He decorates his hair with sunflowers. He has a long hair which kisses his fine waist He smells of eau de parfum that percolates into the chambers of our hearts He paints his delicate nails with bright colors He paints his lips in seducing burgundy He radiates a flawless beauty He speaks in a soft low-pitched voice He is like the contralto,so sonorous. He walks in dainty steps along the road He hides his tears behind the slippery kohl. He enrobes himself in a red silk saree He looks like an enchantress He looks like a mythological goddess He dances like an apsara under the flickering sky He desires a body with dense curves He desires voluptuous breasts He is elegant and a damsel in disguise. He is called beautiful and not virile. He is a rainbow boy, a butterfly boy. He is a pretty boy, a flower boy.
Something is really troubling me.I need an immediate answer.It’s 3:00 am and the customary sleepless night of an insomniac. The entire world seems like a big lie to me.It’s a lie I know.Now you tell me is it the truth in the form of a lie or the lie in the form of a truth? I have been weeping in silent tones since the last night.There’s no answer to this.No answer. I wasn’t expecting an answer.I didn’t need an answer, my dear snow apple.If there could be an answer to this,the world both the tangible and the imaginary would cease to exist(if it exists, don’t know – at times it seems that the world is a moving picture streamed on a projector or maybe some strange shapes with strange habits on a celluloid,each rotating (some clockwise others anticlockwise,poor creatures being defeated by time)).Who knows maybe all poets are actually prosaic! Perhaps the smallest verses were meant to be the longest novellas. Such a question was meant to stir you,a few convulsions in your heart, and to make you ponder and make you feel lost and make your soul shed some transparent drops which would add to the beauty of the falling monsoon. In the morning I woke up to a thought which nonchalantly flew to my mind.I think – Men can’t stand what women call romance. Women can’t stand what men call romance. So human beings lovingly wipe out one another in love.
Now my dearest earthly beings,all these ravings are meant to leave you baffled,to drive you into the echelons of madness and help your bottled-up emotions to rebel, and to escape from the monotony of life. But I know this feeling of mine will be widely misinterpreted and contaminated.This is how my chronic catharsis smells like.Isn’t it delicious?There are many rational morons who will come up to me, dressed like the godfathers of Socrates trying to philosophize and analyse every little happening of the universe and coax me to be a hopeless optimistic,to be a hopeless hopeful fool.But I am never giving up on my time-honored pessimism and insanity.
Should I make failure look like ruination? Should I make failure taste like a bitter melon? Should I make failure dress like fulmination? Should I make failure brutal like a gluttonous cannibal? Should I make failure smell like the catafalque of prosperous fortune? Should I make failure sound like carillon summoning death?
Should I make failure my prejudice,my acrimony? Should I make failure my solitary hamartia?
I pity my imprisoned tears. A subterranean voice from a distant hell murmurs – “Liberate those crystal drops, Darling Unleash them from the bondage. Stifle them not for welcoming misery, Afflict them not for being implacable, But thank them. Thank them for their tireless revelry. Alas! Your spirits are so enervated. No more gray stupefaction, prithee. Release them, untether them,unchain them. Let the glittering rivulet of tragedy fall free, Fall upon the parched Earth. Then volatilize, leaving behind indelible footprints of sorrow. And in another clement Earth replete with love Let your tears attain salvation.”
A fierce flame scalds my mind, All other wailings hear my groaning lament, And someone pierces me deep, I bleed deeper. My stone-studded ribs jerk staggeringly, Often relenting to pull through. Every day I droop fantastically by night- Still I rise at every daybreak, To find myself in splinters Gazing at my own reflection And in the mirror it’s not me, but an eidolon The bleary shadow takes me to a mirage of merry hope, Lures me with manifold confessions. A token of troth confronts me Then it passes into oblivion and I am left in a rosy delusion. I am blank,I am alone, I am dying. I am blank,I am alone,I am dying. And there’s no reckoning in exile.
It’s a winter’s night, everything so brumal and my senses glacial – My garden bathed in fairy white, My garden blanketed in crystalline sleet, My garden and it’s tarnishing elegance, My garden’s trees and lush green – withering, I kissed the withering foliage, My garden needs my warmth, My breath shall touch the expounded parts of my garden and turn it blushing pink, With intense care and superabundant loveship I shall osculate my garden until spring comes, Until next winter and the winters to come and go, I shall built a tiny shack by my garden, Only my garden and I shall dwell in the humble abode.
My garden and I shall beckon to all the larks, nightingales, finches and owls that pass by, My garden shall sing waves of melodies for me,welcoming the clinquant stars of twilight, I shall recite soul- kissing poetry to my garden until the sunbeams paint the heaven at dawn, Someday my garden and I will be engulfed by the wild hemlock, Knowing our end is near,my garden will caress me for one last time, I will cradle my garden on my lap,kiss the cold lips, And my garden will sing his last note, will pluck every string of my heart, Until I feel my garden’s weight collapse against mine,the song still echoing, The song – the ultimate hymn to the love of death or the death of love, Again after several eons of time, I will be born,I don’t know where – Heaven,or Hell or Earth but I will again give life to my garden, I will again live with my garden, Until another storm or some other apocalypse destroys everything, I will come back to my garden to love him, again and again. I will make my garden respire forever and a day.
He who sleeps there knows that the cloudburst sheds beads of tears in reciprocation to his melancholy. He who sleeps there knows that the caelum doesn’t only mean the rising sun,the gold-baked moon or the lustre in the star. He who sleeps there knows that a whole isolated universe waits for him,an avenue of white roses.
There lies the headstone of romance, testament of amour, anemones of suppressed cold breath, funeral of meditated swallowed pain.
How incredible it is that he vanishes before every spring and spectacularly reappears taking a rebirth from the dead leaf in every new autumn!
His art bewitches a lover’s soul. He is himself an ode to all the odes. He is all beauty. He is the omphalos of joy. He is love, and my solaced religion.