too insouciant.
I'd rather
be stabbed at the back, only to burst out singing about the agony.
The beginning is a little hard.
A moment of silence please -
How about the epic: grand story about royal lineage, the beings before the being
the beings that are background of being, culmination being the being?
No.
It should be in medias res -- in the middle of something --
so that the audience is plunged straight to the middle of something, where the real beginning was over and long gone.
Since, isn't it that way we are plunged into being, cast into the light of existence,
the beginning remains something distant, that should not be pried open, lest the evils leak out and Hope is found never at the bottom all along.
After that, the mundane seven ages of Man; oh, the chorus of sighs!
Let's skip the infant and the school-boy;
Jump to the lover, for love is a source of sorrow, and love is a lot to sing about.
Very simple -- plot is usually about love or the lack of it. Done!
Then comes the soldier and the justice. The ages of paradox.
Look at Justitia and her blindfold.¹
The impartial, yet unaimed swing of a sword; the balanced, but unsighted scales.
It is really no wonder that Man,
torn apart between contradictions of his own making,
shifts to the sixth stage, the pantaloon.
Conflict escalated, climax reached, then running out of steam.
Ready to be catapulted back to the beginning that was not really there?
The seventh stage, the oblivion - wait
(Could we please invoke deus ex machina?)
¹Miller, William. Eye for an Eye, page 1 (Cambridge University Press, 2006)
Tear-stained
That day on a still park
Near a fountain, I was sitting on a bench next to an old lady
Gazing at the statue at the centre of the fountain
Of a woman -- covered at appropriate places -- gazing back at me
The old lady was reading the morning paper
Everything about her was grey
Grey attire, grey paper, grey much like the greyish-blue sky
and the grey clouds, behind which the sun was hiding
I curled, lifting my knees to touch my cheeks, about to doze off
The old lady took out a handkerchief to wipe her tears, the paper still on her lap
A long sniffle.
I needn't to ask her why -- I read it
Another brutality, another atrocity, another crack at the Dam of tears
A baby thrown away down the garbage chute, its orifices teeming with ants
A young suicide bomber blasting off in the middle of town
A girl finally succumbing to death seven hours after her last wish was granted
A rape of a woman; a rape of a nation
Body parts scattered in the Atlantic
It makes the heart of everyone who has it
bleeds
The handkerchief can soak up her tears
-- How about
the blood shed
the innocence snatched
the scar incurred
on the body and the soul --
What can?
A chill drizzle comes
though it feels warm like tears
steadily gaining momentum
I look at the tear-stained paper:
creased and crumpled
drop by drop the paper is getting wet.
I look at the tear-stained face:
weathered by time, creased and crumpled
by sorrow and anguish
drop by drop the face is getting wet.
Even the statue is weeping:
Something flows beneath its eyes
pigeonshit and rainwater mingling
Everything is crying --
the lady, the heaven, the statue
How can I not be?
Near a fountain, I was sitting on a bench next to an old lady
Gazing at the statue at the centre of the fountain
Of a woman -- covered at appropriate places -- gazing back at me
The old lady was reading the morning paper
Everything about her was grey
Grey attire, grey paper, grey much like the greyish-blue sky
and the grey clouds, behind which the sun was hiding
I curled, lifting my knees to touch my cheeks, about to doze off
The old lady took out a handkerchief to wipe her tears, the paper still on her lap
A long sniffle.
I needn't to ask her why -- I read it
Another brutality, another atrocity, another crack at the Dam of tears
A baby thrown away down the garbage chute, its orifices teeming with ants
A young suicide bomber blasting off in the middle of town
A girl finally succumbing to death seven hours after her last wish was granted
A rape of a woman; a rape of a nation
Body parts scattered in the Atlantic
It makes the heart of everyone who has it
bleeds
The handkerchief can soak up her tears
-- How about
the blood shed
the innocence snatched
the scar incurred
on the body and the soul --
What can?
A chill drizzle comes
though it feels warm like tears
steadily gaining momentum
I look at the tear-stained paper:
creased and crumpled
drop by drop the paper is getting wet.
I look at the tear-stained face:
weathered by time, creased and crumpled
by sorrow and anguish
drop by drop the face is getting wet.
Even the statue is weeping:
Something flows beneath its eyes
pigeonshit and rainwater mingling
Everything is crying --
the lady, the heaven, the statue
How can I not be?
Thousand Masks
I live in a castle of a thousand masks
where there are guests swarming all the time
cruising the halls and corridors
in-out-in-out
I greet them one by one
each time donning a different mask
yes, a different one. Each time
.based on what you ask?
on how I am related to the person in question
a dinner-mate kind--
a casual-hi kind--
a sipping-tea-with-silence kind--
an I-want-to embrace-you kind--
an I-want-to-punch-your-annoying-face kind--
all sorts of people
likewise all sorts of masks
real simple
The masks?
Oh there's a serious one
there's a joker one
there's an emo one
a sulking one, a smiling one, an innocent one
well there's one covering only part of my face
like the-phantom-of-the-opera kind?
There's even one that's near transparent
But no matter how transparent
no matter how similar the mask to my real face
(some masks are like mirrors,
unfortunately many are distorted ones,
the kind that makes you look fatter than you actually are --
like that)
So yeah
A mask's a mask
there's always a
gap, barrier, filter, shield, screen
something standing in between
you can never see what I truly am
I live in a castle of a thousand masks
We all do.
where there are guests swarming all the time
cruising the halls and corridors
in-out-in-out
I greet them one by one
each time donning a different mask
yes, a different one. Each time
.based on what you ask?
on how I am related to the person in question
a dinner-mate kind--
a casual-hi kind--
a sipping-tea-with-silence kind--
an I-want-to embrace-you kind--
an I-want-to-punch-your-annoying-face kind--
all sorts of people
likewise all sorts of masks
real simple
The masks?
Oh there's a serious one
there's a joker one
there's an emo one
a sulking one, a smiling one, an innocent one
well there's one covering only part of my face
like the-phantom-of-the-opera kind?
There's even one that's near transparent
But no matter how transparent
no matter how similar the mask to my real face
(some masks are like mirrors,
unfortunately many are distorted ones,
the kind that makes you look fatter than you actually are --
like that)
So yeah
A mask's a mask
there's always a
gap, barrier, filter, shield, screen
something standing in between
you can never see what I truly am
I live in a castle of a thousand masks
We all do.
a strange feeling
fingers touching ivory keys
white, white, white
a few blacks
here and there
interplay of speed, pressure, precision
fingers are like puppets on strings
they dance
bending to the puppeteer's will
the intricate steps
left, right, front, back
a little bit faster
a little more pressure
now release the crescendo
slow down to adagio
you cannot hear all these communication
but you can hear the melodies
they are right there
the heart of the puppeteer
his will, his energy, his emotions
his everything
but
sometimes the puppeteer is distracted
his mind is blank for a split-second
but (again)
the puppets never miss a single step
in fact, they are steps
that the puppeteer
has been dreaming of
to perfect the harmony
the steps fit the gap
completing the flow
it's
a strange feeling
it's as if the puppets move on their own
tugging the strings connected to their limbs and joints
"here, here. and here."
it's as if they understand
the beauty of their dance
then the show is over
but the images of the dance
are etched in his mind
the strange feeling
stays
white, white, white
a few blacks
here and there
interplay of speed, pressure, precision
fingers are like puppets on strings
they dance
bending to the puppeteer's will
the intricate steps
left, right, front, back
a little bit faster
a little more pressure
now release the crescendo
slow down to adagio
you cannot hear all these communication
but you can hear the melodies
they are right there
the heart of the puppeteer
his will, his energy, his emotions
his everything
but
sometimes the puppeteer is distracted
his mind is blank for a split-second
but (again)
the puppets never miss a single step
in fact, they are steps
that the puppeteer
has been dreaming of
to perfect the harmony
the steps fit the gap
completing the flow
it's
a strange feeling
it's as if the puppets move on their own
tugging the strings connected to their limbs and joints
"here, here. and here."
it's as if they understand
the beauty of their dance
then the show is over
but the images of the dance
are etched in his mind
the strange feeling
stays
To You Under The Blanket
As you close your eyes and drift to slumber
our bodies conjoined together
naked skin emitting warmth
trapped in the locks of limbs
your head on my chest
Do you feel the rhythm --
of my heartbeat?
Do you feel my caress
leaving no parts
untouched?
Do you feel my tongue swirling
in your mouth
eager to savour every taste
of you?
Darkness lets me see you clearly
your shape
the silkiness your hair
every contour
the ridges, the valleys, the mountains
the stream of life running
You will stir
aware of the intrusions
yes, be conscious!
feel every sensation
jolts of impulse firing
You will retaliate
snuggling until
there is no distance between us
in the brief moment
two become one
You will
We will
Only if
If only
you are not
the hollow space under the blanket
our bodies conjoined together
naked skin emitting warmth
trapped in the locks of limbs
your head on my chest
Do you feel the rhythm --
of my heartbeat?
Do you feel my caress
leaving no parts
untouched?
Do you feel my tongue swirling
in your mouth
eager to savour every taste
of you?
Darkness lets me see you clearly
your shape
the silkiness your hair
every contour
the ridges, the valleys, the mountains
the stream of life running
You will stir
aware of the intrusions
yes, be conscious!
feel every sensation
jolts of impulse firing
You will retaliate
snuggling until
there is no distance between us
in the brief moment
two become one
You will
We will
Only if
If only
you are not
the hollow space under the blanket
From The Inside of Shell of Taciturnity
A face, many faces
Voices, noises
animated conversations
Holding silence, clasping hands
closing mouth and heart
Feeling cold, rubbing hands
You sat beside me
saying nothing
Passive that I am
waiting for initiation
that never came
I thought about
Me exuding frigidity
You needing help no more
You being pressurised
Now sitting there in obligation
The shell almost cracked
but it didn't break
When will I ever hatch?
Voices, noises
animated conversations
Holding silence, clasping hands
closing mouth and heart
Feeling cold, rubbing hands
You sat beside me
saying nothing
Passive that I am
waiting for initiation
that never came
I thought about
Me exuding frigidity
You needing help no more
You being pressurised
Now sitting there in obligation
The shell almost cracked
but it didn't break
When will I ever hatch?
The Construction Site
Morning devotion:
About nearby construction site
slowly towering, gaining height, growing under the crane
been years
But it stopped.
The crane stopped moving, the construction halted
The monument standing in glory and silence
Is the fund not enough -
Are the workers on strike -
The contractor went bankrupt -
Ought to be, ought to be.
Apathy, slightly disdain-tinged
(Waste of resources, poor-planned...)
- Wait -
What if the progress continues inside?
No manifestation outside
but developing nonetheless
People judge by appearance
not heart
People see Goliath
not David
The magnificence of one's heart
is not readily at sight
obscured by the outside
Judging a book by its cover
is not getting very far
For it is the heart
that matters most.
About nearby construction site
slowly towering, gaining height, growing under the crane
been years
But it stopped.
The crane stopped moving, the construction halted
The monument standing in glory and silence
Is the fund not enough -
Are the workers on strike -
The contractor went bankrupt -
Ought to be, ought to be.
Apathy, slightly disdain-tinged
(Waste of resources, poor-planned...)
- Wait -
What if the progress continues inside?
No manifestation outside
but developing nonetheless
People judge by appearance
not heart
People see Goliath
not David
The magnificence of one's heart
is not readily at sight
obscured by the outside
Judging a book by its cover
is not getting very far
For it is the heart
that matters most.
Refrigerator
[hmmm...]Sitting down
[hmmm...]seeking a night breeze
[hmmm...]here
[hmmm...]was a sweaty night
[hmmm...]with stuffy feeling in the air
[hmmm...]though not bad the quietness
[hmmm...]taking out a cold drink
[hmmm...]the sensation rushed in
[hmmm...]on the parched throat
[hmmm...]river flows on the Sahara
[hmmm...]Mind still
[hmmm...]being sorted out
[hmmm...]Considering
[hmmm...]Like those sudden moments
[hmmm...]when you are wondering
[hmmm...]why?
[hmmm...]what?
[hmmm...]who?
[hmmm...]am I here. am I doing. Am I really.
[hmmm...]no answer -as usual-
[hmmm...]like a spiral without end
[hmmm...]the train of thought
[hmmm...]continued nonetheless
[hmmm...]On and on
[hmmm...]and on
[hmmm...]for a while
[hmmm...]
[hmmm...]drowning --
[hmmm...]in the sea of thought
[hmmm...]
[hmmm...]
[Stop.] At that moment
I realise
that the silence is an illusion
The constant humming
had been there all along
droning in a monotone
now it's resting
till it repeats its chorus again
Has my life
been a drone?
Is the picture
a monochrome?
And would stop occasionally
to repeat the same monotony-
again and again and again?
Or is life
a take-for-granted?
that when it will have stopped
then the loss
will come rushing in
seep into hearts
of family, friends
acquaintances even
perhaps
depends on the life led itself
was it a good one
was it a bad one-
Whichever it is
I learn something
My life
would not be a repetition
not a monochrome nor a monotony
So that when
I stop humming
there would be no regrets
...
The peace now
seems real
though there may be
other hummings
I'm still oblivious of
A sweaty night, a stuffy air
Now back to sleep
[hmmm...]seeking a night breeze
[hmmm...]here
[hmmm...]was a sweaty night
[hmmm...]with stuffy feeling in the air
[hmmm...]though not bad the quietness
[hmmm...]taking out a cold drink
[hmmm...]the sensation rushed in
[hmmm...]on the parched throat
[hmmm...]river flows on the Sahara
[hmmm...]Mind still
[hmmm...]being sorted out
[hmmm...]Considering
[hmmm...]Like those sudden moments
[hmmm...]when you are wondering
[hmmm...]why?
[hmmm...]what?
[hmmm...]who?
[hmmm...]am I here. am I doing. Am I really.
[hmmm...]no answer -as usual-
[hmmm...]like a spiral without end
[hmmm...]the train of thought
[hmmm...]continued nonetheless
[hmmm...]On and on
[hmmm...]and on
[hmmm...]for a while
[hmmm...]
[hmmm...]drowning --
[hmmm...]in the sea of thought
[hmmm...]
[hmmm...]
[Stop.] At that moment
I realise
that the silence is an illusion
The constant humming
had been there all along
droning in a monotone
now it's resting
till it repeats its chorus again
Has my life
been a drone?
Is the picture
a monochrome?
And would stop occasionally
to repeat the same monotony-
again and again and again?
Or is life
a take-for-granted?
that when it will have stopped
then the loss
will come rushing in
seep into hearts
of family, friends
acquaintances even
perhaps
depends on the life led itself
was it a good one
was it a bad one-
Whichever it is
I learn something
My life
would not be a repetition
not a monochrome nor a monotony
So that when
I stop humming
there would be no regrets
...
The peace now
seems real
though there may be
other hummings
I'm still oblivious of
A sweaty night, a stuffy air
Now back to sleep
Dream
Hero king warrior --
fantasticality.
Airy-fairy kind
or The same --
ordinaricality.
Alternate world
maybe Strangeness of circumstances --
Freudian symbolicality.
Interpretation please
Nevertheless It's
Surreality, phantasmagoricality
-- At-the-moment Reality
Then the alarm rings, congeniality
Thoughts come rushing in
Rationality, reasonability
Welcome back to reality
fantasticality.
Airy-fairy kind
or The same --
ordinaricality.
Alternate world
maybe Strangeness of circumstances --
Freudian symbolicality.
Interpretation please
Nevertheless It's
Surreality, phantasmagoricality
-- At-the-moment Reality
Then the alarm rings, congeniality
Thoughts come rushing in
Rationality, reasonability
Welcome back to reality
Reciprocation
So
When I hold them in
the feelings I mean
I thought
"What about
the other end?"
Can't imagine you
Going through the same pain
the same longing?
Or none at all-
Although I never hope
It's impossible
-again, why you?-
but on the back of my mind
there is always
desperate hope
of reciprocation
When I hold them in
the feelings I mean
I thought
"What about
the other end?"
Can't imagine you
Going through the same pain
the same longing?
Or none at all-
Although I never hope
It's impossible
-again, why you?-
but on the back of my mind
there is always
desperate hope
of reciprocation
Paradox
Hate you
when I see you
my heart skips a beat
Hate you
your smile
it just
renders me defenseless
Hate you
those sleepless nights
thinking about you
Why
has it to be you?
When we meet
those silent moments
do you realise
how much I'm looking forward
to them?
When we part
that sight of your back
feel like
reaching out a hand
hold you in my arms
never to let go
Really, really
hate you
because you make me feel this way
(They say
hate and love
differ by one seventh of a hair's breadth)
when I see you
my heart skips a beat
Hate you
your smile
it just
renders me defenseless
Hate you
those sleepless nights
thinking about you
Why
has it to be you?
When we meet
those silent moments
do you realise
how much I'm looking forward
to them?
When we part
that sight of your back
feel like
reaching out a hand
hold you in my arms
never to let go
Really, really
hate you
because you make me feel this way
(They say
hate and love
differ by one seventh of a hair's breadth)
Curtain Call
The familiar wooden curves, the sky-high ceiling.
The polished stage, the folds of the curtain.
The seemingly endless seats, empty but for One.
A play.
I am an actor. I am acting.
My lines, my gestures
My intonation, my mannerism
My speech, my moves
Since when-
The play has not stopped since
Day and night, week and month, year and lifetime
New ones join, tired others go to backstage
never to return
A play?
The stage infinitely vast
The settings too
Any space and time
Curtain call-
no one knows when
No rehearsals nor audience
Plot unfolds
the way we want
although occasionally He
raises hand in disapproval
Elsewhen- nothing
All is drowned
in overcrowded, riotous chorus
A play!
We are all acting
not as gods nor animals
all roles humans
although sometimes
we long for those
Shakespeare:
"Life is a play."
Forgive this little soliloquy
Now back to
the play of Life
The polished stage, the folds of the curtain.
The seemingly endless seats, empty but for One.
A play.
I am an actor. I am acting.
My lines, my gestures
My intonation, my mannerism
My speech, my moves
Since when-
The play has not stopped since
Day and night, week and month, year and lifetime
New ones join, tired others go to backstage
never to return
A play?
The stage infinitely vast
The settings too
Any space and time
Curtain call-
no one knows when
No rehearsals nor audience
Plot unfolds
the way we want
although occasionally He
raises hand in disapproval
Elsewhen- nothing
All is drowned
in overcrowded, riotous chorus
A play!
We are all acting
not as gods nor animals
all roles humans
although sometimes
we long for those
Shakespeare:
"Life is a play."
Forgive this little soliloquy
Now back to
the play of Life
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