19.05.09
She was drowning, they thought, with no beacon or guide
While she struggled to set herself free,
Thrashing ’mid waves of a lunatic tide
In a sea of insanity.
So they hoisted her out, all spluttering and dazed,
And thumped her and dried her and wrapped;
Did all they thought best but were sadly amazed
As her energy slowly was sapped.
“Have you swallowed a fancy too many?” they asked,
“Did we come to your rescue too late?
Or when on enchanted isles you basked
Too mildly your madness berate?”
No lungs she had to breathe as all men,
To walk amidst mortals no feet;
Her sad eyes half-smiled at her saviours and then
She whispered these words bitter-sweet:
“In a lake of mysterious stars I twirled
Where shimmering laughter teems,
Murmuring over the rim of the world
In a twinkling tumble of dreams.
The breath of life from my bosom you snatched,
My happiness could you not spare?
Breathless with bliss and passions unmatched,
I was gasping for joy – not air.”
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Muse
27.04.10
She breezes in,—a sudden gust of light,
A flash of truth in the poet’s mind—
Unsettles the drowsing dream-dust and fancy fragments
Left-over from the previous poem.
Surveys the confused state of affairs:
The waking mind, the yawning ideas;
Flirts awhile with the thirsty questions that throng about her
Groping for her bright presence, begging to be slaked;
Smiles coyly at the virgin phrases that beg their Priestess
To make them whole, to marry them at the altar of Truth;
Hears the poet’s sweet entreaties, his coaxing flattery
His vows of being forever hers;
Plays hard to get, blushes, and then
With a quick galvanic giggle that briefly shocks the teeming brain
Lets drop a magic word, as if by chance . . .
It flutters down like a bright leaf, autumn-blown
Or like the drunken flutter of butterflies;
She pretends not to see as he stretches out to receive it,
Waits ’till he thinks he has it, then whisks it away in a swift flurry
Of befuddling thoughts that cloud his vision,
Laughing in secret as she sees the frantic mind
Struggle to catch it with clumsy thought-fingers
Confused with dreams of moon-filled vales,
Of elfin tales and lilting faery warbles.
They wander awhile as nomad-snails in a sleeping glade,
Leaving myriad dream-entangled trails…
And then thrill in anticipation of a something—
Which isn’t the brilliant glimpse, the magic word.
She mocks his searching, greedy mental hands,
Shakes her smiling head at the great hunger
Of so small and crippled an intellect,
And when he shakes his fist at her in a rage
Of frustrated abandonment,
She soothes his burning brow with a balmy stillness;
Blows dream-clouds into his waiting brain,
Dream-clouds pregnant with poetic rain
That the thirsting heart draws down…
At last, in an impassioned burst, she hurls a blazing lightning-bolt
Unleashing intense volts of inspiration.
As the soul drinks in the first drops
the poet weeps mad tears
Through his pen.
She breezes in,—a sudden gust of light,
A flash of truth in the poet’s mind—
Unsettles the drowsing dream-dust and fancy fragments
Left-over from the previous poem.
Surveys the confused state of affairs:
The waking mind, the yawning ideas;
Flirts awhile with the thirsty questions that throng about her
Groping for her bright presence, begging to be slaked;
Smiles coyly at the virgin phrases that beg their Priestess
To make them whole, to marry them at the altar of Truth;
Hears the poet’s sweet entreaties, his coaxing flattery
His vows of being forever hers;
Plays hard to get, blushes, and then
With a quick galvanic giggle that briefly shocks the teeming brain
Lets drop a magic word, as if by chance . . .
It flutters down like a bright leaf, autumn-blown
Or like the drunken flutter of butterflies;
She pretends not to see as he stretches out to receive it,
Waits ’till he thinks he has it, then whisks it away in a swift flurry
Of befuddling thoughts that cloud his vision,
Laughing in secret as she sees the frantic mind
Struggle to catch it with clumsy thought-fingers
Confused with dreams of moon-filled vales,
Of elfin tales and lilting faery warbles.
They wander awhile as nomad-snails in a sleeping glade,
Leaving myriad dream-entangled trails…
And then thrill in anticipation of a something—
Which isn’t the brilliant glimpse, the magic word.
She mocks his searching, greedy mental hands,
Shakes her smiling head at the great hunger
Of so small and crippled an intellect,
And when he shakes his fist at her in a rage
Of frustrated abandonment,
She soothes his burning brow with a balmy stillness;
Blows dream-clouds into his waiting brain,
Dream-clouds pregnant with poetic rain
That the thirsting heart draws down…
At last, in an impassioned burst, she hurls a blazing lightning-bolt
Unleashing intense volts of inspiration.
As the soul drinks in the first drops
the poet weeps mad tears
Through his pen.
The Ghost Galleon
15.08.07
Upon a fathomless thought-filled sea,
Removed from rational coasts,
In a mind run wild with fantasy
Arises the galleon of ghosts.
Unreal and pale on the wide world’s rim
By poets’ souls pursued;
She sails the seas that dreamers swim
And by haunted winds is wooed.
Sad but proud is her ancient mast,
Weathered with thwarted love,
And over the vessel a gloom is cast
Enchanted by the sorrows above.
Woven with moonbeams and twilights bygone
Shimmer her age-old sails,
Mended with mist of eyes lovelorn,
’Broidered with lost fairytales.
Time-swept, dream-drenched, fancy-sprayed,
Her deck in the starlight gleams,
While by the moon to sleep she is laid
On a sea of forgotten dreams.
Wandering in a world of ghost reveries,
Followed by phantom shoals;
Steeped in the music of sad memories,
On the silver swell she rolls.
And now my woes must fast embark
Ere she sails for vistas new ---
A shadow gliding in the dark,
Carrying her eerie crew.
Thus soon they slip to stranger spheres ---
That hull, those hoary sails;
No more the ghosts and the spectral fears,
No more their silent wails.
No more the deck that the starlight pales,
The whispering hopes no more,
Gone is the phantom ship that sails
From shore to dream-lapped shore.
No more her prow, no more her mast,
No more her sighing elves;
Forever drowned in the depths of the past
Where only the dreamer delves.
Upon a fathomless thought-filled sea,
Removed from rational coasts,
In a mind run wild with fantasy
Arises the galleon of ghosts.
Unreal and pale on the wide world’s rim
By poets’ souls pursued;
She sails the seas that dreamers swim
And by haunted winds is wooed.
Sad but proud is her ancient mast,
Weathered with thwarted love,
And over the vessel a gloom is cast
Enchanted by the sorrows above.
Woven with moonbeams and twilights bygone
Shimmer her age-old sails,
Mended with mist of eyes lovelorn,
’Broidered with lost fairytales.
Time-swept, dream-drenched, fancy-sprayed,
Her deck in the starlight gleams,
While by the moon to sleep she is laid
On a sea of forgotten dreams.
Wandering in a world of ghost reveries,
Followed by phantom shoals;
Steeped in the music of sad memories,
On the silver swell she rolls.
And now my woes must fast embark
Ere she sails for vistas new ---
A shadow gliding in the dark,
Carrying her eerie crew.
Thus soon they slip to stranger spheres ---
That hull, those hoary sails;
No more the ghosts and the spectral fears,
No more their silent wails.
No more the deck that the starlight pales,
The whispering hopes no more,
Gone is the phantom ship that sails
From shore to dream-lapped shore.
No more her prow, no more her mast,
No more her sighing elves;
Forever drowned in the depths of the past
Where only the dreamer delves.
The Stallion Storm
29.03.06
….On the hushed page of sound, ignored by men,
A low shuddering rumble was sketched, and then-
From some world beyond where the sun doth set
Out leaped a handsome equine silhouette:
A sable stallion- and a thousand behind,
Up from the melting horizon’s sigh
Arose, foreboding, into frowning sky.
Tempestuous, snorting foggy flame,
Row after row, raging they came.
Then downward, through the darkness sped.
Hoofs resounding upon thunderhead
Sparked purple flares of jagged light:
Night- the world’s eyelid- unfurled,
Flaunting a fleeting and spectral world.
Down with the rushing winds they roared,
Down from the sombre clouds they poured
Into the sea with the thundering rains,
Tossing their streaming, foam-flecked manes.
Black like the funereal firmament,
Black in the night; with the heaving swell-
Black as the sea, they rose and fell.
Hour after stormy hour the stallions raved,
Until, aweary, they could rave no more.
Then slow and silent, into mist dissolved,
Leaving faint hoofprints upon the shore…
And ere the herald of the coming morn,
A shimmer of tails- and they were gone.
….On the hushed page of sound, ignored by men,
A low shuddering rumble was sketched, and then-
From some world beyond where the sun doth set
Out leaped a handsome equine silhouette:
A sable stallion- and a thousand behind,
Up from the melting horizon’s sigh
Arose, foreboding, into frowning sky.
Tempestuous, snorting foggy flame,
Row after row, raging they came.
Then downward, through the darkness sped.
Hoofs resounding upon thunderhead
Sparked purple flares of jagged light:
Night- the world’s eyelid- unfurled,
Flaunting a fleeting and spectral world.
Down with the rushing winds they roared,
Down from the sombre clouds they poured
Into the sea with the thundering rains,
Tossing their streaming, foam-flecked manes.
Black like the funereal firmament,
Black in the night; with the heaving swell-
Black as the sea, they rose and fell.
Hour after stormy hour the stallions raved,
Until, aweary, they could rave no more.
Then slow and silent, into mist dissolved,
Leaving faint hoofprints upon the shore…
And ere the herald of the coming morn,
A shimmer of tails- and they were gone.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Pygmalion Punctured (a short story)
26.06.08
Luckily, my inheritance allows me to live comfortably, because what I earn as an aspiring young artist in the small former French colony of Puducherry is only just enough to pay for my art materials. Art is unfortunately appreciated for the most part by the relatively cultured upper classes. So I paint mostly for my pleasure, occasionally selling a painting to acquaintances of a French gentleman who is my admirer.
One hot April afternoon last year, I was visited by my neighbour, an old lady. She lives all alone in the flat opposite mine, and, yearning for company, often drops in for a chat and a cup of tea. Being a widow, she is always dressed in a white cotton sari. She has no children of her own, and has grown to love me as her own granddaughter. Her husband was a native of Puducherry, but she herself was from a village in Rajasthan, where she had been a school-teacher. She once told me the long romantic story of how she had met her husband who had been a government servant, how they had eloped against the will of her parents who had never forgiven her. Considering the rigid customs and conventions she was brought up with, I admire the old lady for her idealism and courage. After marriage, she had adopted a South-Indian lifestyle, and I call her Paati, which in Tamil means grandmother.
Everything about Paati is old. Her limbs are shriveled under her papery skin. Her face is wrinkled like a yellow raisin and she wears her scanty silver hair in a tight bun. Even her voice is wobbly with age. Paati loves to recount the stories of her childhood and adolescence, of her little village, and of her inexhaustible relatives. It doesn’t disturb me. In fact, I rather like listening to her stories.
That afternoon was one of those story-telling days. I was painting when Paati came. She began by praising the landscape I was working on: she said it reminded her of a postcard her younger sister had sent during a holiday in Nainital. Her sister had also sent a photograph of her son, Paati’s nephew. Paati often spoke of her numerous nephews and nieces. She droned on and her voice mingled with the whirring of the fan. I heard the rattling of the vegetable vendor’s approaching cart, then the sound of harsh voices as he bargained with a female customer. The earthy smell of fresh vegetables wafted in through the open window. My mind drifted.
‘Will you do it?’ Paati asked suddenly.
‘What?’ I asked, waking from my daydream.
‘Will you paint my nephew’s portrait?’
…Reluctantly I agreed, consoling myself with the idea that the old lady might after all not live to see the end of it. I also hoped she would forget about it when she left. But I was wrong.
Early the next morning, while my coffee was brewing, I was surprised by a knock at my door. It was Paati. In her withered hand, she held out a photo.
‘Here,’ she said, with her sweet toothless smile, ‘Don’t you think my Achal is attractive?’
I looked at the photo and had to agree that he was unexpectedly good-looking.
…………
It being a cloudy day, I was in my element and determined to begin the portrait that very day. I studied the photo and made myself familiar with the features that I would soon be learning by heart. His large prominent forehead was framed by a mane of black hair that fell to his sturdy shoulders. He had thick well-defined eyebrows with sharply slanting edges. The beautiful deep-set eyes were his most alluring feature. They were shimmering golden brown pools flecked with light. The slope of his proud nose was straight, sharp and long. Half hidden by a dark moustache and surrounded below by a handsome beard were a pair of tender lips slightly curved in a shy smile: two dreams folded one over the other. Their soft shadows would be rather complicated to paint, I mused.
Over the next two months, I worked with feverish enthusiasm. I spent hours scrupulously striving to bring out the subtlest details of the face in the photo. I used transparent shades of earth green and yellow ochre to deepen the eyes, and various tones of violet to bring out the delicate play of shadows on the wise brow. Slowly, the portrait came alive. Led by my eyes, my brush caressed the features into being, and, guided by my heart, infused life into them. Underlying the fine features, I slowly started perceiving the elements of his nature. The noble brow, proud nose and wavy hair gave him a regal air. At the same time, his eyes murmured kindness and love, and the mystery behind the soft smile on his complicated lips kept me awake for many a late hour. He was born for the artist, I felt, as my gaze lovingly glided over his handsome countenance and ran along the graceful curve of his neck.
Paati dropped in more often to see the progress I made.
‘Why my dear!’ she exclaimed one day. ‘Your Achal looks perfectly like mine! What are you still working at?’
She wouldn’t understand. Nobody would. I was aiming high as an artist, and was still far from satisfied with my work.
…My Achal, she’d called him. It was true. I had made him mine by painting him. But he wasn’t just Achal to me. He was more than just a name. I knew this man intimately. I often spoke to him as I painted. Occasionally I joked and saw his gentle smile; and sometimes I unburdened my secrets, losing myself for some sweet moments in the warmth of his sympathetic eyes. Often, when I made a mistake or an accidental smudge on his face, I apologized and promised to make him even handsomer than he was. And once, while struggling to show the light on his nose, I asked him to co-operate. Every day, the portrait was becoming more real to me. Achal was a real person facing me, and as I leaned forward to paint, I could almost feel his breath… at times I could even smell him!
There came a day when I didn’t paint owing to the visit of a distant relative. That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of Achal. Not the portrait, but the man whose portrait it was. It was only then that I realized how deeply I was in love with him.
On the last day of July, Paati hobbled excitedly into my bedroom cum studio and announced that her dear nephew was coming to visit her in a week’s time.
‘Your nephew? … Achal?’ I asked, holding my breath. She nodded heartily.
…………
Achal was coming! My love was coming!! I couldn’t believe it, and yet subconsciously I’d expected him to come. He was coming! Next Thursday! I didn’t know how anyone could wait that long. I decided to concentrate on completing the portrait. Of course, if I wanted perfection, I could go on forever. Nevertheless, I’d try to put soul into the painting and make it as complete as possible.
I don’t clearly recollect how the week dragged by. I only remember confiding my feelings to the man on the canvas, and telling him (how much I was looking forward to meeting him) not to feel too neglected while I spent time with his mortal self…
Thursday dawned at last. Achal was expected a little before noon. I spent a couple of restless hours tidying my home. Every time I walked past the man in the painting, I entreated him to hurry up and come. At ten thirty, I sat down by the window and looked out impatiently. Having counted a hundred passing vehicles, I went out and peeped through Paati’s keyhole. I saw only a faint light. I pressed my ear to her door. All was quiet. I returned to my position by the window.
Finally, unable to contain myself, I strode out again and knocked at Paati’s door.
‘Aao beti!’ she exclaimed, ‘Come in!’
I entered her drawing room and was thrilled to see a strange pair of slippers by the door. So he had come! How was it that I hadn’t heard him? I heard the rustle of a curtain. And then my heart leaped up when I beheld …not a rainbow in the sky, but a shadow in the room behind Paati. Slowly he stepped into the light and I gasped.
Standing before me was a weathered, bespectacled, gray-haired stranger leaning on a cane. So Paati had more than one guest. Who was this man? Where was Achal?
‘My dear girl, meet my handsome young nephew!’ Paati cried in her trembling tone.
I stood stunned. My body forgot to breathe. Could this possibly be the person who had haunted my sleep? Had this old man been the soul of my reveries? I stared at him incredulously. I was shocked by the stark reality. Deeply disillusioned, my heart wept. All my hopes were shattered.
…And then the magic happened. From the heart of the grizzled beard, a complicated pair of lips parted, and from under two white brows, the liquid brown eyes smiled, and love shone through.
Luckily, my inheritance allows me to live comfortably, because what I earn as an aspiring young artist in the small former French colony of Puducherry is only just enough to pay for my art materials. Art is unfortunately appreciated for the most part by the relatively cultured upper classes. So I paint mostly for my pleasure, occasionally selling a painting to acquaintances of a French gentleman who is my admirer.
One hot April afternoon last year, I was visited by my neighbour, an old lady. She lives all alone in the flat opposite mine, and, yearning for company, often drops in for a chat and a cup of tea. Being a widow, she is always dressed in a white cotton sari. She has no children of her own, and has grown to love me as her own granddaughter. Her husband was a native of Puducherry, but she herself was from a village in Rajasthan, where she had been a school-teacher. She once told me the long romantic story of how she had met her husband who had been a government servant, how they had eloped against the will of her parents who had never forgiven her. Considering the rigid customs and conventions she was brought up with, I admire the old lady for her idealism and courage. After marriage, she had adopted a South-Indian lifestyle, and I call her Paati, which in Tamil means grandmother.
Everything about Paati is old. Her limbs are shriveled under her papery skin. Her face is wrinkled like a yellow raisin and she wears her scanty silver hair in a tight bun. Even her voice is wobbly with age. Paati loves to recount the stories of her childhood and adolescence, of her little village, and of her inexhaustible relatives. It doesn’t disturb me. In fact, I rather like listening to her stories.
That afternoon was one of those story-telling days. I was painting when Paati came. She began by praising the landscape I was working on: she said it reminded her of a postcard her younger sister had sent during a holiday in Nainital. Her sister had also sent a photograph of her son, Paati’s nephew. Paati often spoke of her numerous nephews and nieces. She droned on and her voice mingled with the whirring of the fan. I heard the rattling of the vegetable vendor’s approaching cart, then the sound of harsh voices as he bargained with a female customer. The earthy smell of fresh vegetables wafted in through the open window. My mind drifted.
‘Will you do it?’ Paati asked suddenly.
‘What?’ I asked, waking from my daydream.
‘Will you paint my nephew’s portrait?’
…Reluctantly I agreed, consoling myself with the idea that the old lady might after all not live to see the end of it. I also hoped she would forget about it when she left. But I was wrong.
Early the next morning, while my coffee was brewing, I was surprised by a knock at my door. It was Paati. In her withered hand, she held out a photo.
‘Here,’ she said, with her sweet toothless smile, ‘Don’t you think my Achal is attractive?’
I looked at the photo and had to agree that he was unexpectedly good-looking.
…………
It being a cloudy day, I was in my element and determined to begin the portrait that very day. I studied the photo and made myself familiar with the features that I would soon be learning by heart. His large prominent forehead was framed by a mane of black hair that fell to his sturdy shoulders. He had thick well-defined eyebrows with sharply slanting edges. The beautiful deep-set eyes were his most alluring feature. They were shimmering golden brown pools flecked with light. The slope of his proud nose was straight, sharp and long. Half hidden by a dark moustache and surrounded below by a handsome beard were a pair of tender lips slightly curved in a shy smile: two dreams folded one over the other. Their soft shadows would be rather complicated to paint, I mused.
Over the next two months, I worked with feverish enthusiasm. I spent hours scrupulously striving to bring out the subtlest details of the face in the photo. I used transparent shades of earth green and yellow ochre to deepen the eyes, and various tones of violet to bring out the delicate play of shadows on the wise brow. Slowly, the portrait came alive. Led by my eyes, my brush caressed the features into being, and, guided by my heart, infused life into them. Underlying the fine features, I slowly started perceiving the elements of his nature. The noble brow, proud nose and wavy hair gave him a regal air. At the same time, his eyes murmured kindness and love, and the mystery behind the soft smile on his complicated lips kept me awake for many a late hour. He was born for the artist, I felt, as my gaze lovingly glided over his handsome countenance and ran along the graceful curve of his neck.
Paati dropped in more often to see the progress I made.
‘Why my dear!’ she exclaimed one day. ‘Your Achal looks perfectly like mine! What are you still working at?’
She wouldn’t understand. Nobody would. I was aiming high as an artist, and was still far from satisfied with my work.
…My Achal, she’d called him. It was true. I had made him mine by painting him. But he wasn’t just Achal to me. He was more than just a name. I knew this man intimately. I often spoke to him as I painted. Occasionally I joked and saw his gentle smile; and sometimes I unburdened my secrets, losing myself for some sweet moments in the warmth of his sympathetic eyes. Often, when I made a mistake or an accidental smudge on his face, I apologized and promised to make him even handsomer than he was. And once, while struggling to show the light on his nose, I asked him to co-operate. Every day, the portrait was becoming more real to me. Achal was a real person facing me, and as I leaned forward to paint, I could almost feel his breath… at times I could even smell him!
There came a day when I didn’t paint owing to the visit of a distant relative. That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of Achal. Not the portrait, but the man whose portrait it was. It was only then that I realized how deeply I was in love with him.
On the last day of July, Paati hobbled excitedly into my bedroom cum studio and announced that her dear nephew was coming to visit her in a week’s time.
‘Your nephew? … Achal?’ I asked, holding my breath. She nodded heartily.
…………
Achal was coming! My love was coming!! I couldn’t believe it, and yet subconsciously I’d expected him to come. He was coming! Next Thursday! I didn’t know how anyone could wait that long. I decided to concentrate on completing the portrait. Of course, if I wanted perfection, I could go on forever. Nevertheless, I’d try to put soul into the painting and make it as complete as possible.
I don’t clearly recollect how the week dragged by. I only remember confiding my feelings to the man on the canvas, and telling him (how much I was looking forward to meeting him) not to feel too neglected while I spent time with his mortal self…
Thursday dawned at last. Achal was expected a little before noon. I spent a couple of restless hours tidying my home. Every time I walked past the man in the painting, I entreated him to hurry up and come. At ten thirty, I sat down by the window and looked out impatiently. Having counted a hundred passing vehicles, I went out and peeped through Paati’s keyhole. I saw only a faint light. I pressed my ear to her door. All was quiet. I returned to my position by the window.
Finally, unable to contain myself, I strode out again and knocked at Paati’s door.
‘Aao beti!’ she exclaimed, ‘Come in!’
I entered her drawing room and was thrilled to see a strange pair of slippers by the door. So he had come! How was it that I hadn’t heard him? I heard the rustle of a curtain. And then my heart leaped up when I beheld …not a rainbow in the sky, but a shadow in the room behind Paati. Slowly he stepped into the light and I gasped.
Standing before me was a weathered, bespectacled, gray-haired stranger leaning on a cane. So Paati had more than one guest. Who was this man? Where was Achal?
‘My dear girl, meet my handsome young nephew!’ Paati cried in her trembling tone.
I stood stunned. My body forgot to breathe. Could this possibly be the person who had haunted my sleep? Had this old man been the soul of my reveries? I stared at him incredulously. I was shocked by the stark reality. Deeply disillusioned, my heart wept. All my hopes were shattered.
…And then the magic happened. From the heart of the grizzled beard, a complicated pair of lips parted, and from under two white brows, the liquid brown eyes smiled, and love shone through.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Fireflies
04.01.2005
All is still in the stygian night
The welkin above is dark
When midst the stars that burn so bright
I glimpse an emerald spark.
Then another glimmer, another glint
Till at last a shimmering show
Lights the air with an eerie hint,
A mysterious and ghostly glow.
In a winking waltz, in a silent song
They swirl, all silvery green,
Among the slumbering leaves they throng
Betwixt the trees they’re seen.
Through the woodland and over the lake
They sail in glittering streams,
Pulsating lights, they leave in their wake
A world immersed in dreams.
So oft when fades the light of day
And a crescent moon does rise,
I quietly sit and await the play
Of the flickering fireflies.
All is still in the stygian night
The welkin above is dark
When midst the stars that burn so bright
I glimpse an emerald spark.
Then another glimmer, another glint
Till at last a shimmering show
Lights the air with an eerie hint,
A mysterious and ghostly glow.
In a winking waltz, in a silent song
They swirl, all silvery green,
Among the slumbering leaves they throng
Betwixt the trees they’re seen.
Through the woodland and over the lake
They sail in glittering streams,
Pulsating lights, they leave in their wake
A world immersed in dreams.
So oft when fades the light of day
And a crescent moon does rise,
I quietly sit and await the play
Of the flickering fireflies.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Indomitable Dreamer
24.08.06
I dwelt in worlds of fantasy,
On dewy webs I danced,
I drank the air of ecstasy,
By fairy realms entranced.
No mortal company kept I,
No being of blood and bone,
But magic spirits of the sky
And eidolons that moan.
My lofty thoughts were treasures rare,
My solitude - a jewel;
Those glistening glades, those visions fair
Were flames on rainbow fuel.
But they that question reveries
And aerial spheres disdain,
My fancies frail and dear did seize:
My heart --- it cried in vain!
A soul in sordid snares was trapped
That had sailed the starlit clouds,
And thus my pinioned dreams were wrapped
In squalid earthly shrouds.
They bound my breast with fatal ropes
Of prejudice and ire,
Choked with lies my cherished hopes,
Smothered my spirit's fire.
I bled; stabbed by their enmity,
Spurred by their spiteful sneers,
I bled to dead conformity,
I, who knew no fears.
Yet have I dared defy the norm
And broken free today,
I shall ride the winds and steer the storm,
I shall swim the Milky Way.
Some day another pair of eyes
Will to boundless seas resort
And seek like me immortal skies,
Inspiration as escort.
Now tattered wings I spread alone,
Restored with silver seams,
Alone amidst the men of stone
I shall live my opal dreams.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)