Lamenting ‘flawlessly-flawed’ Poet – A Monologue

I think its just ‘froth’, I am not a poet, I can never find ‘harmony’ with any language and the relationship with technicalities & beautification of it and I don’t think ‘plain’ ‘simple’ thoughts can make poems anymore, poetry which has soul and flesh, which can stand and walk on its own, its not in me, it just comes out sometimes as an unnoticed mere reflex-action, lost in ‘her’ thoughts, drenched with her dreams perhaps, coaxed in the sheer emptiness of the void created by her which may or may not be related to those moments spent with her. I lose my sense of demarcating the line of reality from fiction when the flicker of her thoughts, blinds me like an electric bulb of some torture-room. A dream where I am with her, almost doing nothing, sitting and gazing, in her eyes, with longing-thoughts of ‘getting close’ to her, almost makes me question every single ‘second’ spent with her, if that really happened, if she was ‘actually’ there, those gloom-filled eyes had actually looked at me and smiled and flicked those heavy char-coaled eyelashes, if I had actually touched those lips, played with those hands, felt her warmth, tickled those nerves, the touch of her skin and sensation caused by it or kiss of the sweat on that quivering neck, those droplets of sweat, they actually made their way in my mouth or that was just me fantasizing some mythical scene filled with depressed-romance which had been made legendary by all those cheap literary vagabonds. Those hands, when they were wrapped around my neck like some tired-lazy snake, made me loose my mind, ‘ecstasy’ flowed like wine adulterated with blood in my veins and I couldn’t dare open my liquid eyes, as they were not allowed to look at anything which existed in this unworthy world. Just that rush of blurred images, that adrenaline-filled flow of the ‘stream’ of her thoughts, coming out like some un-synchronized sound-wave with distorted irrelevant words of some incomprehensible language and I, vainly, try to hold the hands of that wind which is hitting me on the face. I am not a poet, I am just a vile actor, actor who is on this stage where he puts on any costume, where there are no spectators, I am my own spectator, I am my own applause, I am my own criticism, I pretend to act that I am pretending to look at myself looking in the mirror when there is no mirror. I am the beginning of the play and the end of it. I am not even an actor, I am just an immovable object with no colors, no movements, no expressions and these things don’t generate poetry, my upper lip is stitched with the lower lip, can’t make any sound and voiceless poems don’t exist. May be what I should do is, I should burn all the trees which have cropped up in my brain, trees with million words like leaves and cut all the poems like branches and start making prose like wooden furniture. I will be called a carpenter of prose, I will make sofa-like novellas and those chair-like short stories and then I will be praised as a cultivating ‘yielding’ author-carpenter who can make good use of those burnt trees of its head. Or I should start teaching yoga to delinquent tortoises and in the break-time I will make them learn all the words from all those useless dictionaries of different languages and then they will learn how to abuse words and write bad poems, just like me.

 

 

Words oh words

Just speak

What I am trying to

say

Say what I intend to

mean,

do not puke

the concoction

of unspoken

undone actions

Utter those thoughts

silently

Whisper them

solemnly

Be the ladder

to reach

above

Be the handshake

A warm handshake

 

Words oh words

Let it not rhyme

Let the chimes kiss

the wind

Let the dogma strive

Let the entangled snakes

rot that way

Words deceive words

Words don’t perceive words

Words started revolutions

Words started asphyxiations

Words exhaled mentions

Words negated detentions

 

Words oh words

Was the world a better place

when, Words were not there

On epitaphs

On the lips of the missionaries

On the boards of cemeteries

On obituaries

Was it?

Was not it?

 

Signed

A.