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Posts Tagged ‘attempt’

These wasteful hours

in the museum hall

exhibiting the exploits,

critics alike

are flocking over,

in desperate attempt

unlocking

digesting

the meaning of a mystery

to which is none.

Blabber-mouthing platitudes

and bloated praises.

The body of work.

 

You will see how

this culture of patronage

drains the penniless,

being subjects

fallen prey-

caged

framed

to a prisoned canvas

of posing nude.

 

In a night enveloped

by a faked light.

Revealing,

showing

some fleshly delight

while acting out

a cheap scene ripped 

from the page

of a slut magazine.

 

An art nouveau.

A magnum opus

on which they praise

the painter,

and not the one

whose eyes

are staring back

from the canvas

like a muted witness-

mocking,

despising

the cultured whims

of the bourgeoisie.

 

They call it art.

And you shudder

at a thought, when

you know it is

a meaningless,

empty accolade.

Worth a few

hundred bucks

reclining,

staring

blankly to a space-

being still

and have nothing

to hide.

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Like a man in his fishing, so is writing.

You throw the fishing rod as if throwing on chances

while anchoring your boat on a chosen spot. In the open water.

 

And your fishing line sink deep in the ocean of words. You wait

in the hope that the hook lay captive to some imaginary mouths

snapped on a bait, struggling to come away like thoughts.

 

They are like fishes- these thoughts. They are swimming against the current.

Trapped and tackled. You hold the reel, winding down farther and farther

in search for the bounty of inspiration.  Luring its elusiveness to a catch.

 

The waves of emotion might crashed into your shore.

The sinkers might get stucked through the rocks. Buried in sand.

Or in a desperate attempt, you cut the line and start anew.

 

But again, you throw the fishing rod. To wait and to hope

that a big catch is on its way to lock its jaw on the bait.

You keep gripping the reel firm awaiting for the prize.

 

And soon in the mid-air, after all hours spent in silence

like a child born out of the  womb. Eureka! The feeling

of winning, the silver fish glimmer in your hands.

 

The writer has become a fisherman, persevering

in solitude, diving deeper into a mea culpa.

Hoisting the fishing line catching hearts, once again.

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