It’s almost like straight out of my head, except expressed with much greater clarity 😀
I hear it- BANG!- and I rejoice,
Even as he stifles a cuss-word and she
splutters before coming to a standstill.
He walks over to her, frowning,
Too much damage this time, she’ll
Have to go,she groans in protest
As he gently pries her apart.
I cry in ecstasy as he lifts me in his arms,
Just for a while he condemns her
to the dark confines of my abode
as we walk in the sunshine together.
I squeak as he makes sure everything’s set
I’m screwed I know, I couldn’t care less,
Each time we roll along his choice of road,
I can dream I’m not the spare any more.
She awoke one morn with unexplained dread,
The Maiden of the Red Red River,
With undue haste in her elfin tread,
She couldn’t help but shiver.
Looking all around for a sign or shred,
Thoughts ran amok in her mind,
The path she took, to the river it led,
She let out a gasp at her find.
Gone was the ruby, the crimson hue,
The water lay deathly pale,
Its faded shade was the colour of dew,
Not a trace of the blood red trail.
She sought help of a wise old soul,
To solve this great conundrum,
The crimson ’twas that made her whole,
Her life force was its flowing strum.
Said the Master, “There is a way,
But a terrible price it shall take,
Another must with his own blood pay,
And willingly so, make no mistake.”
She shed a tear behind closed doors,
Her world was bereft of hope,
And with her wept the isles and shores,
The Lion king, and the swift antelope.
Now through it all, a Red Red flower,
watched the beautiful Maiden mourn,
Catching its reflection in a puddled rain shower,
’twas suddenly struck by a thought of its own.
When the sun arose the next day’s dawn,
There was a tide of incredulous delight,
The pallor of the waters was gone,
The river sparkled with a ruby-red light.
Overwhelmed,the Maiden frolicked around,
And peacocks danced in spring,
Then noticing a grey petal on the ground,
She said “What an ugly little thing!”
When someone told someone else today that I am a poet, I laughed, because I had quite forgotten. Lost verses came back to me, much worse for wear, but still there in traces. They asked me why I don’t write these days…well, I said, poets are mystics, they dwell in sad love. I’m done being sad, yeah, life is tough.
And then I bit my lip, for like any old habit, it resurfaces at the oddest of moments. I used to rhyme once, for a living, and now I realize there are some things that linger in your bloodstream long after you think you’ve killed them. You’ll find an odd piece of paper with four lines in your handwriting- I don’t remember writing that,feeling that, living that, you think.
Memory, they say, is treacherous, you don’t remember the bad days as much as the good ones, you turn the not so good moments into not bad. Why treacherous, I ask? Maybe it is the insight of reflection. But then again, if I always reflected, I’d never be a poet. I’d never compare my heart’s dull beat to the clock ticking on my mantelpiece. It’d be lub-dup, ninth grade biology, straight as that. I’d never describe someone’s scent as the fragrance of dry winter mornings, or the prickliness of pine in someone else’s grip on my arm. I’d not write about the hollowed eyes of the beggar girl on the street, I’d just be yet another individual disgusted by the economic disparities in our nation.
My people live by images. Every moment of our lives is one such crystal of perfection. Poets have fuelled rebellious fires, they’ve led to cascades of tears, they’ve painted the best of nature, and highlighted our biggest fears.(And there it goes again. Not quite dead.)
Here I am, sitting amidst my old notebooks, reminded again of the hum of a new poem as the line dances in my mind’s eye. And here I have lost the love, to pick that line with care and spin a tale around it. It is oddly peaceful, not having to run after stray lines all the time.
But for a poet, peace never lasts.
I have always been a curious dreamer. I watched Harry Potter and Interstellar, and like most of my generation daydreamed about travelling backward and forward in time. It seems easy, doesn’t it? Even though time travel has its own set of rules and troubles, fact remains that if it existed, solving a lot of problems would be easier. So far, whenever I have thought about time travel, I’ve always focused on that component of it- actually going back in time to alter a specific set of events.
But today, for some reason unknown, I got round to thinking about what the concept of altering time means in the concept of reality(Of course, realities are as subjective as anything else, but if we consider the real world, that is the one which is similar for the people around us in a broad sense.) So what I’m saying is, what is time travel? You are effectively going back to the time period of your previous self, either in terms of taking your soul back with a full knowledge of things, or taking your body back- either way, it is the world where say, your six year old self exists. So the primary consciousness will be of that being, as long as you are going back to a time where you exist. This got me thinking about how we deal with things that happened to us in the past, especially tragic or sad events, and also about how we heal from them. It occurred to me as I was thinking about time, that to get past any pain, what we need is not more time, but the correct time. And by the correct time, I mean the moment or the period where we should have been allowed to deal with the pain, but for some reason it was suppressed.
Your dog died when you were seven, and your family never let you bury it or mourn it, and maybe they got a new pet for you. You moved on without really moving on, and then one day when you’re twenty it hits you- the pain. Maybe an old video, or an old collar. So what do you do then? Your twenty year old mind tries to rationalize it. You try to put forth all sorts of reasons- it’s been so long, it isn’t a big thing, and so on. But does it help? No. Maybe it resurfaces again when you are thirty five. Maybe you irrationally blurt out “No” when your child asks for a puppy because you think, it will die.
Then again maybe you’re like the sane 90% of the world and you don’t waste your time thinking at all. But if you are in that 10% that the world calls a fool, well I don’t really have solutions, but yeah I can tell you what I was thinking. So basically I was dealing with a lot of pain( not about the dog; I never had a dog) , and then I figured the reason it wasn’t getting better was that the right ‘Me’ wasn’t dealing with it. A seven year old’s way of dealing with grief would be different from a fifteen or twenty year old’s ways. So there I was, and I figured why not let the seven year old deal with it. It may sound a bit weird but what you need to do is look inside you for a really old piece of soul. It usually can be tugged out when linked with a memory, a colour, a smell, a person, anything. So I found it, the memory, a flash of blue, and with it came the soul. And that soul wanted to write a letter. To a loved one, about all the fun things we would have done but never got to do. So I let her write it. And then she wanted to draw pictures, of everything. So I let her do that too. And I stopped rationalizing and let her cry for a while about how life isn’t fair. Because she deserves to have the space to do that. And then I made a promise, to the seven year old me and my loved one, to be happy for their sake. Because they were good kids, and because they are.
And maybe most of you don’t think so much, but some of us do, and such absurd little things make us happy. So turning time is worth it, right?