Monday, 20 June 2016
I wonder if I was born as a chry'santhemum destined to be crushed mercilessly on the stampeded gravel. Smothered and Sun dried in yellows of madness and unkindness, hurled and smeared in the most quiet corners of the dark closet. Blooming blandly, wilting in. Forgotten defaced. Surfacing to breathe and blossom unnoticibly with blatant resilience. I must give up to my fate undelibly engraved in the palms of communion. But I must give up today to the harrowing foccult's freedom of madness, submitting to the named scorching sun of my existence. farewell shreds of self. Until we meet.
Friday, 17 June 2016
“How much did you say it will cost?” inquired a prospective buyer.
I loomed into that calculating lawyer trance. How much? How much?
The words echoed. Much like the mirror ahead trapping my reflection as I lie down enlisting, enumerating, emancipating. Stock count was in order to liquidize my assets.
This house has been lived for more than 78 years, carving the secrets of our ancestor’s warm prints in its canvas. How much for the whispers of love engrained in these walls? For the stifled sobs I secretly shared?
The laughter downstairs when they met every weekend sprawled on the mat, hitting serendipitous shots at a game of Carom and Ludo. The cackle of old stove, your uninhibited giggle, clanking of utensils when looking for your favorite “chamach” (spoon). The number of screams accumulated in the beams of the balcony where you forced me to spy on many of unsuspecting passerby’s scratching, poking their nose, checking their reflections in the mirror, fixing their hair-
My name sieved in, my younger self, when you called out my name unabashing-ly from the unfounded darkness of store where the bulb always failed to survive more than a week, where you couldn’t find ‘that’ coat you specifically needed to wear that very day.
How much for the leaking faucet that kept us busy wiping the kitchen like a team ready to uphold any natural disaster? -Plath's Kin
And there is it again. He barged in. And what for did he need consent? What for?
What was there to hide? -a mauled dream, a crumpled paper, a crushed chrysanthemum, empty stained cups of consumed tea? - An unsullied by requirement, by default, by inspection, Insanity?
And he by certification, sanctimonious consensus,
An unquestionable unanimous one! mind you!
How dare you?
Emblem there, there and there, obviously.
Shingle eyed to mere frequent bouts of vagrancy.
Flouted, Sanctified, Justified.
Fragmented, Disassociated, Denied.
No passport required, no knocks, no go-aheads, and no say-sos.
His;a sanctioned bland madness.
And mine- a sinking malady. -Plath's Kin
The dregs of a hammock shook, a precarious pile of rusted utensils fell cascading, unwarranted, into a tumultuous dis chord. The trees shook and the raft boarded at the verge of the thunderous shore- rattled. Just another tremulous murmur. Another tremor. Repulsive of its inhabitant’s deeds.
And then followed a long episode of blackening silence. Like a hollow casket or the labyrinth of one’s ear. Lost in its own magnanimity. Piercing, penetrating silence like a thorn latched in an ebony skin.
It was as if this peninsula had all the hope of music famished like its deserters. Nothing but a nest of lies and broken dreams. – Plath's Kin
Sunday, 10 February 2013
|playing with fire. That, or deep water|
Sharing an Adcock poem I seem to associate with someone I love-This poem reflects a state of a mind we all suffer from, at one point of our lives ricocheting between the two polarities-"playing with fire. That, or deep water."
We all wish to play with fire yet we cant. The poem seems to communicate the same idea of purgatory-how a soul, an existence hangs between the two worlds, two realms-that of fire and water-both possessing the magnanimity to consume him completely-fire being representative of his true fiery nature, identity, madness that the pragmatic world of social order (i.e. of water) is designed to extinguish and drown within.
They can not co-exist. Thus, the pain of this dilemma keeps stinging those who cannot submit to either of them completely. Neither to the "flames" for the sake of reason and social acceptance and nor to the "water" since one cannot deceive one's own self either. Hence, this wait for either side to conquer breaks, shatters, "scorch and wither "many thing within. Once the war is raged the losses are infinite. Thus the only escape and protection one can look forward to, as Foucault puts it," is absolute madness" . Since absolute madness provides the prospects of absolute freedom it liberates you from all the ties of religion, time, sense and more importantly- the brutal society.
"Which redhead did I get my temper from?
I've made a short ancestral list
by hair-colour and moods. But, more to the point,
what are the odds on Alzheimer's?
Which ones went funny in their 70's?
Marry Ellen, perhaps, found in the coal-shed
hunting for her Ship Canal shares
after her fiery hair turned grey.
My hair's not red. I like flames, though.
When I get old and mad I'll play with them -
run the flimsy veils through my fingers
like orange plastic film, like parachute-silk.
My hands will scorch and wither, if i do.
I shall be safe and dead.It wont matter.
Its something to look forward to,
playing with fire. That, or deep water."
Adcock reflects the same masochistic yearning to be lead to Alzheimer's, forgetting the possibilities of pain, deceit and confinement. Only the last stanza rhymes showing how the speaker's only consolation lies in absolute submission to either, or, in absolute madness if all fails.
Further Reading: The theme of the above discussed poem is very similar to that of the short story "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
You can find the complete text on: