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Posts Tagged ‘argument’

I read what you have written.

I watch how you exist everyday.

I listen to what you have to say.

In silence I understand and

in the way of silence will I respond.

I may disagree with you

but I thank you for what you are,

in respect to the way you live

your truth. I may have biases

and pre-conditioned opinion

of how it was with my side of story.

But I do not beg you to listen,

nor to watch and read these lines.

For I know you will afford to respect

the unwritten code of tolerance.

Measure for measure. We swap

vantages and viewfinders.

We have a choice whether to see

things clearly in detail

or  the bigger picture.

We do not need to hide

the arguments on intellectual

acrobatics nor choose to mislead

honesty in fallacy. It is not

in the amount of words nor

the eloquence of the language,

but in this fraternal bond

that even in disagreement

we thrive in peace.

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Cut the line, if you do not want to hear what I’m saying.

Burn the page, if you do not like what you see.

I don’t have the habit of repeating myself

over and over again just to be understood.

 

Somehow, there will come a time that explanations

are not required. Questions are left unsaid

out of courtesy, while your mind is bubbling

with doubts, you need to accept me of who I am.

 

Like this, we talk on the phone without expression.

The heavy tone of your voice means a disappointment.

You’re definitely upset when I can’t catch you. And you

can’t catch me as we are both lost in translation.

 

Let us stop this virtual war. This undue vexation

of words coated in the niceties of being cerebral.

Can’t we simply talk as normal humans do,

caught in the flimsiness of conduct and etiquette?

 

You see, I didn’t plan to have more than five

stanza to this poem and keep on intellectualizing

on how stupid it was to win our every argument.

You know, sometimes you do not have to fight

 

every battles you are invited in. Just choose-

the best one. And argue with me. Fine.

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Sylvia, you struggled with the night, they don’t see you.  And the madness you have kept along since your youth, stand watch to the agony of your desire, I feel you, even if Ted fades away. They seem to like you and your outbursts of anger, unmindful of the things you are so capable of destroying; your fragility, your womanhood.  They had made you as faceless like girls of Kabul wearing burqa. 

But I must admit, Sylvia, that beyond with your innocence, beyond with the frailty and your true self repressed by layers and layers of hate and uncertainties, you will rise like a phoenix redeeming its immortality.  Like a golden lotus emerging from the fiery flames, and a thousand death might come but it will never win its argument against your indomitable spirit. Yet Sylvia, you left the world with a scar that won’t heal in time, putting a strong voice to silence unheard of, in decades past.

Have you ever met Frida Kahlo? Your fate runs almost parallel to hers and through your gift of art, the pangs of pain are shifted through the bittersweet beauty of your words, though they say it was staid and conventional.  But I don’t believe them.  Yours an endless laughter like the one you made with Ted when you first met him at the party in Cambridge. Yours a happiness since the first time you have published “The Colossus”.

How could you keep as perfectly as it was to squeeze in the time breathing life to a poetry waiting there at the dining table and lay you sleepless in the night?  How could you tear yourself apart open and shed the light withholding nothing and the truthfulness of the turmoil you’re going through?  The days that lingers almost unbearable, in between the soiled dishes in the sink, in the soapy suds of the dirty linen and in the keeping of your children who are innocent of the struggles your dealing with Ted. 

In the night, that you have sealed the doors by wet rags, have you thought of just keeping on, pressing on- to deal with your pervading loneliness and disillusion? When you precisely turned on the ignition of the cooker, as you inhale the gas, Sylvia, did you think of finally  avenging your fractured self against Ted?  Of how your  jealousy could have made you insanely and sweetly surrendering to impending death?  How intense is your longing for Ted to reconcile with you, knowing that he is just a man, and you are so afraid of losing him?

Sylvia, if you only have known that after forty years have past since your death, your son Nicholas might have taken his life, too; maybe because he might be carrying the gravity of questions left unanswered since the day you died.  Would you keep on existing? Would you be strong enough to let go of Ted and spend the rest of your lifetime for your children? And see them of what they have become in the twilight of your years?

But the time has run out.  And you have to choose between life and death.  But you chose the latter. Sylvia, you have chosen to end the sad stories in your life, cutting away Ted and his chains around you.  You have chosen freedom.

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