No hero’s welcome.
No grand parade.
Is waiting for the door left ajar.
Only its creaking sound
breaks the silence. And the breathing air
of some familiar spirits. I am once-
a familiar visitor in this house.
All that remains are lifeless forms
who have patiently waited here
Am I? Like a hermit crab
occupying this once solitary shell.
Called to embrace the shadows again.
Recapturing the lost and faded
photographs and memories
of the distant past. Forgive me.
For I came back not to rebuild
your imperiously alienating walls
I have suffered to endure. The magnanimity
of this abode, on which I failed
to contain the tension. Conquering
the many days and the years living
in the fear that haunted me. As I
have walked away to seek my own.
Yesterday will be torn into relevant bits
and pieces. As mementos and snapshots
I will keep them at bay. Never again would
memories imprison me into its walls
like ancient ghosts wailing, begging
to bring them back to their immortality.
I will clear away the cobwebs.
I will swept away the dust, making room
on these lonely spaces. I came back.
To cleanse this home of its sad sequences.
I will peel away the white sheets
that has covered the flaws, the lapses,
and the many inconsistencies in our lives-
we are ashamed to show. But instead,
we kept hidden for so long.
I will open the windows, taking in
the sunshine and the country air
and hope- as its constant companion.
Savoring the remaining days
choosing to be happy. A pilgrim
transforming this house into a habitation.
The dappled lightness of my being.
Solitude Amidst the Maddening Crowd
A Moth In The Flame
Posted in Current Affairs, Literature, Philosophy, Poetry, Politics, Social Commentary, Society, tagged advertise, against, ailing, ashes, autonomy, backdrop, banner, beginning, black, blind, blood, book, bound, burn, capitalist, cause, change, Che Guevarra, civil, clasp, close, coat, cockroaches, common, constricted, contend, control, country, coward, cynical, danger, decibel, democracy, died, disguise, disobedience, echolalia, endless, everyday, extend, face, fade, first, fist, flame, flaunt, friends, frigid, front, gas, glory, grafitti, high, himself, history, horde, how, idealism, imitation, imperialist, influence, innocence, intellectual, invective, iridescent, irrelevance, know, kvetching, life, line, lion, little, livid, magnet, manifesto, manufactured, mask, maximum, mediocrity, men, mind, mix, morph, moth, mouthpiece, national, Nordic, obliterate, oyster, paint, parade, pavement, peasant, phalanx, placard, places, poem, poetry, poison, poverty, powers, pre-conditioned, pro-masses, proletariat, protest, provoke, pseudo, publicity, puppet, read, reason, red, remote, resistance, rhetoric, rostrum, rule, see, seeking, serfdom, sewer, shield, sight, signify, simplicity, singe, smoke, Society, solicit, sovereign, stand, struggle, subject, subservient, sugar, swarm, swathe, symphaty, take, tear, tolerance, trodden, twisted, understanding, uniform, usual, utopia, vague, vituperatives, wall, waste, waterbombs, wave, we, wear, who, wick, will, wing, wisp, within, world, young on June 26, 2009| 4 Comments »
Idealism is one glorious
iridescent flame-
a magnet to young blood
swathe in innocence. How
with our simplicity,
our winged resistance-
singed and burned. Died
until our ashes will mix
in the wick, obliterated
by mediocrity and irrelevance.
Our lives wasted and fading
to wisps of smoke-
in a country where poverty is
a usual sight. Everyday
like cockroaches,
we swarmed the sewers of society
and its livid pavement. Of placards-
waving vituperatives.
Flaunting invectives for a change
we vaguely understand. We
solicit publicity.
We paraded wearing black
signifying protest. While
those frigid walls, we painted red
in grafitti seeking sympathy-
disguising under the mask
by being a pro-masses. A peasant.
A proletariat. Civil
disobedience. We clasped
our fist imitating Che.
We lined up first against
tear gases and waterbombs,
provoking a phalanx
of uniformed men.
Maximum tolerance. How
dangerous, how close
we have trodden
by knowing so little.
We advertise poverty
as a face to a cause,
bannering struggle for
autonomy, sugar-coated
manifesto of national democracy.
A sovereign common rule. Blindly
we morph
into mouthpieces. And fronted
as cynical puppets,
high decibeled in echolalia-
against powers in the high places.
Contending reasons
constricted within the bounds
of our manufactured rhetoric
on utopia. We are
pre-conditioned
to see the world
as our oyster. We read
in our books a twisted history
of our beginnings. Taking
a stand by that rostrum
endlessly kvetching
the capitalists.
We became subservient,
as willing subjects to-
a coward. Who
shielded himself in
the backdrop of its
Nordic friends.
An ailing lion,
such an imperialist-
remotely controlling
his serfdom, extending
influence. Like a poison
to the minds of the horde
of pseudo intellectual-
moth as we are.
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