A letter from anyone
A letter has been thrown from the window
of a white girls’ school-bus to no one
in particular and the glory
belongs to all the boys. The letter
becomes the god in their dreams that night.
It changes words, phrases and scriptures
as per the seeds those school boys carry.
It is there. Anonymous and warm
projectile from the other world.
Like the god in our dreams all the nights…
© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
nightwalk for a weak love
The naughty sounds are covered in trees
we shift away from this nighttime park
amused at the pale quarter moon.
Are we happy this evening when you
insist that I should be and I know
that you should insist on this subject?
A brown owl grabs a streak of solace.
Night city has wild lives. We are thrilled.
And then your wild instinct smells like herbs.
The herbal sounds of a nightly park
floats before the weak moon; we flow with
traffics’ lights sneaking through grilled railings.
© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)
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Comments: 101
-R.
Thank you Georgiana
Featured in the Triple Name Club.
A great concept. What we love most, becomes our god. What transforms our 'scriptures,' scriptures being the way we believe things to be, becomes god in our corner of existence.
What is important, we have made important.
What's important is what those chosen beliefs drive the person to do.
Nothing is good or evil, but thinking makes it so. However, without the action, the thought doesn't matter. The thought doesn't project out into the world like a letter tossed from a bus.
Bengali poet Sankho Ghosh once wrote (loosely translated) "How much more/ should I cringe?/Am I really my worthy/ of my own truth/ before this world?"
Truth is strange and stranger are those things we deny as truth knowing them to be.
Ah, but to know we don't know. To open each day to the mystery, to discover anew what we're looking at, not just what we wish to see.
I cannot stress enough: great dialog.
I've felt the same way about fantasy and delusion. Fantasy and delusion are OK as long as they're shirts we wear, that we can remove. As long as we can find our way home. The way we learn as child is to mimic, to pretend to be, what we wish to be.
Writing allows us to be what we are not, to experience what we have not and sometimes cannot experience.
"My own healthy inheritance of original sin comes out in the book (A Clockwork Orange) and I enjoyed raping and ripping by proxy. It is the novelist's innate cowardice that makes him depute to the imaginary personalities the sins that he is too cautious to commit for himself."
Anthony Burgess. Essay on A Clockwork Orange
The editors took it out in the printings of the 60's. Burgess writes he needed the money, so he didn't argue.
Explaining the last chapter, he said Alex needed the chance for redemption, else the story was merely a fairytale.
As the archetypal misplace zygote, I have no home. However, I've found places to be now and then along the way.
In a way truth is the things we write do exist. In us. within collective subconscious. They must exist. Somewhere. in someone. We cannot make things entirely and write them.
When I was in school, as far back as I can remember, when bored, I'd look out the window and imagine myself doing other things, being in other places. Creating anew.
The idea of a collective subconscious where we're all connected somehow by magical means and have access in the ethereal to each other's thoughts, imaginings and feelings -- or even the collective wisdom of the species -- is quaint, speculative at best, the grist of new age religious ideology at its worse.
Carl Jung asserted the collective unconscious to exist without offering any proof but vague examples of similarities in myth motifs across time and culture.
Assertion is not proof.
The seeds of love, that's what they were. They were constantly being planted and starting their eager growth, only to be snipped off by a cruel word or frozen by indifference. Nevertheless, we remember them as the time when love was new and pure. What a great evocation, Kushal.
You know the second poem is more important in that way.
To have to ask already shows a crack in the foundation.
And love takes a walk and passes the park of lovers by...is it love, or does it lie?
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
The second poem has a touch of the painter with its evocative descriptions of "place". Another hallmark of your work, the use of personification, is employed to good effect here. It feels somewhat bitter sweet to me.
Thanks for sharing these poems with us.
speaks to the soul
god's fine way of bringing
two souls together. as one, they
rejoice.
one's own lifeline.
an empty, dry cocoon:
a soul's vessel. nothing is left
but dust.
As for the second one, I see two people who're playing illusionary roles, because they feel they have to. Like a ritual that makes no sense and has no purpose, but is so stepped in tradition to question it is to seem disloyal.
On the second, and speaking as a veteran of making-love-in-the-park, I truly loved it.
No thoughts of tomorrow
Just ride the moment
The Surreal Circus
Are we happy this evening when you
insist that I should be and I know
that you should insist on this subject?
Is it really happiness when you're only feeling it because someone else will be pleased? Great lines of thought, in both of these pieces. You get the monthly Lewis Knight Nod of Approval.
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.action?articleId=281474977889252
birdcalls
Being naughty is innocense searching and learning finally what one can and cannot accept toward mature love. The naughtiness is always held secretly under the protection of willow trees or rose covered bowers in hope that prying eyes won't make it someting the world sees as (well whatever the world sees.) Another measure of protection for innocense.