Beyond the Hourglass

-A dedication

The enigma enshrouding life 'n death,
The eternal longingness for a few more breaths;
The fervent prayers, the unrelenting destiny,
The blatant truth, yet a morbid irony!

She longed to see some more flowers bloom,
Quite oblivious, alas, of the lurking doom;
Full many a dreams she had once sowed,
Biding her time- to see them sprout and grow!

It isn't she never desired to be free,
All she ever asked- see her saplings turn into trees
She prayed, she begged, but had to go,
Leaving a few hearts aggrieved, volumes of tears to flow!

Quite unfair must be this routine, and its bizarre, intricate ways,
If life's a cycle, why terminate midway?
With trauma and anguish filled in her eyes, she left,
If 'creations' are flawed, how wise is it to deem the Creator, Perfect?

Yet, perhaps things do extend beyond our visual horizon,
And it may not be in physical presence only that we live-
For, the eyes may perish, but would that gaze would never fade?
For, freed from the rotten bag of bones, she dwells in memories.

Perhaps, death's the mere rocking of a boat in a vast ocean,
While offering us a glimpse of our volatility and transience-
And may be whispering-"be not foolish to fear mortality,
Sublime yourself to imbibe the true essence of eternity!"

Like the composer who has long been dead
Yet lives in eternity, for his compositions still reverberate;
So do we live, perhaps, long after our death
In many new forms we continue to manifest!

Thus, in silence, you can still reach her in your hours of solitude,
And in her own special way, she will help you thru' forthcoming vicissitudes,
For she will always be near when fear and darkness sets in'
For you can sense her image smile when eventually you do win!

***

Between Truths & Greater Truths

Like a lonely, aimless, wearied traveller
I try to find my way through the mist that enshrouds me;
Hibernating & waking intermittently, crawling ahead
I try to fight the unseen forces that bind me.

A desert of mirage and glitter allures me
Yet a faint call from within checks my fallible steps
I yearn for bliss, an estranged traveller in desert longing for rain
Tired, dejected but never knowing if & when this journey would end.

The familiar face in the mirror appears stranger
Living in multiple galaxies baffles me
Have I become an outlaw in my own community?
For, no longer I can bifurcate dreams and reality.

Will I be calm, contented when truth dawns upon me?
Where would I be after this transition - from truths to greater truths?
As I gallop ahead, I bereave drifting away from the herd that beckons me.
Am I an escapist, am I a pessimist?
Or am I a realist, or perhaps a perfectionist?

I suffer the tortures of some virtual wounds
Just once I refuse to abide by omnipotents who guide me
I peep inwards - my mortal sanctum, seeking help
As I explore myself, the answer comes to me.

I now understand all my nostalgia
I now know the reasons for my dilemmas
I fathom what distinguishes me from my guides in sky
That I'd never grow wings, for I cherish my humanity.

Like a vanquished soldier I march back home at dusk
I know my fellowmen 'lesser mortals' would forgive & embrace me
I had let myself be held captive, but now I am free
Free to fall, free to make amends, free to try
Free from obligations, shadows; free to breathe, free to die.

The mighty ones that giveth me emotions to feel and mind to act
I crave thy forgiveness for failing them
For I prefer small moments of pleasures to perpetual bliss
Over ye powerlords, I prefer my fellow fallible herdsmen
I prefer to fall & rise, rather than always stay atop
I prefer anonymity and corrigibility to eternal fame.

I'm a mere mortal, turn me not into an angel
Let me live life my own hard way
Strike me off your memory, I'd gladly fade into oblivion
Rising from dust, finally being claimed by it -
When it all terminates at the end of the day.

The Plebeian

Bereft of hope, happiness, an enduring smile
Your birth was a curse poor child, your first crime
Chasing unto death, that elusive ray of hope
Destined as a stigma to be, on the sands of time.

You breed nibbling on scraps, surviving on pity
Life - a confinement of invisible walls, eroded by apathy
Are you but a herd, shepherded by the peacekeepers in white?
In numbers alone your ilk is deemed; unnamed graves - individuality.

You have gods to represent, repent, promises to feed
Skyscrapers to erect, yet only slums to inhabit;
Like worms in a jungle amongst beasts of prey
For namesake you live, while you die million moments a day.

A flickering candle in a bag of bones
You are churned like a speck of grass in the tempest;
Dwelling like a captive in some virtual jail
Where happiness, hope are defunct words from fading fairy tales.

An indestructible link of a great democratic tradition -
Unprejudiced, you are tortured by one and all, evenly
For this ain’t a land of violence, you have to savour your wounds
For you can utter no evil against the more equal fraternity.

Your own ‘karma’ it is, in a vicious circle it’d persist
As the great lord of this ancient land once did insist
Sans all but sins of infinite lives accumulated
You are eternally forsaken and would forever be unforgiven.

So, you gave your youth, your soul, your enterprise
To earn a loaf of bread, some affection and peace for a while!
You believed in justice simpleton, you strove for redemption
So you thought the night’d be over, the tide would turn?

When your li’l ones begged for food, you offered them hope
And sprinkling some dreams, you pointed to the stars, and told –
“From there, angels would descend, like him they should wait
For suffering ennobles the soul, that’s what the holy book says”.

---

Life’s an undefined game plebeian, play it with your own rules
Opportunities are conceived, rag-pickers are fools;
They'll trample you with boots if you are weak or meek
You’ll be adorned, feared – if you clench your fist.

It’s a battle royale plebeian, when will you realize?
Winning is about firing first, propaganda's name is Sacrifice
And justice is but an illusion, buried somewhere in time’s museum
Angels dwell in fairy tales, paradise and utopia in legends.

How long will you refuse to open your eyes?
How long will you huddle in the corner, so afraid of light?
Betrayal, abuse, subjugation – aren’t you fed up?
If you have had enough, then get up!

Yet, count not me for support, for it isn’t I who beckon you
Implore not others for help, each have their own voyage
Peep inwards to discovered everything you ever crave for
For it isn’t weapons, but courage and conviction that wins the war.

For sand when scorched turns into mighty brick
Water, when frozen has sunk big ships
So, set ablaze the extinguished volcano, Show peacekeepers some fireworks
Let all be known, that you have woken up!
* * *

Cindrellas, Waiting

With dim-lit diamonds studded in sparkling eyes,

She walks aimlessly in the unfriendly rain

Forsaken by a mother and the humanity,

A living testimony to the society's shame.


With unkempt hairs and sloppy attire,

Could she dare to play with the forbidden toys?

The bare tiny legs walking, struggling to leave impressions on sand

In vain she tries to build a castle of mud; such tiny hands.


Smiles often evade her, above all they need to be earned

The self resists to lament, though treacherous heart yearns,

So fervently she prays every night, for the tide of misfortune to turn,

Questions - the innocent eyes hold; ah, she has a lot to learn!


She stares at the bright, uniformed faces, with a deep forlorn sigh

Much too aware of the glass wall - too thick, too high;

And sometimes in dark nights, this lonely girl shudders with fright,

A longing ensues for a soothing voice, that could have sung her lullabies.


She looks at the florid rainbow; amazed, she wonders-

Can the colours of joy also brighten her dull, grey life?

Gazing at nature and its myriad ways

A thousand silly thoughts in her heart simultaneously transpire.


She summons the li'l bird and quizzes, with a twinkle in her eyes

If she could lend her its wings or take her along for a flight,

For unreached by mortal obligations, away she wants to fly

For she desires to know, if there lies a heaven beyond the mystique blue sky?



With her arms stretched out, she stares at the moon,

As if imploring him in silence, to grant her a boon

She too wants to escape the darkness, bask for a moment in sunshine,

Though deep in her heart she knows, her thoughts are akin to crime.


She can dwell without love, she pleads to be exempted from hate,

Perhaps lacking in virtues, she requests not to be disgraced,

Nurturing some soiled dreams, she lacks strength to fight the battle

Thusly, in this stormy night, with utmost sincerity, she prays for a miracle!


With turmoils and harrowing memories all these years,

Struggling all this while to hold back her tears,

Refusing to quit life's battle without putting up a fight

Yet, tormented by the mirage, she appears tired.



Never having tasted the bliss of joy, will Love take pity on her?

Despite being innocent, why did the Gods turn their back on her?

Amidst all this cacophony though, some fairy tales fell into her outcast ears,

and so waits this Cinderella, for a prince, who would come and wipe her tears...

Random thoughts - part embryonic, part senile

Sanctum sanctorum of the self - a garden, tiny, concealed,

Planted were some dreams, tended with care 'n hope;

Yet everyday few die, crushed by harsh realities,

This tender heart bereaves, the mind learns to cope!

About poems, bleeding hearts and One Tree Hill

Poets often dwell, perhaps, in the no man's land - torn between the expressed and the inexpressible. Armed with a canvas of a handful of letters and their finite permutations on one hand, and the accumulated shadows, dreams, images, some half-formed, some still-born and some in ruins on the other. The shadowy labyrinths of a restless mind confounded by the shrouds of perception - can it ever be (accurately) mapped on a piece of paper, transformed by the (magical?) powers of expression? I have often groped in darkness - for answers, for enlightenment, for truth... At times it seems a function of time, a function of inspiration, and at times- the unknown, the unknowable(?)...
It is the former that provides me hope, though not the answers...
Riding on the same train of thought but migrating to another man's (very popular) canvas, this monologue is intended to give you a peek into a song that I've often admired for being able to express the sublime.
It is a song called One Tree Hill by U2 from the album The Joshua Tree. Sample these:

The sun so bright it leaves no shadows

Only scars, carved into stone

On the face of earth.

Isn't it ironical how brightness, fame, spotlight can be taxing and burdensome. However, my favourite lines from the same song are:

And in the world a heart of darkness

A fire zone

Where poets speak their heart

Then bleed for it.

Jara sang, his song a weapon

In the hands of love

You know his blood still cries

From the ground

(For complete lyrics go to: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/u2/onetreehill.html )
To provide some trivia for the curious, songfacts.com (http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=916) gives the following information about the song:

"U2 wrote this about Greg Carroll, a Maori from New Zealand who became an assistant and close friend of Bono after he met the band in 1985 while they were in his country. He was killed a year later when he was hit by a car while running an errand for Bono on Bono's motorcycle. The album The Joshua Tree, as well as this song, are dedicated to Greg Carroll."

"One Tree Hill is the tallest of 5 volcanic islands in Auckland where Greg Carroll took Bono his first night in New Zealand. It is a tourist attraction in Auckland, with a monument at the summit dedicated to John Logan Campbell, one of Auckland's founding fathers. In 1994, the One Tree Hill tree was the victim of a chainsaw attack by a Maori activist which almost ringbarked it. A further attack in 1999 all but finished the job and the life expectancy of the tree was estimated to be only three years. By October 2000, the pine had become unstable and was a danger to the public. After careful study of the condition of the tree, the decision was made to take it down. The felling operation was successfully carried out on October 26 amid much public attention, and the Auckland skyline was changed forever. (thanks, Copper - Auckland, New Zealand)"

"Jara refers to the Chilean folk singer/songwriter Victor Jara. When dictator Pinochet overthrew the government, Jara was tortured by having both his hands cut off and made to play the guitar while he bled to death."
"... for us, from this part of America (Southamerica I mean, not the USA), the Victor Jara's part is quite touching. His death was awful but yet evidence of artistic integrity, honesty and compromise. The man was taken to the Estadio Nacional de Chile, with tousands of students. They were tortured there, but there were people like Jara, who became counselors and guides for the young students there. They suffered, bleed, but they kept believing in freedom, in democracy. Jara himself was thought to be a comunist! The fact is that Jara's death itself is an allegory of comittment to art and social issues. Jara's hands were cut, chopped, and then, thos military pigs threw a guitar at him and told jara to play it. Jara picked up the guitar and used it as a drum with his bleeding arms.... He was shot after that. ("And in the world a heart of darkness A fire zone Where poets speak their heart Then bleed for it Jara sang, his song a weapon In the hands of love You know his blood still cries From the ground") Truly, just like many many others's, Jara's blood "still cries from the ground" - ALE, Necochea, Argentina"

"The lyrics describe the traditional Maori burial that Greg Carroll was given at One Tree Hill. Bono felt he could perform this only once, and did just one take in the studio."



The factual details aside, the feelings perhaps have a universal echo. The world is likened to a heart of darkness as Conrad had expressed. Does one, more often than not, bleed for speaking one's heart?Are poets naturally pessimistic? Is the world really a firezone where one's heightened sensitivity leads one to observe the degree of burns of million hearts, thinly veiled; or feel the battle-scars of countless survivors engaged in daily crusades.... Questions galore... encore..
And though so much blood has been made to spill under various pretexts of religion, order, sacrifice, honour, society, evil, goodness, and so much more is destined to be spilled, and while they all cry vociferously from the grounds, how often do we really listen? And why pretend to reflect, if I haven't really been able to absorb. For, how often have I tried to listen, imbibe, introspect and then reflect in a soothing manner?
Cry Jara, cry in vain..........